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jcmorrigan · 3 years ago

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NOPE. I’M BRINGING THIS INTO THE FANDOM TAGS BECAUSE I HAVE REWATCHED STUFF AND I NEED TO TALK ABOUT THIS.

I’ve seen the “Victor is Chaser” theory multiple places, and I’m not sure exactly where it came from or what evidence it has. Maybe it’s already been proven canon and we’re just waiting on confirmation.

But I’m starting to think something different.

The two scenes I went back to were when Chaser informs M that Vanora has awakened, and where M asks Chaser about what it would take for them to stop loving someone. And there are some...very odd statements here if it is Victor.

Chaser tells M that they heard Vanora was alive from “a reliable source.” Really? Because Victor was THERE when she turned up. He by that time had welcomed her into the house. If he’s playing double agent, I can see why he’d want to cover his tracks, but still...it’s weird. Especially since the email sent to M indicates that they’re looking for something “on her” (which now likely has to do with her memory power). Victor had such an easy opening to just...bring her in, if he were working this.

But then there’s the question of what it would take for Chaser to stop loving someone. M asks Chaser if they have someone they love, and Chaser replies by deflecting the question and calling it stupid. Then giving answers that indicate, yes, there is SOMEBODY. I feel like at this point everybody at Myers knows that Victor and Vincent are a nigh inseparable duo. Why would M ask Victor that question when he KNOWS the answer is yes? And why would Victor deflect when he knows M knows?

There are tons of possibilities here. Maybe it is Victor and he’s really trying to cover his tracks. Maybe it’s Draco, who was there at the time. Zalmona? Maybe! Can’t rule it out! Claude? We know nothing about him, so might as well be!

But...I’m starting to get a feeling. And this might be my bias toward a certain character. Hoping against hope. This is either going to be spot-on or the most laughably wrong theory you’ll hear in this fandom ever.

As of chapter 4...there was an Easter Egg that kinda just got brushed off. But I don’t think we should have. Because...this might literally be a photo of M with his Chaser:

Look. I didn’t think Albert was going to show up here at all. I thought he was just going to stay contained to TWDAK, and that’s the biggest thing holding me back - there’s no Easter Egg for using his name as Vanora’s alias, so I’d thought that was a confirmation that for all intents and purposes, he doesn’t exist here except as worldbuilding.

Until Chapter 4 referenced him three times. Once in that image. Once in an RMU flashback when Victor asks Vincent if Albert pissed him off again. And once when Victor and Vincent went on their date and one of their prominent conversation topics was making fun of Albert and his FISH FACTS.

And again. This could just be me wanting my murder dork to show up. It could just be a series of elaborate cameos for the Albert crowd. But if he is Chaser...well, let’s take a look at those two conversations again.

Chaser heard “from a reliable source” that Vanora was on the move? TWDAK ends with Albert calling Vincent to basically ask what’s up. If Vincent didn’t know Albert was involved with Myers somehow, he could’ve said something to the effect of “I’m dealing with an amnesiac woman, and promise not to tell, but I trust you with this...”

Chaser was asked if they loved someone. Chaser deflected the question, called it silly. Albert claimed over and over again he wanted nothing to do with Vincent until Taylor called him out as a liar on that fact. In any case, Vincent certainly doesn’t seem interested in him anymore. He’s with Victor now.

Chaser was asked: if that someone’s body were destroyed, would you still love them? Vincent’s body was in fact destroyed, so this implies Chaser has some connection to Vincent.

But then...M asks what about the loved one’s memory. And he doesn’t just say total amnesia. He says if the loved one forgot about all your time together.

What we know about Albert is that he went to the graduation party that Vincent and Victor skipped out on. He was fixated enough on Vincent to draw him several years later, and Vincent never showed up to that last party to bid him goodbye. Not even to insult him. We know he did maintain this fixation. Vincent...basically forgot about him.

M asks: if the loved one’s body was beyond repair and they forgot about your time together, would you still love them?

In other words: your Vincent is not only a cyborg now, but he doesn’t care about you anymore. So don’t bother going back to him.

There are a couple other things that stand out to me, though. All this time, M has been the CEO of Myers. Victor and Vincent were his underlings. Albert was the CEO of an entirely different corporation. It’s more likely for Albert to have met M on his level - at social functions, etc. - than either Victor or Vincent, which at the very least explains the heck out of the photo.

M was also working on not only cyborgs, but the ability to read people’s thoughts and memories. He acquired Voorhees because he needed the bioengineering tech to make the cyborgs. But I wonder. Was Voorhees also a specialist in the neuroscience Myers needed? All they ever mentioned was bioengineering. You know what corporation did in fact do some groundbreaking things with neuroscience? Krueger. Because Albert figured out how to get into people’s dreams and make them question reality. It seems very possible to me that Myers also reached out to Krueger to network and borrowed some of Albert’s advancements in that field to create entities like Vanora.

And going back to the photo - we have M being all smiles while Albert appears to be dead inside. Chaser, to me, seems very...oddly subservient to M. He’s almost afraid to answer some of the questions honestly. That’s...kinda the dynamic I’m seeing in that photo. The overboss, and the guy who has to like him or else. Remember that back at RMU, Albert was usually the ridiculous one and Vincent the one who was just absolutely done with his shenanigans. And here, he’s...sullen. Exasperated. It could be a friendly teasing thing, but it really doesn’t seem like the persona he presented when talking about how he would consistently best Vincent.

I wonder: were we basically led to believe Albert would stay in his lane and his own game so that we wouldn’t suspect him as the identity of an anonymous character?

Finally, this isn’t evidence per se, but TWDAK ends with Albert finally figuring out how to send emails, and VTSOM begins with Chaser sending an email. Hilarious if true because M would be like “Huh. I didn’t know he could do that.” but also is this poetic symbolism?

I’d jokingly said to a fellow fan “Well, maybe if Victor and Vincent had invited him on their date, he wouldn’t be taking selfies with their mortal enemy.” But...what if that’s the entire point? His favorite person abandoned him on the last night they could’ve seen each other, and if he considered Victor a friend, Victor skipped out on him too. Maybe Vincent’s not the only person looking for revenge in this saga.

#vincent the secret of myers #vincent: the secret of myers #albert krueger #therapy with dr. albert krueger #vtsom #twdak #vtsom spoilers #vtsom chaser #monsieur m #and in case you're wondering? still ship blakeworther even if this is true.#i want some HARDCORE enemies to lovers #especially if it's jilted-ex motivation here #hell...if this turns out wrong (which it will) i might still think up the au that's this because this is a solid au idea

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firewoodfigs · 4 years ago

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Hi!! Could you do "It was a hospital bed, and A slipped in carefully to lie beside B all night" for a Royai fic from that prompt list? Thank you!! ❤️❤️

hello anon!! thanks for the prompt aaaah I had a lot of fun toying with it in between work and the other shenanigans that have been cropping up this week <3 I hope you don't mind the somewhat unusual ending ahaha I dimly recall writing a few other fics indirectly responding to this prompt (here and here!) so I wanted to try something slightly different from my usual fare 👉🏻👈🏻 part of this was also originally from a two-shot I'm working on, tweaked to fit the prompt hehe. I hope you enjoy!!! 🥰

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Riza can think of a million reasons why hospitals are awful.

First, the food. She’s not sure if it’s as nutritious as they make it out to be; there are times when she wonders if it’s even edible. She’s had worse, of course - hospital food isn’t as bad as ration bars - but she’s quickly getting tired of eating plain yoghurt and bland porridge every day, for every single meal.

Second, the stench. Riza hates that every inch of the place smells like a victim of obsessive cleanliness; she has to resist the urge to upchuck every time the door opens and the smell of chemicals and antiseptic filters in like an unwanted guest.

Third, the fact that she’s sharing a room with a man who, at this point, is behaving more like a cat on hot bricks than a disciplined soldier is quickly driving her insane. She’d readily agreed to be his caretaker, of course; Riza doubts there’s anyone else capable of dealing with his antics and ever-growing anxiety. But after hearing him sigh and toss and turn in his bed for the fifty-eighth time that night (she’d counted, because she was bored out of her wits, and there was nothing else she could do other than sleep or stare at the ceiling, per doctor’s orders), Riza decides she’s just about had enough.

She looks at him from her bed. He’s presently engaged with twiddling his thumbs, thinking out loud.

Riza sighs and rises from her bed quietly. She brings the IV stand along with her - an unnecessary inconvenience - and carefully slips into his bed once she’s made sure that the tubes and wires connected to them are tangle-free.

“I never pegged you as an opportunist, Lieutenant,” he murmurs, despite her best efforts to be discreet. “Sleeping with your commanding officer while he’s blind?”

“You could always court martial me later, sir,” Riza deadpans. “Now scoot over.”

Luckily, he obliges without much retort.

“Your wish is my command.”

Riza huffs. She adjusts the thin, scraggly piece of linen that the hospital justifies as a blanket - another downside of this shitty place - and makes sure he’s probably covered, warm.

“Three words,” she mutters.

“Eight letters?”

“Twelve, actually.”

Roy raises a brow. “What could it be?”

“Would you like to wager a guess, sir?”

“Not really.”

“You’re an idiot,” she says. Roy laughs, and it’s a tiny little sound that is so discordant with his current mood, but it’s at least genuine. “Now go to sleep.”

“Alright, alright.”

He stops fidgeting, for a while. Riza closes her eyes and attempts to fall asleep - and she actually does, for a while - at least until she hears the sheets rustling again, the movement and tension coming from beside her. She groans softly.

“You should sleep, sir.”

She feels him stiffen. Roy smiles sheepishly, looking right through her like she’s not there. It still unnerves her how this is probably going to be their new normal: him without his sight. Her as his eyes.

“Sorry.”

Riza frowns. An apology is not the answer she wants. What she wants is for him - or them both, actually - to sleep and rest and properly recuperate so that they can have a speedy recovery, so that they can get out of here as soon as possible.

“Bad dreams?” she asks, because it’s the exact same thing that’s been haunting her. (She’s lucky her throat makes it impossible for her to scream or kick up a fuss; she’d hate for Roy to stumble blindly through the room in what he probably thinks is an act of chivalry and/or heroism.)

He shrugs.

“Then and now,” he offers. His smile fades, and he lapses into an unexpected moment of vulnerability. “Hard to differentiate between day and night nowadays, too.”

And because Riza doesn’t know what to say, she simply brushes her knuckles against his.

Roy returns the gesture, drawing indiscernible patterns on the back of her hand with his bandaged one.

“Well, it’s almost midnight now, sir.”

He lets out a small laugh, but it’s painfully hollow.

Riza shifts slightly. It’s a bit of a tight squeeze - hospital beds are clearly not meant for two persons (or anything inappropriate) - but it doesn’t bother her all that much. She just wishes there’s more she can do, to comfort him. Make him feel a little less gloomy.

“It feels like I’ve been sleeping for years.”

“If it helps reduce the incidents of you falling asleep during office hours, then you should get more sleep now, while you can.”

Roy turns, like he’s searching for her, even though there’s not much closer she can be at this point. He exhales shakily. She feels his hand trembling against hers, and responds with a gentle caress. (She knows he’s still feeling guilty, probably berating himself internally about their predicament, about what transpired beforehand. And to be fair, there’s a part of her that’s still angry about all that's happened underground. They’ll probably have to talk about it, at some point, but probably not now — not when they’re both still drugged up and only half-lucid.)

“Humour me, Lieutenant.”

“What?”

“I can’t sleep,” he confesses. Dimly, Riza notes that his voice has taken on a somewhat petulant edge — like a child complaining about their bedtime, but she doesn’t comment on it. Being nearly bedridden for a week is enough to drive her nuts, too. “I’ve tried counting sheep and all that shit, and it’s just — it’s not working.”

Riza sighs. She’s tired, yes, but she’s also aware that she’s probably not going to get any sleep at this rate. She tries to think of ways to stave off his restlessness. Reading is one — she can probably bore him into sleep with a Xingese recitation (she’s gotten pretty good at that lately), but she’s technically not supposed to be talking much. Alcohol is another, but neither of them are supposed to be drinking (and besides, the only form of alcohol available in hospitals isn’t meant for human consumption). Maybe chess, then. She’s not particularly keen on playing a game of chess, now (because she just wants to sleep), but she thinks it’ll help exhaust some of his boundless energy.

“We could play a game of chess, if you want. Breda was kind enough to drop a vinyl board here in the afternoon.”

“I can’t see —“

“I’ll tell you where I move my pieces.”

He frowns, clearly not liking the idea. “You’re not supposed to be talking much, Lieutenant.”

“I’m fine,” she insists, turning to pour a cup of water for herself before continuing. “I won’t have to speak much — unless you’re being a nuisance or a cheat or a fraud.”

He laughs. “I’ll be none of those things, Lieutenant.”

“Good.”

She sets up the board on his bed and helps him sit up. Riza lets him play white.

“It’s your move, sir.”

“You’ve made yours?”

“No. You’re playing white.”

“Tough. It’ll be more embarrassing if I end up losing.”

Riza smiles. “Well, we don’t know that yet, sir.”

He opens with pawn to e4. She helps him move his pieces and parrots her movements back to him. Pawn to e4, too. Pawn to d4. Same here. A closed game, not quite like his usual aggressive style of playing.

Riza watches as he frowns with intensity. It’s probably more a test of memory than strategy for him at this point. She wonders if there’s a way he can adapt to chess, to the military’s utilitarian (and frankly unsympathetic) demands now that his sight’s impaired.

(Life is so unlike chess, Riza thinks, in spite of Roy’s silly metaphors that postulate otherwise. The rules are never fixed, and the universe is always rife with uncertainty. It’s not like chess, where you can predict your opponents’ moves if you get good enough. Neither of them had expected that he’d be here right now, losing sleep and contemplating life over a chessboard while blind.)

He clucks his tongue, reciting a series of movements from memory. The Blackmar-Diemer. Riza smiles indulgently.

Still as aggressive as ever, sir.

Of course.

The game quickly becomes a round of blitz, and though he manages to open his lines and mount a rather decent attack, it’s clear that he has trouble recalling after the eighteenth move. It's still an impressive feat, though. Better than the average layperson.

“Check,” Riza announces, conversationally. Technically, she’d had the advantage, both on the board (and in real life). It shouldn’t really count, and besides, checkmate isn’t her objective — it’s to get her commanding office to sleep.

“Well-played,” Roy hums. He’s strangely still in his bed as he closes his eyes, rubbing at his temples — presumably to ease off an oncoming migraine. It happens a lot, when he’s in deep thought, when he’s over thinking. Thinking too much for his own good. “I need to work on my recall, I think.”

“I think so too, sir.”

He laughs, but the sound is again empty, foreign. It is so at odds with his usual smirks and unbridled laughter (when he’s laughing at someone else, or a joke made at somebody’s expense), like there’s an ache beneath the surface that she cannot reach.

Roy turns slightly, bumping into his dethroned king as he adjusts himself on the bed.

She blames the sudden, uncharacteristic urge to cry on her drugged-up system.

(Riza doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to how uncommunicative his eyes are. He’s always regarded each and every one of his subordinates with respect and meaning and gratitude, but he’d simply looked over the unit as if taking inventory when they had come by earlier.

But she’ll make do, Riza thinks. She has to. She’s always known him in a way nobody else has, in a deeply intimate way, like a book she’s memorised by heart.)

They fall silent for a few minutes. His lips part a little - she knows he’s about to say something - but it snaps shut again, like he can’t bring himself to say the words.

Riza simply waits for him, like she always has; holding onto his held breath like it's the last thread of hope. She leans into his touch a little closer than necessary.

I’m right here, even if you can’t see me.

Roy smiles.

“I hope I won’t forget your face, Riza.”

#royai #royai fanfic #royai fic #sorry my lunch break is almost over so I gotta go back to work LOL but I will come back and edit this later AHAHAHAH #my new brand is 'excessive usage of chess metaphors' and man. it shows.......#lovely anon <3 #have a great week anon!!! mwahmwahmwah!!!!!!#reblogs and comments are always appreciated :")

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theodora3022 · 4 years ago

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The LoveSick Schemers

Summary: Claude and Yuri as Yanderes, as per requested.

Notes: Someone wants three houses yanderes?! Yeah I am also a FE blog pffttt- Anyway I assumed you meant separate, not poly(I’m not comfortable with that) or competition(sounds tempting, maybe I’ll do it once I clear out my inbox). I set the reader to be a fellow student in Garreg Mach for the convenience’s sake, hope that’s alright. I happen to love these boys a lot too, so hello fellow schemer lover!

These are pretty tame since you didn’t specify anything, I don’t want to accidentally trigger anyone! The Yuri one is gender neutral, the Claude one is a bit on the female side.

Warnings: Spoiler for the game(obviously), possessive behaviour

Claude Von Riegan

“I’m from the ruling house of the Leicester alliance, but don’t worry about all that madness.”

To draw his attention, you’ll have to be a trickster yourself, or an ideal-bound conservative like Ingrid. The former would light that competitive fire, while the latter your serious ways are amusing to behold to him.

At first Claude would only see you as a pleasant distraction, he has grand plans after all. But sometimes he would find himself eyeing at your concentrated form as you swing weapons, or study magic tomes, with a genuine smile on his lips.

It was at that moment, Claude knew something had slipped out of his control.

His mother and father told him what love feels like, but this is the first time the seventeen-year-old prince has experienced it firsthand.

If you are in another house, Claude will find a way to convince Byleth(or anyone leading the Golden deer) to have you transferred. But seriously, he can be charming when he wants to be, you won’t be able to say no. If even that doesn’t work, how about scouting away all of your friends so you’ll have no choice but to join the Golden deer!

He will go out of his way to spend time with you, finding flawless excuses so you won’t suspect a thing (even if you are as cunning as him). If your goal is to become an archer, that’s more than perfect for Claude because expect him to invite you to target practice everyday. “It’s a house leader’s duty to make sure the member honed their skills properly. Now, do you want to try with this killer bow?” Authority class is also a good way to bond with you!

Expect Claude to invite you every meal possible, with Hilda. You will feel odd to dine with him at first, but once you get used to it, he is just another goofball who has good tricks up his sleeves.(Claude will deliberately make himself appear dumber so you would lower your guard) If you are a goodie-two-shoe(A/N:like Ingrid), you might even scold him for his lacking of table manners!

Claude would try to make your relationship as normal as possible. As a prince, he had seen enough toxic relationships in the royal court of Almyra. Someone as wonderful as you should not be a caged dove, a mere wife for your crest or bloodline(if you are a noble that is). He wants you to flourish alongside him, as a formidable mage/soldier. The future Queen of Alymra should be able to defend herself at least!

But him only. Don’t even think of getting into someone else’s arms.

That Blue lion lad who asked you to the grand ball? How unfortunate it is to hear that he had fallen off from a clift on a mission. That Black eagle boy who is getting too handsy with you at lunch? It was disturbing to know that his black magic backfired leaving him permanently disabled.

Too bad if you liked any of your suitors back. Because they will get their due for attempting to lure you astray from your dear Claude.

Would persuade you to become House Riegan’s knight during the timeskip so he can stay close to you. Golden deers need to stick together, especially during these chaotic times right?

Once you are in the Deirdru with him, that is when the new Duke will start trying to court you formally.

If you are charmed by his amorous advances during the five years, he will be overjoyed and the dark side of the moon will never come into play. Although Claude would be concerned about how to reveal his real identity before officially announcing the marriage, and how his parents or the people of Almyra would think of another Foldanese Queen.

If you somehow didn’t get swayed by his smooth ways, that’s okay too! As long as you do not promise your hand to another! Surely he can work out something after this war. Since you are in his domain now, no one is allowed to make inappropriate advances towards you because of the Duke’s warnings. They wouldn’t want themselves and their family exiled from Reigan territory, or even the entire Leicester Alliance.

Yuri Leclerc

“Don’t let that pretty face fool you. He is a rouge, through and through.”

I imagine Yuri would like someone who is naive, virtuous,kind hearted like Ashe(A/N: It’s a crime they don’t have at least a B support IS!!!). You are that refreshing breath of air, the one who reached out to help him when almost everyone looked down to the residents of the abyss.

You are probably a sheltered noble lady, who has not learned about the sinister world well enough to not display kindness towards anyone. Or someone like Mercedes, who loves to take the role of an older sister to others in the Academy.

He would want to preserve your innocence, that precious pureness in this dirty, corrupted world. Yuri is a rat who lurks in the cold shadows, it’s only natural your radiant warmth would attract him.

When he is taken in by Byleth to the Officer’s academy, you are the first to invite him to the dining hall for a decent meal. You even gave him half of your peach sorbet to him since it charges extra and he didn’t spend money on it. “You have a sweet tooth, right? Well, I haven’t touched mine yet, here’s half of it.”

Another naive little fool, guess it’s only fair for him to protect you, to make sure your kindness doesn’t get exploited by other people.

Yuri always has interesting stories for you, or if you are a bookworm, he will bring you some banned books from the Shadow library. Be careful though, better not let Seteth see you reading them.

This guy is smooth and he knows it. Yuri would slip in some flirtaious words here and there, they can be considered as friendly even.

You in turn helped the people of the abyss in any way possible. If you are a white mage, you are happy to heal their wounds or care for the sick, since only a few healers are willing to devote time to “the underground”. If you are a soldier, you would teach the people how to wield a weapon, to defend themselves from thieves and bandits.

Realization didn’t strike Yuri all at once. Constance and Hapi are the first ones to notice how his gaze never strays away from you, and they love teasing him for it. He would deny it, saying he merely thinks of you as a good friend. Then when the thick headed Balthus also agrees with them, that is when his composure would collapse.

Genuine affections? Romantic attachments? Those things should not take up so much space in his heart. They can be perceived as weaknesses, to be used against him. How dare you make him feel this way, who gives you the right?

Maybe the goddess does watch over Folan and this is her punishment for all Yuri’s sins.

Like Claude, Yuri knows how to wear a smiling mask as if that is his true nature. He is a gang leader, he is not afraid to dirty his hands. Yuri is a lot less merciful than Claude when it comes to rivals. While Claude would not takes lives, only causing them enough harm so they get the hint, Yuri will resort to murder as he sees fit. He got underlings at his disposal, his rivals will be nothing against him even if they come from an influential family.

During the five years, since Yuri cannot leave the abyss, you two will keep in touch via letters, unknownst to you he also got some of his trusted henchmen to watch over you, making sure you are in good health and safe.

Once you return to Garreg Mach, you two can pick up where you left off! Don’t worry, Yuri won’t let you die or out of his sight again!

#yandere #yandere fire emblem #yandere fe3h #yandere claude von riegan #yandere yuri leclerc #yandere claude von reigan x reader #yandere yuri leclerc x reader #claude von riegan #yuri leclerc #request fill

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satansjit · 5 years ago

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Reflections on the Color of My Skin

By Neil DeGrasse Tyson

Wednesday, June 3, 2020

My colleague had other encounters with the law that he shared later that night, but his first story started a chain reaction among us. One by one we each recalled multiple incidents of being stopped by the police. None of the accounts were particularly violent or life-threatening, although it was easy to extrapolate to highly publicized cases that were. One of my colleagues had been stopped for driving too slowly. He was admiring the local flora as he drove through a New England town in the autumn. Another had been stopped because he was speeding, but only by five miles per hour. He was questioned and then released without getting a ticket. Still another colleague had been stopped and questioned for jogging down the street late at night.

As for me, I had a dozen different encounters to draw from. There was the time I was stopped late at night at an underpass on an empty road in New Jersey for having changed lanes without signaling. The officer told me to get out of my car and questioned me for ten minutes around back with the headlights of his squad car brightly illuminating my face. Is this your car? Yes. Who is the woman in the passenger seat? My wife. Where are you coming from? My parent’s house. Where are you going? Home. What do you do for a living? I am an astrophysicist at Princeton University. What’s in your trunk? A spare tire, and a lot of other greasy junk. He went on to say that the “real reason” why he stopped me was because my car’s license plates were much newer and shinier than the 17-year-old Ford that I was driving. The officer was just making sure that neither the car nor the plates were stolen.

Among my other stories, I had been stopped by campus police while transporting my home supply of physics textbooks into my newly assigned office in graduate school. They had stopped me at the entrance to the physics building where they asked accusatory questions about what I was doing. It was 11:30 p.m. Open-topped boxes of graduate math and physics textbooks filled the trunk. And I was transporting them into the building, which left me wondering how often that scenario shows up in police training videos.

We went on for two more hours. But before we retired for the night we searched for common denominators among the stories. We had all driven different cars—some were old, others were new, some were undistinguished, others were high performance imports. Some police stops were in the daytime, others were at night. Taken one-by-one, each encounter with the law could be explained as an isolated incident where, in modern times, we all must forfeit some freedoms to ensure a safer society for us all. Taken collectively, however, you would think the cops had a vendetta against physicists because that was the only profile we all had in common. In this parade of automotive stop-and-frisks, one thing was for sure, the stories were not singular, novel moments playfully recounted. They were common, recurring episodes. How could this assembly of highly educated scientists, each in possession of the PhD—the highest academic degree in the land—be so vulnerable to police inquiry in their lives? Maybe the police cued on something else. Maybe it was the color of our skin. The conference I had been attending was the 23rd meeting of the National Society of Black Physicists. We were guilty not of DWI (Driving While Intoxicated), but of other violations none of us knew were on the books: DWB (Driving While Black), WWB (Walking While Black), and of course, JBB (Just Being Black).

None of us were beaten senseless. None of us were shot. But what does it take for a police encounter to turn lethal? On average, police in America kill more than 100 unarmed black people per year. Who never made it to our circle? I suspect our multi-hour conversation would be rare among most groups of law-abiding people.

As I compose this, about 10,000 chanting protestors are filing past my window in Manhattan. And because of the intermittent looting and related violence, the curfew for this evening has been pushed earlier, to 8 p.m., from 11 p.m. in the preceding days. The most common placard was “Black Lives Matter.” Many others simply displayed the name George Floyd, who was handcuffed face-down on the street with a police officer’s knee on the back of his neck, applied with a force of at least half the officer’s body weight, resulting in his death. Curious irony that NFL star Colin Kaepernick offered a simple demonstration of care and concern for the fate of black people in the custody of police officers, by taking a knee during the Star Spangled Banner before football games. (One media outlet mangled the moment by describing him as protesting the national anthem.) The outrage against his silent act of concern for a national problem persisted through the 2017 season when, as a free agent, he went unsigned by any team to continue his livelihood.

So, we went from a peaceful knee to the ground to a fatal knee to the neck.

The way peaceful protesters and the press are being shoved, maced, tear-gassed, pepper-sprayed, and tackled in the streets of our cities (when the police should have focused on arresting the looters) you would think the protestors were doing something illegal or un-American. But, of course, the U.S. Constitution has something to say about it:

Congress shall make no law … abridging the freedom … of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.

Which amendment was that? The First Amendment. So, the founders of this nation felt quite strongly about it, empowering one to declare that protesting for redress of grievances is one of the most American things you can do. If you are the police, pause and reflect how great is the country whose Constitution endorses peaceful protests.

What do we actually expect from our police officers? To protect the peace and arrest the bad guys, I presume. But also, to be armed with lethal force that they can use when necessary. That part clearly requires training on how and when to use (and not use) the power of your weapons. The rigorous Minneapolis Police Academy training lasts 4 months. The slightly more rigorous NYC Police Academy lasts 6 months.

Yet to become a certified pastry chef at a prestigious culinary academy requires 8 months. The perfect croissant demands it. So maybe, just maybe, police recruits could benefit from a bit more training before becoming officers.

In 1991, Rodney King (age 25) was struck dozens of times, while on the ground, by four LAPD officers, with their batons, after being tased. The grainy 1990s video of that went media-viral, inducing shock and dismay to any viewer.

But I wasn’t shocked at all.

Based on what I already knew of the world, my first thought was, “We finally got one of those on tape.” Followed by, “Maybe justice will be served this time.” Yes, that’s precisely my first thought. Why? Since childhood my parents instilled in me and my siblings, via monthly, sometimes weekly lessons, rules of conduct to avoid getting shot by the police. “Make sure that when you get stopped, the officer can always see both of your hands.” “No sudden movements.” “Don’t reach into your pockets for anything without announcing this in advance.” “When you move at all, tell the officer what you are about to do.” At the time, I am a budding scientist in middle school, just trying to learn all I can about the universe. I hardly ever think about the color of my skin—it never comes up when contemplating the universe. Yet when I exit my front door, I’m a crime suspect. Add to this the recently coined “White Caller Crime,” where scared white people call the police because they think an innocent black person is doing something non-innocent, and it’s a marvel that any of us achieve at all.

The rate of abuse? Between one and five skin-color-instigated incidents per week, for every week of my life. White people must have known explicitly if not implicitly of this struggle. Why else would the infamous phrase, “I’m free, white, and 21” even exist? Here is a compilation of that line used in films across the decades. Yes, it’s offensive. But in America, it’s also truthful. Today’s often-denied “white privilege” accusation was, back then, openly declared.

The deadly LA riots associated with the Rodney King incident are often remembered as a response to the beating. But no. Los Angeles was quiet for 13 months afterward. Everyone had confidence, as did I, that the video was just the kind of evidence needed to finally bring about a conviction in the abuse of power. But that’s not what came to pass. The riots were a response to the acquittal of the four officers in the incident, and not to the incident itself. And what is a riot if not the last act of helpless desperation.

The 1989 film by Spike Lee “Do the Right Thing,” which explored 1980s black-white-police tensions in Brooklyn, New York, ends with a dedication to the families of six people. Eleanor Bumpers (age 66), Michael Griffith (age 23), Arthur Miller (age 30), Edmund Perry (age 17), Yvonne Smallwood (age 28), and Michael Stewart (age 25). All are black. One was killed by a white mob. The rest were unarmed and shot by police or otherwise died while in police custody. All deaths occurred within the 10 years preceding film, and all occurred in New York City. None of the police-induced deaths resulted in convictions, as continues to be true for 99% of all police killings.

We know of these events because they each ended in death. But even so, back then, it was just local news. Was this just NYC’s problem? I asked myself. But for every police-related death anywhere, how many unarmed victims are shot by police and don’t die, or are wrongfully maimed or injured? Most of those cases didn’t even make the local news. But if you lived there, you knew. We all knew. For what it’s worth, NYC now has the lowest police-caused death rate per capita among the sixty largest cities in the US. Is it that extra two months training in the Police Academy?

The corrosion and ultimate erosion of our confidence in the legal system in cases such as these, even in the face of video evidence, has spawned a tsunami of protests. With sympathetic demonstrations across the United States and around the world. If the threat of prison time for this behavior does not exist—acting as a possible deterrent—then the behavior must somehow stop on its own.

Some studies show that the risk of death for an unarmed person at the hands of the police is approximately the same no matter the demographics of who gets arrested. Okay. But if your demographic gets stopped ten times more than others, then your demographic will die at ten times the rate. I suppose we first have to get the bias factor down to zero, but then there’s still the matter of police killing unarmed suspects, white people included.

I talk a lot. But I don’t talk much about any of this, or the events along this path-of-most-resistance that have shaped me. Why? Because throughout my life I’ve used these occasions as launch-points to succeed even more. Yes, I parlayed the persistent rejections of society, which today might be called micro-aggressions, into reservoirs of energy to achieve. I learned that from my father, himself active in the Civil Rights Movement during the 1950s and 1960s.

In a way, I am who I am precisely because countless people, by their actions or inactions, said I could never be what I am. But what if you don’t have this deep supply of fuel? What becomes of you? Who from historically disenfranchised communities, including women, LGBTQ+, and anybody of color, are missing—falling shy of their full potential because they ran out of energy and gave up trying.

Are things better today than yesterday? Yes. But one measure of this truth is a bit perverse. Decades ago, unarmed black people getting beaten or killed by the police barely merited the local news. But now it’s national news—even breaking news—no matter where in the country it occurs.

So how to change all this? Organizations have surely assembled demands for police departments. Here, I offer a list of my own, for policy experts to consider:

Extend police academies to include months of cultural awareness and sensitivity training that also includes how not to use lethal force.

Police officers should all be tested for any implicit bias they carry, with established thresholds of acceptance and rejection from the police academy. We all carry bias. But most of us do not hold the breathing lives of others in our hands when influenced by it.

During protests, protect property and lives. If you attack nonviolent protesters you are being un-American. And you wouldn’t need curfews if police arrested looters and not protesters.

If fellow officers are behaving in a way that is clearly unethical or excessively violent, and you witness this, please stop them. Someone will get that on video, and it will give the rest of us confidence that you can police yourselves. In these cases, our trust in you matters more to a civil society than how much you stick up for each other.

And here’s a radical idea for the Minneapolis Police Department—why not give George Floyd the kind of full-dress funeral you give each other for dying in the line of duty? And vow that such a death will never happen again.

Lastly, when you see black kids, think of what they can be rather than what you think they are.

Respectfully Submitted

Neil deGrasse Tyson — trying hard to Keep Looking Up.

#neil degrasse tyson #reflections on the color of my skin #reflections #black lives matter #justiceforfloyd #blm movement #blm #support blm #science #george floyd #justice for black lives #justice for poc #no justice no peace #know justice know peace #white silence is violence #physics #amerikkka #blacklivesmatter

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bktynes-writes · 4 years ago

Photo

As per the fantastic advice of the wonderful and amazing Mallory, @valleydean, I made some graphics for my fic, The Blood Of The Covenant. It’s a long, slow burn, Mafia AU, and I have no idea where it’s gonna end up, but I hope you’ll all reblog and join me for the ride. Here is the summary, and the first chapter is under the cut. Read on Ao3.

The Blood Of The Covenant The Winchester Dynasty will never fall.

At least, that’s what John and Mary, heads of the most powerful crime family in the city believe. They have built their empire from nothing, and are willing to do whatever it takes to maintain their control.

When a new family, the Novaks, threaten the delicate balance of power they have maintained for years, the eldest son, Dean, is tasked with infiltrating the ranks of the Novak’s organization to destroy them from the inside.

Dean has always been a soldier in his parent’s wars, never questioning where his loyalties lie, but when he comes face to face with Castiel Novak, one of the sons of the family threatening to destroy his own, he wonders if maybe there could be more to life than he believed. Maybe this blue-eyed stranger can offer him the ticket out he never knew he wanted.

They say that the blood of the covenant runs thicker than the water of the womb, but how do you turn your back on family? Will Dean choose love over loyalty? Will he leave behind all he’s ever known? Or are he and Castiel destined to just be pawns in the war for power that rules the city’s underworld?

Chapter 1: Dinner

The city at night always had a certain charm about it that Dean couldn’t put his finger on. Maybe it was the way everything lit up a bit more or the fact that the darkness hid the grime that clung to every surface like a second skin, but the alleyways and culverts of the buildings seemed more inviting when they were filled with shadow.

He loved this city. Every dirty stairwell, every seedy bar, every doorway that led to nowhere, Dean knew them all. He had grown up on these streets, and he wouldn’t change it for the world.

The sound of a car horn brought him back to reality, pulling him out of his nostalgic reverie and into the moment. He looked down at his dress shoes, sparkling in the neon lights against the damp pavement, and smiled. If there was one thing Dean Winchester knew how to do, it was dress to impress. His father had instilled in him that first impressions were important at a very young age, and how a man looks could change the direction of any transaction.

Tonight was the first Sunday of the month, which meant dinner with the Family at Cain’s. Dean never looked forward to these dinners - he found them to be mundane - but as the eldest son of the most powerful crime family in the city, he knew his mother and father expected him to attend.

Thus, he found himself in his best suit, pulling open the restaurant’s glass door and striding past the host stand like he owned the place. The young woman there gave him a nervous look, and he shot her his most charming smile, causing her to duck her head as a deep red blush crept up her cheeks. He passed by the other tables and made his way to the back of the restaurant, pointedly ignoring the stares and whispers that followed him from the other patrons. He was used to this behaviour. Anyone who was anyone in the city recognized the Winchesters, and their reputation preceded them.

He made his way past the kitchen, stopping briefly to say hello to Cain, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Dean!” Cain exclaimed, turning around and pulling him into a rib-crushing hug. “I didn’t think you were gonna show! Everyone else is already here.”

Dean laughed. In another life, he would have called him a friend.

But Winchesters didn’t have friends.

“Yeah, I figured they would be.” He said. “What can I say? Fashionably late is kinda my style.” He shrugged and smiled.

“That’s my boy, always gotta make an entrance.” Cain beamed at him. “They’re in the back room. I’ll get your usual added to the order. Hurry up before your dad tears a strip off you!”

“Thanks, Cain,” Dean said. He ducked past him and headed to the very back of the dining room.

Dean could now see the usual suspects gathered around their regular table. He spotted Bobby gruffly speaking to Ellen Harvelle and her daughter Jo. The Harvelles were powerful associates who owned many of the bars and rest stops along the freeway into the city, and Dean’s father liked to keep them close because he had been friends with Ellen’s late husband, Bill.

Ellen was a good source of information for the family. People let information slip that they shouldn’t after a few rounds of shots at one of Ellen’s roadhouses, and she and Jo had ears like bats. Dean was pretty sure the main reason she was included in these clandestine meetings of the family, though, is that his parents, despite their vehement claims otherwise, were a little bit afraid of her. He couldn’t blame them. He had grown up with Jo and, despite being six years older, had had his ass handed to him more times than he could count by the feisty blonde.

Dean chuckled to himself at the memory as he slid quietly into the seat next to his younger brother, Sam.

“You’re late,” stated the younger of the Winchester brothers, his arm draped lazily across his girlfriend Jessica’s shoulders.

“Yeah, I was over at the mill. Gordon owes us and is being…difficult.” He reached for the bottle of wine that sat on the table and filled his glass. He wasn’t usually a fan of wine, but Cain always brought out the good bottles for these meetings, and when he didn’t have to pay, it would be rude to refuse.

“Dad is gonna be pissed.” Said Sam, finishing his own glass and holding it out for Dean to refill.

“No, he won’t,” Dean replied, pouring too much wine into his brother’s glass. “He knows how Gordon is. He’ll just be glad I didn’t break too many of his fingers to get him to agree to pay his dues.”

“Whatever you say, Dean,” Sam replied, rolling his eyes. He ran his fingers through his absurdly long hair, and Dean found himself itching to strap his brother into a barber’s chair and order a buzz cut.

A clink of cutlery against glass brought the assembly to silence and drew everyone’s attention to the man standing at the head of the table. John Winchester was an imposing figure at the best of times, and his broad shoulders, clad in the threads of his fine Italian suit, added to his commanding demeanour. His neatly trimmed beard was flecked with grey, as was the perfectly slicked hair on his head. He stood with pride and demanded the respect of those around him with ease.

“Now that my son has finally decided to grace us with his presence, we can call this meeting to order,” John spoke with an air of distaste directed solely at Dean.

“Ah, you know me pops, better late than never,” Dean said nonchalantly. Sam was right; John was pissed.

“Indeed,” said his father coolly.

Dean tuned out most of the ensuing conversations. It was the typical discussion of territory, who was responsible for handling the gang activity on the west side, who was collecting from which businesses for protection owed and whether or not they had paid (Dean received a small nod of approval from John when he informed the table that Gordon would no longer be causing issues).

When the food came, Dean was treated to the most delicious looking plate of carbonara he had ever seen. Cain truly did know the way to his heart. Before he had the chance to dig in, a noise from the opposite end of the table drew everyone’s attention.

A beautiful woman with wavy brown hair rose from the table, and Dean rolled his eyes, huffing dramatically into his chair. Bela Talbot was always trying to draw attention to herself at these meetings, and tonight would be no exception. She wasn’t, strictly speaking, part of the Family, but she was part of a necessary evil alliance that the Winchesters had forged years ago to have hands in the art trade, and Dean had found her to be nothing but a nuisance ever since.

Her words dripped with a caramel sweetness, and despite his intense dislike of the woman, Dean couldn’t help but stare at her as she spoke.

“John. Mary. Dear Winchester Family. It has come to my attention that there appears to be a new family on the North shore. They arrived from New Jersey about six weeks ago and have been a thorn in my side ever since.” She scowled.

“Why hasn’t it been dealt with, Bela?” Asked Sam. “The North shore is your territory, isn’t it?” Sam was flexing his powers a little bit, addressing Bela that way. Usually, it would be up to John to chastise her for not taking care of a threat to their operations, but Dean could see the look of pride in his father’s eyes at Sam stepping in so willingly.

Bela’s face tinged pink slightly at the admonishing tone in Sam’s voice, and she puffed her cheeks out before speaking out again. “Under regular circumstances, Samuel, I would, but it seems that these Novaks are a bit better at playing cat and mouse than I would have anticipated.”

“Novak?” Dean snorted. “What is that, Polish?”

Bela glared at him. “I believe it’s Serbian, actually.”

Dean shrugged and twisted his fork idly in his pasta, hoping she would get to the point before it got cold. Sam continued to address her. “What’s the problem, Bela?”

“They’ve taken out three of my warehouses since their arrival, and the attendance at both the craps game and the pool hall is down by thirty-two percent.” She sighed, and Dean perked up. He almost wanted to shake the hand of anyone who could cause Bela this much distress, but this was clearly an attack on the family’s assets. “Half the shops on Arthur Street aren’t paying their fees because the Novaks have started charging them, and when I sent Ruby over to persuade them, she came back bloody and threatening to skip town.”

Dean’s smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. Ruby was savage in the art of ‘persuasion,’ and he could hardly imagine anyone getting the better of her. He leaned forward, his brow furrowed. A new family trying to start a war with the Winchesters? The last time that had happened, Dean was a teenager, and, much to his dismay, his parents had insisted he not be involved. He had watched helplessly from inside the Catholic boy’s school his father had shipped him to, as his people were shot in the street.

But Dean was in his thirties now, and the prospect of war looming on the horizon made him giddy with anticipation.

Mary Winchester, who had been quietly observing her husband and sons until this point, suddenly cleared her throat, which made all the men at the table sit up a little straighter. She was a fierce-looking woman with high cheekbones, a square jaw, and deep eyes, all framed by locks of cascading blonde curls. It was easy to see where her sons had gotten their charming good looks from.

She sat forward and touched her husband’s forearm gently. “Bela. While I’m sure the loss of your warehouses is devastating, no one would be foolish enough to start a war with our family.” She smiled. “And if Ruby and the girls from Rowena’s can’t handle what is being asked of them, then perhaps it is time to remind them who it is they work for. I’m sure Sam and Dean would be happy to deal with the Novaks, right boys?”

Sam nodded at his mother, and Dean could feel his excitement bubbling. He looked to his brother and saw a dark glint in his eye. The two of them together were unstoppable.

“Anything for you, mother,” Dean said, and he basked in her pride.

“Wonderful,” John said, clapping his hands together, dispelling the tension surrounding the table, and causing Bela to sink back into her seat as her concerns were dismissed. “Now, let’s eat before the food goes cold.”

The rest of the evening dissolved into easy conversation amongst the members of the meeting. Sam laughed wildly at Bobby’s account of a man who he had once held over a woodchipper for his disrespect, even though he had told the story a hundred times. Mary and John spoke quietly with Jessica about her parents and how thrilled they were that her contacts on Broadway would benefit the Winchester dynasty. Dean occupied himself by kicking Jo under the table and watching her face go from mildly irritated to genuinely annoyed as she tried to maintain a discussion with her mother about liquor importing.

When the food and wine had been consumed, John stood again and waited patiently for the conversations to cease. “Thank you all for joining us this evening.” He spoke warmly to everyone. “I trust to see you all again next month.” A chorus of murmured agreement rippled through those assembled. John raised his glass, and everyone else followed suit. “To the family.” He toasted and drained the remaining wine from his glass.

The sound of chairs scraping back from the table filled the small dining room as the Winchesters and their associates made to leave. They passed the other patrons, enjoying their meals and trying obviously not to stare as the finely dressed men and women filed out the front door, thanking Cain with handshakes and smiles as they left.

Dean stepped into the street and stretched, breathing the exhaust soaked air deeply into his lungs and once again being reminded of just how much he loved this city. A large hand dropped heavily onto his shoulder, and he turned to find his gargantuan little brother towering next to him.

“You wanna come over for a beer?” Sam asked casually.

“Nah, man, I was thinking about heading over to Lee’s,” Dean said. His head was foggy from the wine, and he needed some real liquor to bring his senses back.

Sam scowled. “You know, Dad doesn’t like you going out without protection.”

“Always keep a condom in my wallet, Sammy.” Dean winked, and Sam rolled his eyes dramatically.

“That’s not what I mean.” He said. “If Bela is right and the Novaks are looking to start a war, none of us should be going anywhere alone.”

“Oh, is Sam freaking Winchester scared of a few Jersey boys?” Dean snarked at his brother, punching him in the arm playfully. “I’ll be fine. Besides, it’s Lee’s bar. I’m basically royalty there.”

Jessica appeared at Sam’s side and snaked her arm around his waist. She really was beautiful, far too good for his brother. Dean sometimes wished he had met her first, but he shook the thoughts from his mind. Sam was happy with Jess, and that’s what he deserved.

“Your parents invited us over to look over the blueprints of the new hotel, honey.” She said. “Dean, will you be joining us?”

“Not tonight, sweetheart, but hey, tell 'em to put one of those fancy water features in like they’ve got in Vegas,” Dean replied sarcastically.

Jess smiled at him. “You ready, Sam?”

“Uh, yeah, one second. Why don’t you go ahead with Mom and Dad? I’ll meet you at the car.” Sam said. He rubbed his hand across her shoulders and leaned down to kiss her sweetly. Jess cast one more smile at Dean before turning back down the sidewalk to where Mary and John stood waiting.

“What’s up, Sammy?” Dean asked. He knew there was a reason his brother was holding him back.

Sam stepped closer to Dean and quickly looked over his shoulder before shoving his hand into his pocket and producing a small black velvet box. “I was going to wait until tomorrow, but I can’t help myself.” He said, opening the box. Inside was a beautiful diamond engagement ring. The center stone was massive and cut into the shape of a teardrop. On each side were two smaller diamonds, surrounded by a cluster of sparkling rubies. “I’m gonna ask Jess to marry me.”

Dean laughed out loud. “Holy shit, Sam!” He blurted out loudly and pulled his brother into a hug.

“Shhh!” Sam warned. “Keep your voice down! I don’t even know if she’ll say yes.”

Dean scoffed. “Of course she’ll say yes! You two have been together, what, forever?” He grinned. “Although, if she does say no, you can tell her I’m available.”

Sam smacked him around the head, and Dean laughed. “Alright, have fun at Lee’s. Call Benny if there’s any trouble.”

Dean waved over Sam’s shoulder at John, Mary, and Jess, and gave his brother a nod before turning and heading down the dark sidewalk in the direction of Lee Webb’s bar.

Swayze’s was more than a few blocks from Cain’s place, but Dean didn’t mind the walk. He’d left his car at home after visiting Gordon this afternoon, and he enjoyed the refreshing night air against his face. The downtown lights glared into the sky through the ever-present smog rising from the city, and Dean hummed a little to himself as he walked. This was his city. The Winchesters owned these streets. He knew one day, the empire his mother and father had built would fall to him and Sam to manage, but that time was a long way off. John would never relinquish control of the family assets to his sons while he still drew breath, and without any heirs of their own to ensure the continuation of the dynasty, that was even less likely.

Dean smiled to himself, thinking of the ring currently sitting in Sam’s pocket. Jess would be an excellent addition to the family. Her parents were both high profile talent agents on Broadway with a lot of influence there and in Hollywood. There had never been a reason for the Winchesters to get into theatre, but he knew they wouldn’t turn down the opportunity if Jess said yes to Sam tonight. His smile faltered slightly. It had been a long time since Dean had been as happy as Sam was now. His last relationship had been with Lisa Braeden, and that had only lasted a few months. She had a young son, Ben, who Dean still saw on occasion, but he had left when things had started to get really serious. He wasn’t going to drag someone else’s kid into this mafioso life. It wasn’t his place.

The truth was, Dean didn’t even know if he wanted kids. He’d thought about it, sure, and his mother had been pressuring him since his mid-twenties to find a nice girl to make babies with, but Dean liked his hang-up free lifestyle. He was happy to carry out orders for his father, help the family, and maybe hustle a few out of town suckers at pool when the mood struck him. Sam was business-minded, and Dean was more than happy to allow his not-so-little little brother to take over for their father when the time came.

Dean had been so deep in his own head that he barely registered when he had arrived at Lee’s. He sat down on a barstool and scanned around the room. Dean sighed contentedly. As he had expected, the bar was devoid of anyone immediately recognizable save for Lee himself.

Dean rapped his knuckles on the bar top to get Lee’s attention. “Who do I gotta gank to get a drink around here, hey buddy?” He said as Lee tossed the towel he had been using to clean a pint glass over his shoulder and turned to Dean. His expression changed from annoyed to ecstatic when he registered who was speaking.

“Dean freaking Winchester.” Lee drawled. “It’s been a while. You too good to come see me anymore?”

Dean grinned. “Never too good for you, Lee.”

“What’ll it be? On the house.” Lee spread his arms, gesturing at the impressive selection of alcohol arranged along the wall behind him.

“Whiskey. Neat.” Dean replied. Lee nodded approvingly, selecting a bottle from the top shelf and pouring a heavy-handed three ounces into a glass. He slid it across the bar to Dean, and he took a sip, letting the liquid burn deliciously in his throat and warm him from the inside out.

“That’s good stuff.” Dean smiled as a low rasp crept into his voice.

“Only the best for you.” Lee matched his tone. “So, what brings you out tonight?”

“Dinner with the family,” Dean replied noncommittally.

“Yeah, you always did hate those.” Lee whipped the towel off his shoulder and picked up another glass, wiping the water from around the rim. “Anything exciting?”

“No, just business as usual. Bela is being a bitch, Bobby’s still telling the same stories he has for the past 20 years…” He paused before taking another sip of his drink. “Oh, and uh, Sammy’s gonna ask Jess to marry him.”

“No shit!” Lee said, his eyebrows rising in mild surprise. “I’d say that’s pretty exciting.”

“Yeah, it’s been a long time coming.” Dean chuckled into his glass. “Never seen anybody as happy as those two. Kind of a miracle she hasn’t killed him yet with what a pain in the ass he can be.”

“Ah, you’re only saying that cuz he’s your brother.” Lee laughed.

“Yeah, well, brother or not, he’s still a giant pain.” Dean downed the rest of his drink and tapped the rim for a refill. Lee shook his head but complied.

“You feeling a little jealous there, buddy?” Lee smiled devilishly at him as he set the bottle down on the bar top.

Dean chuckled darkly. “Nothing to be jealous of. I’ve got my life, my health, my family,” he grinned at Lee over the rim of his glass. “And a buddy with a bar. What more could a guy need?”

Lee shook his head but said nothing. Dean appreciated the silence that fell immensely.

The sudden clatter of a barstool hitting the floor drew Dean’s attention to the opposite end of the bar. Two men stood chest to chest, shoving each other back and forth.

“What the fuck is your problem, man?!” One of them exclaimed.

“What’s my problem? What the hell is your problem?!” The other responded, punctuating his words with a shove to the man’s shoulders.

“Hey!” Lee shouted. “Take it outside, boys.”

“Yeah, some of us just wanna drink in peace,” Dean said.

“What the fuck did you just say?” One of the men said to Dean. Having found a common enemy in him, the two men turned towards Dean’s seat and advanced. He drew in a breath, immediately regretting his decision to speak up. They were both much larger than him by a wide margin, and Dean couldn’t help but think to himself ruefully that maybe Sam was right about needing protection.

As he balled his fists, ready to start swinging, he felt someone step into the space at his side.

“I believe both of these fine gentlemen just politely told you inbred walnuts to get lost.” The voice that spoke was low and gravelly, and Dean felt his stomach flip a little at the sound of it. He turned his head to identify the stranger and was met by a tan trenchcoat.

His eyes travelled upwards to the man’s face, and Dean felt his stomach do another small flip. A strong jawline covered in light stubble, slightly chapped pink lips, and tousled black hair were Dean’s first indications that the man suddenly standing next to him was unfamiliar. When the man cocked his head slightly, Dean caught his eye and felt his breath hitch in his chest. Framed by thick, dark eyelashes were a pair of icy blue eyes that Dean very quickly found himself staring at. He looked away as soon as he realized because, as much as he would have loved to stare, the two aggressively drunk men in front of him posed a much more immediate problem.

Returning his attention to them, Dean rose from his seat and drained the remaining liquid from his glass, vaguely registering that Lee had also rounded the bar and was standing behind him.

“Well, fellas. Looks like it’s two against three.” Dean said, gesturing at Lee and the stranger. “Not that I don’t like those odds being in my favour and all, but I’ll give you a chance to walk away before this gets too outta hand.” He heard Lee crack his knuckles and grinned. There was no one in this world Dean would rather have in his corner for a fight than Lee Webb, except maybe Sam.

The two men in front of him hesitated slightly before one of them let out a yell and charged towards Dean.

He reacted in an instant, ducking below the man’s outstretched arms and coming up under his knees to flip him over his back towards Lee. He heard the man hit the ground with a thud as Lee reached down and heaved him back up into the edge of the bar. Dean turned just in time to see the other man following his partner towards him, arms reaching out like some great ape. He didn’t have the forewarning or space to execute the same move, and so he simply ducked out of reach. As the man’s arms closed above his head, he heard the unmistakable sound of a fist colliding with a nose as the cartilage and bone crunched under the force. Glancing to his right, he saw the trenchcoated stranger land a blow directly into the second assailant’s face and smiled to himself. Not bad, he thought.

As the ape staggered back, clutching his now broken nose, blood streaming down between his fingers, Dean stood up and grabbed the man by his shirt. Together, he and Lee shoved the two towards the bar’s door and unceremoniously tossed them into the street.

“Don’t let me catch you goons in here again,” Lee shouted as they took off quickly down the alley.

Dean watched them go and shook his head ruefully. Even at Lee’s, trouble managed to find him. He looked to his friend and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Lee said, brushing him off. “Guys like that aren’t a problem. You and I both know I’ve fought worse.”

Dean laughed. “Ain’t that the truth.” They turned to go back inside, and Dean spied the mysterious stranger as he picked up a stool that had fallen over in the scuffle, cradling his right hand against his chest.

“Hey,” Dean called out to him. The man looked up at Dean, and he was pierced by the full intensity of his stare. Those blue eyes, which before had been icy and cold with adrenaline, were now pools of deep ocean blue, and Dean once again felt himself beginning to drown in them. He cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the lump that was quickly forming there. “Um, thanks. For that. You, uh, you didn’t have to get involved. Lee and I could have handled it.”

Way to sound ungrateful, Winchester, he kicked himself internally.

The stranger cocked his head to the side as he stared at Dean, his eyebrows knitted together in the most perplexing stare Dean had ever seen. Lee walked up next to him. “Lemme get you some ice for your hand. If that dude’s skull is as thick as it looked, you’re probably hurting pretty bad.” He walked behind the bar and began filling a small bag with ice. “Oh, and your next drink is on me. Dean may not know how to actually say thank you but, we aren’t all as uncivilized.”

Dean felt the heat rising in his cheeks as he sat back in his seat, and Lee refilled his glass, adding a second one for their new friend. “Thank you.” The man said, taking the bag of ice and placing it over his knuckles. He took a small sip of his drink and set it back on the bar top.

Dean shook himself and realized the man was still staring at him, and being under his scrutinizing eyes made Dean fidget uncomfortably. He cleared his throat again. “So, uh, you got a name?” He asked. Then, because Dean was not one to relinquish the upper hand, he plastered on his charming Winchester smile and said, “Or am I just supposed to call you handsome?”

A small smile lifted the corners of the man’s lips as he extended his uninjured hand for Dean to shake.

“Novak.” He said, and Dean felt the colour immediately drain from his face.

“My name is Castiel Novak.”

#supernatural au #supernatural fic #destiel #deancas #dean x castiel #mafia au #deancas fic #supernatural #spn fic #tag: tbotc #tw: blood #tw: alcohol #tw: violence

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lightandwinged · 4 years ago

Photo

Haven’t posted the bobbins in a hot minute!

The twins turn three tomorrow! I legitimately cannot believe that I’ve been doing the fulltime mom thing to twins for three whole ass years. And I have to brag a little bit about their birthday stuff because last year, Covid suddenly happening two days before their birthday derailed everything--we’d been planning to go to the aquarium in Boston and take them to a special ice cream place and just have a great time, but then plague.

And they had a good time, but I felt bad.

So maybe this year I went overboard JUST a bit, both (a) because we could afford it (Kyle’s new job is pretty sweet like that), and (b) because I wanted this year to make up for last year being meh. I know they’re too young to really remember but on the off chance that they do, I don’t want them to remember two miserable Covid birthdays. One is enough.

I made cupcakes, because they are tiny, and cupcakes are easier to individually theme than bigger cakes. Carrie loves unicorns, Isaac loves Mickey and Minnie, it was a fun thing to do.

But kiddos overall.

Sam is inching closer to SEVEN YEARS OLD WHAT, is on his third lost tooth (my favorite tooth when kids lose it because it’s the one that really makes him look like a little jack o lantern), and speaks mostly in Pokemon these days. I understand none of it, but he is OBSESSED and keeps coming up with creative ways to bring them into his day-to-day life (he’s beaten Sword about three times and is currently working his way through whatever the previous title was on the DS; his favorite vacillates day to day, but he tends to go for fire types). I’m still homeschooling him until the end of the year because everyone keeps changing their mind about when people are going back and doing what. And he’s kicking ass. Currently whizzing through very basic geometry (e.g., finding simple perimeter and area) as part of his third grade math curriculum and working on recognizing patterns in science.

We also suspect that he’s either autistic or has ADHD (per his in-home therapists as well), but wait times for official testing are L O N G. We’re having him evaluated through the school, though, so that if he doesn’t get a diagnosis before he heads back in the fall (because I love him, but I do not love teaching him), he’ll at least have an IEP already in place and be able to get any assistance he needs. And that will most likely take the form of someone breaking tasks into smaller steps, maybe giving him fidget opportunities while he’s learning (he absorbs a LOT when he’s playing with Legos), maybe taking tests separately so that he can have someone read the questions aloud to him so that he absorbs them (because he can read, but unless he also HEARS things, he absorbs nothing).

He’s a terrifyingly smart kid still, and I have no doubt that he’ll be on par with his fellow second graders next year academically. I just want him to not feel overwhelmed while working.

Isaac is slowly slowly slowly gaining spoken language. I’ve said before and stand by that I don’t care if he never speaks completely fluently, but I do want him to be able to communicate his wants and needs so that he doesn’t get frustrated so much. And he does get frustrated, but his meltdowns remain rare--they usually only happen if something he loved doing ends or if someone takes his toy or won’t give him their toy or just other typical toddler stuff (which inclines me to classify them more as tantrums than meltdowns, but eh). BUT he also communicates, not just by taking someone’s hand and putting it on something he wants, but by using words. He LOVES to talk about the cats (which are his favorite thing--cats of all types, including those in the musical) (but NOT THE MOVIE DEAR JESUS), and the other day, he very meticulously directed me to draw a picture of the three cats happily sleeping on his bed, based on his memory of seeing them happily sleeping on his bed at naptime.

He’s definitely got his drilled down special interests--cats, cars, Mickey Mouse, Daniel Tiger, and Celtic Woman (we call them his “ladies”). And he is just such an absolute sweetie. He still has the smile that basically convinces you that you would both kill and die for him (shown above), and the way he relaxes against me when he’s tired just makes me sigh and love him to absolute pieces. He’s 110% a momma’s boy, and although I hope he grows out of it when the time is right, it’s really sweet right now.

He easily qualified for special ed preschool, which I’ll talk about more in a second.

And then Miss Carrie, who basically read the rhyme about little girls being made of sugar and spice and all things nice and took it as gospel but ALSO realized that you can do all of those things while being a monster, beating up everyone who treats you wrong, and covering yourself in tattoos. I say of her that she’s too much, but in the best possible way: I want her to keep being too much forever, because it is absolutely delightful. She’s always giggling or twirling, singing or commanding her brothers in a game of pretend. She never just walks anywhere, she always prances or skips or dances or hops or jumps. She can be a screechy little spitfire one second and then brush away her angry tears and transform into a little cherub the next, and it’s hilarious. Everything ever must be pink and glittery (I promise, I did not try and force pink on her, she jumped to it on her own), must flounce out correctly when she twirls, must make her feel like a fairy tale princess.

She merrily adopts all the stereotypical “girly” things in life--Barbies, princesses, My Little Pony (yep, we’re back in that phase), unicorns, mermaids, “cute” things, etc. At the same time, she’s always game for a lightsaber fight, playing “bug” with Sammy (I don’t know what “bug” is as a game, but the kids have established rules for it and play it whenever they’re not too tired after dinner), and wrestling with her dad and brothers. It’s wonderful.

And SHE qualified for special ed preschool because her muscle tone is hilariously low (read: she flops).

The twins are starting preschool Monday because they are turning three and thus losing early intervention services. I worry somewhat about them being in school with Covid still raging (even though I’m 50% of the way to fully vaccinated--going back for Pfizer #2 on Saturday!), but it’s a huge relief that their therapies (speech, occupational, physical) are being coordinated by the school and not by me. I’m the most organized person in this house, and anyone who’s ever seen my house knows what a statement that is (it’s gotten worse since my sciatica has settled in, because bending over is just not a thing I can do without suffering), so having that burden lifted from my shoulders? Heavenly.

And I’m just overall proud as fuck of all three kids. They’re so resilient, and I know that the pandemic has been hard on them in a lot of ways, but they’re still kicking ass, still smiling and laughing and having fun, and that’s been a bright spot for the entire last year.

#parenting #sammy the small spawn #isaac doomface #little care bear #hashtag twinning #holy shit they're three #them going to school is kind of like emerging from a long hibernation

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shannapage · 4 years ago

Text

Stellae: Chapter 1

Author: Shanna Page

Status: Incomplete / Ongoing

Genre: Fantasy / Sci-Fi

Synopsis: The gods do not exist. Divine intervention is only imagined by those too cowardly to act. No, we only have ourselves in this word. Ourselves, the weapons we wield and the evil we choose to tolerate.

Eline Ritvak is the most renowned thief in all three Kingdoms. Mentored by the infamous criminal, Nightshade, she lives by a strict code of honor seemingly at odds with her chosen profession.When the Prince of Nitenbeir requests Eline steal a sword for him, she is curious enough to accept on his terms. What happens next sends Eline’s world tumbling into chaos, and she finds herself on the run from the most feared man on the continent. All she has is a sword, a know-it-all bookkeeper and the realization that perhaps, they are not alone in this world.

Word Count: 5,782

Author’s Note: As part of my fundraising initiative on my other blog for BLM, I stated that if a certain number was reached, I would release the first chapter of my unpublished (non-fanfic) novel. Since this amount was reached, here it is! This is only the first chapter and I do not plan on releasing more on this website. Know that this fight is not over and we still have tons of work to do. If you can still donate, please do so. If you’re living in the US, ensure you’re registered to vote at TurboVote.Org.

More information about this world / my novel can be found here on my page.

Those who frequented the gambling dens of Kebasa had a saying they told to anyone who would listen; the most fruitful of grounds often bore the most teeth.

The saying was old, stemming from the antewalk, an animal known equally for its migratory patterns as a distinct lack of self-preservation. There was a game amongst children named after the animal in which the smallest of them attempted to cross a field before they could be tagged by the larger, faster children. If they were tagged, they were considered out.

The game was cruel by nature but then again, most things were cruel by nature. Every summer, the antewalk migrated to their northern breeding grounds through the Beir Mountains. If any place could be described as ‘having teeth,’ the Beir range was a natural contender.

Spiders as large as a person’s fist dangled from shoddy webs, draped across caves which housed the fearsome gargantum – a predator as feared as death itself, whose jaws could easily snap a cougar in half. Snakes the size of tree trunks hid in the canopy above before dropping ten feet to feast upon unsuspecting prey. Despite all these horrors, the antewalk continued to make the same journey.

To them, the potential goal of their breeding ground was worth the likely cost.

Much as those who frequented gamblers row viewed the potential for riches to be worth its likely cost – bankruptcy.

It might be worth noting that the antewalk were nearly extinct.

Regardless, the gambling dens of Kebasa drew a multitude of customers, not only its regulars who sought to turn copens to riches. The dens were famous across the vast continent of Prima – and even further than that, drawing attention past the Farephen Sea. Merchants, nobles, and paupers alike were drawn to the gamble and in this way, the dens were amongst the most diverse places on the continent.

Lounged in a seat, one leg crossed over the other, Eline considered the Merryweather laid out before her.

Contrary to its name, the Merryweather was neither a cheerful place, nor was it exposed to the elements. As far as gambling dens went, the interior was much of what Eline had come to expect – crooked tables, crooked people, and an overwhelming stench of spilled ale in between.

At a first glance, she counted seven people in the crowd who did not belong. They were easy enough to spot, once one knew what to look for. Although Eline herself was not Kebasan, she blended in as though she might have been. Her gaze lingered near the bar, assessing a lone, pockmarked youth who glanced longingly at the door. Likely, someone had said this would be the easiest way to escape in case of an emergency.

Utter nonsense. Once a person entered the den, the only way out was further in.

Uncrossing both legs, Eline returned to her game. Casually, she tossed a gold coin on the table.

“Jinn,” she declared.

Murmurs of outrage rippled around the table – to Eline’s right a man growled, not bothering to conceal his state of frustration. The move was a provocative one, to be sure. Scarab was a game designed to confuse its own players, an eclectic combination of dice, cards, and boldfaced lying. It took several years to become proficient but luckily, Eline had learned the game from the best.

Jinn was a give me command. A player could use it only once per game, but once declared, all players were required to increase their bet or exit the table. By using it when she did, Eline had raised the game not by a copen – which was traditional – but by an entire talir. Such riches would have bought the very table they sat at.

“That’s not fair,” grumbled the man to her right. He spoke around the toothpick which dangled precariously from his lip. “Copen’s the norm.”

“It may be the norm, by my move wasn’t illegal.” Eline spoke with great boredom, as though the entire conversation were below her pay grade. “What’s the matter, Revani? Not good for the money?”

The man beside her started, not having expected her to know him by name.

Eline was no fool. She did careful research before deciding to enter any given situation; this was the main way she ensured she only walked into situations she could walk away of. Not everyone was as careful as Eline, but then, not everyone was as successful as her either.

Revani scowled and removed his toothpick. Much to Eline’s utter disgust, he placed this on the table beside her palm.

“I’m in,” he declared, tossing down a gold coin.

The hair beneath his cap could have been either blonde or brown; it was difficult to tell through its matted mess. The clothing he wore gave nothing away either; plain, loose fabric designed to resist the sweltering heat of Kebasa. The only hint of his heritage were his eyes, which were blue. Only certain parts of the southern Kingdom of Sur claimed such a color.

After much hemming and hawing, another two players tossed their coins down. The rest pushed back their chairs, scraping the floorboards, and casting annoyed glances at Eline.

Beneath her crimson hood, she tried not to smile.

Only four players remained: a more manageable number. A lucky number as well, according to Surnese superstition. Eline was not the type who subscribed to good fortune, but when she did, she found the Surnese gods to be most obliging.

Stretching, Revani extended both arms overhead to reveal a wrist tattoo. Foolish of him to flash his crew’s sign so carelessly since it was not the same colors as those of the Merryweather. Men had gotten killed for less than gambling on other crews’ turfs.

He was not the only player Eline knew at the table. To her left was a man who called himself Lorcin and directly across from them were two called Copper and Jo. Those two seemed to move as a team, one of them shifting when the other went still, and vice versa. Eline wondered if they behaved like this always, or only when they felt they were cornered.

Eline was the only woman at the table, although this was to be expected. Many nations and Kingdoms underestimated womenkind. Eline supposed she could not be perturbed by this fact, since it meant those same people underestimated her, as well.

In her line of work, underestimation was a valuable tool.

Lowering her gaze, Eline looked once more her cards. They were not terrible, but neither were they a winning hand. This fact did not bother her since the prize Eline sought was not a singular card game. No, her quarry was far more valuable than that.

Thumbing the sharp edge of her deck, Eline sighed. “Are you going to take your turn, Jo?” she asked, looking up. “Or will we all die of old age before you realize you’ve lost.”

A low chuckle rose from the other men at the table.

Jo – a man whose mustache was the most defining thing about him – scowled. “Don’t know why you’re trying to rush things, ma’am. Scarab is a game best savored, not swallowed.” He paused, allowing a smirk. “I’d imagine you know a thing or two about that.”

How clever; a reference to Eline’s assumed sexuality. She’d dealt with far worse jibes in her lifetime though and so, she ignored him and awaited his next move.

Copper nearly choked at the remark, forcing Jo to reach over and pound him on the back. Eline tried not roll her eyes at this, although it was hard.

Ko women were not known for being overly revealing and this was Eline’s chosen character for the night. Beneath her bright cloak, she wore simple merchant’s clothing from Ko, a distant Kingdom across the Farephen sea.

It was one of Eline’s preferred disguises; it was infinitely easier to pretend she hailed from Ko than say, one of the northern lands, like Dagmari. Dagmari women all had skin the color of the bone underneath, with copper-colored hair distinctive on every continent. Their accent alone was difficult to emulate, full of clipped consonants and elongated vowels.

At least Ko women had dark hair, even if their eyes were known to be golden, not silver. No Kingdom on any continent was known for silver eyes though, and so in this, Eline remained squarely out of luck.

Whenever someone asked about the unusual color, Eline would brush it aside and claim bastard parentage. Likely this was true, but she had no way of knowing for sure.

Exhaling loudly, Jo reached for the dice.

His resulting throw was not favorable and based on his sour expression, Eline assumed his cards to be no good. Ruling him out as competition, she moved her attention to the other men at the table.

Twisting around in his seat, Revani flagged a passing waitress. “More ale,” he instructed before turning back. Glancing in Eline’s direction, he offered a wicked smile. “What about you, Lady? Care to partake?”

The word Lady was mocking and belied his nation of origin. Although the three Kingdoms of Prima were monarchies, Kebasa was run by wealthy merchants, Nitenbeir was militaristic and only Sur had retained the notion of nobility – in more ways than one.

The use of Lady indicated Revani hailed from the south, although none of their renowned education seemed to have stuck. From where she was sitting, Eline could see his whole cards, and they were not particularly good ones.

“Thank you, but no,” she declined. “I prefer to keep my wits about me when I play.”

Revani’s upper lip curled. “Ah. Womanly concerns.”

“I’d imagine so,” Eline said. “As one must first possess wit in order to be concerned about losing it.”

Revani’s cheeks reddened, his entire expression darkening as Lorcin released a chuckle. He had been the quietest at the table so far and thus, was the only one Eline judged as true competition.

Shooting her a bemused look, Lorcin crossed both his feet at the ankles. Based solely on appearance, Eline assumed him to be from either Nitenbeir or Dagmari. Both were northern Kingdoms, so the complexions were similar, although neither wore their hair in the way Lorcin did – long and unbound, hung nearly to his waist.

He kept one hand beneath the table to conceal his cards from view; the other lay casually beside his untouched wine. Smart, to blend in while keeping his head clear.

Copper laughed, the joke just catching up to him. “A clever tongue,” he said, reaching to pick up his dice. “That’s a shame. Isn’t it a pity when women are clever?”

“It is at that.” Revani accepted the flagon he had ordered. “Clever women always get themselves into trouble.”

Outwardly, Eline betrayed no reaction but inwardly, she burned. What she would not give to have these men know her true wrath; to let them know exactly who she was and what she was capable of.

She knew if these men only knew her other name – if anyone in this establishment so much as whispered the word Umbra – it would make them shake in her boots and yet, here she sat and pretended to smile. To reveal who she was meant losing the upper hand, and in Scarab – as in life – having the upper hand was tantamount to winning.

“Indeed,” Eline said. “Clever women often make men uncomfortable. I imagine those without beauty are often discomforted to find it has a voice.”

Lorcin burst out into laughter as Revani’s scowl deepened.

Eline imagined that under different circumstances, she might have been able to enjoy Lorcin’s presence – a pity then, that her line of work failed to leave time for meaningful connections.

In the corner of her gaze, she saw the door to the Merryweather swing inward, allowing balmy, summer air to escape from the street.

“Shut the door!” someone called from the closest table.

All the gambling dens of Kebasa were housed belowground. This allowed for the coolest environment, since Kebasa was a desert city half as often as it was mountainous. A narrow staircase at the front led to the street; a purposeful decision to restrict entrance or exit.

In Ko, humidity and high waters made underground enclosures impossible. There, gambling dens were tied together like rafts, bobbing in sea at the ends of each dock. Eline disliked these types of places; the small amount of time she had spent in Ko was enough for her to realize she despised the ocean.

With the entrance of Kebasa’s heat came an actual person – several people actually, each one climbing down from the mouth of the alley. This was not unusual; men rarely chose to gamble alone. What was unusual was the way they all gripped the balustrade, as though uncertain whether the stairs could support all their weight.

Eline hid her smile. Make that ten men in the Merryweather who did not belong.

At least the first two men tried to blend in. They wore breathable fabric paired with the colorful vests preferred by Kebasa’s working class. Of course, most Kebasans wouldn’t wear such attire to a gambling den. Bright clothing was how one got noticed; it ensured one’s memorability and most who visited the dens preferred to remain anonymous.

The last man through the door didn’t even bother with a vest, though. His back stayed straight as he entered, steadily scanning the premises with an air of disgust. His distinguished sideburns marked him as a high-ranking citizen of Nitenbeir, as did the thin sword he had buckled around his waist. A rapier, much preferred amongst the dueling sort of men. Eline had always found the weapon rather silly, preferring instead the flexibility of her short sword.

It was the scar though, burnt into the side of his neck, which revealed who he was.

As far as legends went, General Marksam was known across the whole continent. He had been captured in his youth by Dagmari forces, held for twenty days and twenty nights until he escaped by fashioning a knife from his spoon to kill two guards through the door of his cell. That had been years ago, but the man’s name remained feared across Prima.

Nitenbeir nobility was strange; they dressed in severe cuts and sharp lines, as though to emulate their method of thinking. It was surprising to see one Nitenbeiran in a gambling den, let alone two, but Eline had been certain Marksam would appear tonight.

It was rumored the General had a fondness for gambling, which was something his Kingdom frowned upon – at least they did in theory. It was the Nitenbeir way to present no external weakness, but to privately indulge if they wished. Whenever Marksam traveled, he was known to clean out a tavern or two.

The Merryweather had a reputation as the highest of stakes, the most varied clientele, and a mostly discrete owner – for the right price, of course. Travelers had recently swelled Kebasa’s town limits for the summer solstice festival; Marksam was merely one amongst the many. It was the perfect opportunity for him to slip away, get his gambling fix and return before he was noticed missing.

Their group were stopped just inside the entrance, searched, and ordered to hand over their weapons. Marksam looked as though he argued with the bouncer, pointing at something on his chest which might have been a medal. He should have saved his breath for how much he succeeded. Eventually, Marksam handed over his sword, as Eline knew he would.

The rules of the Merryweather were simple – disarm, or don’t play.

Of course, the bouncers did need to find your weapons in order to remove them.

This was something of a game to the locals but people like Marksam were obviously unaware of the rules. It was proper in Nitenbeir for a General to wear their sword at their waist. The gesture was intended to show discipline, decorum and had absolutely no place on gambler’s row.

Swords around here came for their target in night, cloaked with darkness and ill-intent. It didn’t matter if a person showed their sword when one couldn’t be certain what they hid behind their opponent’s vest.

Shifting her weight, Eline stretched her toes against the worn pad of her boot. There were several knives concealed on her frame, since Eline had been forced to leave her short sword at home. One knife was hidden in the sole of her boot, another in its lining and a third strapped to the inside of her thigh.

The key to remaining armed in the Merryweather was to look unimportant. Marksam was obviously unaware of this lesson.

Flapping his coat out behind him, Marksam gingerly sat upon a rounded stool in the corner. His table was closer to the front than Eline’s – which meant the stakes of his table were lower and his game was considered easier. Eline assumed he would move further back over the course of the night; men like him were rarely satisfied with a cheap thrill.

His back faced the door – again, not what Eline would have done. His two comrades seemed to be smarter; they faced the only entrance, keeping careful watch on whoever walked through the door. Eline could only assume Marksam had hired them because they were more familiar with the gambling dens than he was.

Smart of him to seek out their guidance. Stupid of him not to listen.

Returning her attention to her own game, Eline scanned the table before her. While she had been distracted, Jo had backed himself into a corner. Only she, Lorcin, Revani and Copper remained as contenders.

Scowling, Jo threw his cards down to stand. “I’m out,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “May your pockets stay strong.”

Another idiom; this one easier to discern, if no longer applicable. Back when Kebasa was barely a town, trade was exchanged using gemstones as currency. The stones were so ubiquitous to its natives, legends stated they didn’t know their true value until neighbors from Nitenbeir and Sur reached them across the Imir desert. That was when Kebasa began to blossom as a Kingdom and eventually, coins came to replace gemstones as currency.

While in use though, the gemstones had been heavy and to have sturdy pockets meant you had been blessed with good fortune.

Downing the rest of his ale, Jo slammed his glass on the table and stalked towards the bar. The same pockmarked youth Eline had noticed remained slouched in its corner; Jo squeezed in beside him to order another round.

Revani added a second gold coin to the pile. “And what of that, Lady?” he asked, leaning back. “Are you good for it?”

He mimicked her words from earlier. Eyes narrowed, Eline moved to respond but before she could speak, there came a shout from the bar.

“Thief!” The pockmarked boy pointed, wide-eyed, at the door. “THIEF!”

The response around the room was instantaneous.

Jumping up from their table in the corner, both bouncers rushed towards the rickety stairs. Alertness swept through the crowd, jumping from table to table as players craned their necks to look. Many did not seem to care – they had already bet their livelihoods on the games – but many more flinched and scrambled for their purses.

Including Marksam, who instinctively clutched his right pocket – after patting it once, he exhaled and let go.

Hiding her smile, Eline returned to her cards. Fool.

“In,” she declared and added a coin.

Lorcin increased the pile without comment, throwing his dice and losing his next turn. Copper took up the dice and shook, glancing up at the ceiling before rolling a sixteen.

His smile broadened. “Reveal.”

Groaning out loud, Revani slouched in his seat.

The rules of Scarab were complicated, but the final player in any increase round had the opportunity to roll to end the game if they desired. Copper had rolled high enough to do just that, which meant the rest of the table was forced to lay down their cards.

Eline kept her face casual as Lorcin revealed his hand to be better than hers – better than anyone else at the table, including Copper, who looked a bit green as he stared.

Placing her cards down, Eline revealed her hand to be slightly lower than Lorcin’s. Revani’s was worst, but Eline had already known that before he revealed them. His cards held no coherent order, almost as though he had never played the game before, nor learned what it was. Eline idly wondered how he had gotten a seat at their table. Probably money.

“I need another drink,” declared Copper, standing up from his chair.

He wandered over to Jo, who still stood at the bar. The youth who had yelled thief was nowhere to be found, likely scared off by the events of the night.

Undisturbed by his loss, Revani spread his legs wider. “Care to play again, Lorcin? Or you, Lady?” he added, shooting Eline a smirk. “I would have the chance to redeem myself.”

Eline pushed her chair back. “Unfortunately,” she said, gathering her coins. “Redemption is not something I’m in the habit of giving.”

Scanning the den, she drew her cloak tight and wondered where to go next. There was no purpose to her cloak’s color other than to be remembered. At the end of the night, she wanted her face to be paired with this cloak in the den’s memory.

“I agree with the lady,” Lorcin said, also standing. “Best to quit while ahead.”

“Nitenbeirans.” Revani sighed and rolled his neck. “All of them the same. So meticulously practical. Very well,” he said, glancing past them to where multiple players had lined up on the wall. “Which of you wants to try their hand?”

Several rushed forward, eager to take their departed seats and Eline slipped past them, unnoticed.

The den was more crowded than when she had first entered, the dense scent of sweat and alcohol hanging low overhead. Elin scanned the room as she walked, coming to a stop beside the wooden bar. Drinks stained its surface, blending into the varnish until it seemed part of its décor.

In the corner of her eye, she saw Marksam stand from his seat. One hand splayed to the table, he questioned his players and glanced away from the entrance.

There were several halls which led from the back of the Merryweather. One of them ended in a stairwell which climbed to other floors of the building. As it was with the rest of gambler’s row, the Merryweather was not only a place in which to take bets. Its owner, Ren Drago, dabbled in various illicit activities throughout Kebasa; the main floor was merely the tip of the iceberg.

Marksam nodded at whatever his table said, turning around to disappear into the crowd. Eline’s gaze followed him to the back where he entered a hallway marked with a green arrow. Its interior was dimly lit, she could barely see his cloak whipping around the cramped corner.

Eline waited a moment, then slipped behind a group of players to remove her cloak and pull it on inside-out. The other side was dark, a coarser material not unlike that of the other gambling patrons. Lowering the hood, she moved out from the men who hid her from view.

Anyone who saw her would fail to place her as the gambler in red. Another trick from the thieves’ manual – create a memorable character, then become someone else. No one followed Eline as she moved towards the same back hall, which meant no one would remember her as the person Marksam encountered.

He was not difficult to spot once Eline reached the hall. He stood out even amongst the shadows, glancing about him with a puzzled look on his face. It seemed not even the advice of his table had been enough to locate the washroom.

Eline paused before entering, reaching out to puck a flagon of ale from a table. Adopting an intoxicated swagger, she raised the cup to her lips as she pretended to drink.

The light from a singular gas lamp dimmed when she passed, the hood of her cloak blocking out most illumination. Said lamp swung from above her, attached to the weathered ceiling; all sconces in the hall had been pilfered, their metal likely stolen and sold to melt down into wares.

Hearing Eline’s approach, Marksam turned his head. Giving her a swift once-over, he apparently decided she was harmless and lifted a hand.

“You there!” he called out. “Madam.”

As though surprised by the address, Eline stumbled for some of her ale to slosh towards the ground.

Nose wrinkled, Marksam drew back as though he could smell the imaginary alcohol on her breath. Eline noticed he didn’t seem to be drunk – at least one of the Nitenbeiran principles had rubbed off on him. It meant he would be more aware though, which made this transaction dangerous.

“Are you familiar with this establishment?” Marksam’s other palm rested upon the hilt of his rapier. “Do you happen to know where one might relieve oneself?”

“Establishment?” Laying the Ko accent on thick, Eline came to a stop. “You’re out of your depths, soldier,” she laughed, ending the word with a hiccup. “This here’s no establishment, it’s a right pigsty.”

Marksam’s eyes narrowed at the title she gave him.

Nitenbeir social hierarchy was based upon military rank. Their system was complicated – overly so, in Eline’s opinion – but based on his attire, Marksam could be identified as at least a General. Calling him a soldier was an insult; one strong enough that in Nitenbeir he wouldn’t have been remotely out of line in challenging her to a duel.

And they had the nerve to call other Kingdoms savages.

“Regardless of where you think I belong,” he said stiffly. “I would hear your response.”

Lifting her drink, Eline’s hand trembled, more ale sloshing over the rim. “You would hear my response?” she mocked, mimicking his imperious tone. “Most people just piss down that hall to the left, I guess. That’s if they even bother to – ah!” she blurted, spilling the flagon down his front.

Marksam swore and jumped back, but the damage had been done. Brownish-gold liquid dribbled down his front of his shirt, seeping to stain the white silk underneath.

“S-sorry,” Eline stuttered, blinking at him in horror.

Marksam froze for a moment, staring stunned at his shirt. Slowly, his gaze lifted to hers. “You… vermin,” he hissed and lunged forward.

Eline cowered away from him, her right shoulder hitting the wall as she tripped on the end of her cloak. She cut a pitiful figure in the dark of the hall, both hands lifted as Marksam reached for his sword. Here he hesitated, chest heaving while he considered the pathetic figure before him. Eline worked to make herself seem smaller, hunching both shoulders as she stared at the ground.

At last the image seemed to work, since Marksam slowly exhaled and slid his sword in its sheath.

“Bah,” he grumbled, shoving past. “Filthy urchin. Not worth my trouble.”

Eline let herself be pushed, briefly gripping his cloak to steady herself – and then he was gone, disappeared around the corner. He left not in the direction of the gambling floor, but to the left, deeper into the den in search of a washroom.

As soon as he was gone, Eline straightened.

Trying not to smile, she slipped her hand into her pocket and ran the tip of her finger along the edge of a key. Here, at last, was her true prize for the evening. The entirety of the wealth played in the front room barely held a candle to the key inside her pocket.

It was one of twenty keys distributed by King Tulen himself, the ruler and monarch of the Kingdom of Kebasa. Each key granted entrance to the most exclusive level of the summer solstice festival; the highborn, an ongoing celebration to which only twenty people could enter at one time.

Eline had a buyer who wanted a key.

What her buyer needed it for, she did not dare ask, nor did she care. Eline had a job to do and that was all that mattered. After all, she more than anyone understood people often did desperate things in desperate situations.

Marksam was one of twenty individuals who had been granted a key. Each Kingdom on the continent usually received two or three to distribute. Marksam was considered important enough in Nitenbeir that the King had sent him in his place.

While Marksam had been distracted by the drink she spilled, Eline had dipped a hand in his pocket and pilfered his key – the very same pocket he had patted when the pockmarked youth at the bar had yelled thief earlier.

Yet another thief’s trick, and a widely effective one.

When a reasonable person heard the word thief, they immediately reached to protect their valuables. Of course, if another person – say, Eline – were also watching, said person would give away where they were keeping their valuables. All it took was a little distraction to ensure Eline stole the key out from under his nose.

She made a mental note to pay Jaspin, the pockmarked youth, double tomorrow for a job well-done.

Turning around, she strode down the corridor. At the crossway she turned in the opposite direction of Marksam. It would be a while before he returned from that particular hallway. Eline had purposefully sent him in that direction, since the corridor housed the back rooms where private games were held.

If no one stabbed Marksam as soon as he entered, it would take him a while to explain his mistake. Once he did, Eline would be long gone.

Paused at what seemed like a dead end, Eline came to a stop and lowered her hood.

Glancing above, she scanned the long grate in the ceiling – another common design on gambler’s row. Although there was only one way inside the den from the street, there existed another way out from the back.

It would be inconvenient for a den’s owner to barricade themselves in, along with anyone else they wished to trap. As a precautionary measure, most buildings housed a special exit: a crawl space between the first and second floors, just large enough for a person to move through while escaping to the next alley.

Glancing over her shoulder, Eline ensured no one was watching and backed up a few steps.

Bending both legs, she leapt to grab hold of a stone jutting out from the wall. Using the smaller crevices as handholds, she swiftly climbed to reach the ceiling above. Positioning her weight evenly on all limbs, Eline reached above to loosen the grate and push.

It clattered off to one side – frozen, Eline waited, but no one seemed to have heard. Re-gripping the grate, Eline swung her legs upwards and launched herself into the hole. Once inside the crawlspace, she carefully repositioned the grate in the floor.

Crouched to the ground, Eline examined her surroundings.

The space around her was dusty, as though no one had used the corridor in quite some time. Eline suspected this was the case; Ren Drago, the owner of the Merryweather, was amongst the most feared men in Kebasa. To break a rule in his establishment usually meant you’d break something else. There were not many a man like Ren would feel the need to escape from.

Not wasting any time, Eline began to move, carefully positioning her weight so she failed to make noise. It was unlikely anyone would think to look for her here, since the actual entrance to the crawl space was on the second floor, but it was better to be careful than dead.

At the end of the tunnel, Eline pulled a knife from her boot and went to work on the grate. Twisting the screws one by one, she calculated how much time had passed since she left Marksam alone. It wouldn’t be long before he returned – if she were lucky, he wouldn’t notice the missing key until he returned to his lodgings.

Removing the final screw from the grate, Eline jiggled it free from the wall. She hesitated a moment, listening to the sounds of the alley below.

Nothing unusual.

Setting the steel grate aside, Eline leaned out of the opening to glance at the ground. Nose wrinkled, she sighed. The grate emptied into an alleyway behind a butcher shop. Scraps of days-old meat were piled below, their blood trickling slowly to join through the cobblestones.

At least the meat would offer her a soft landing. Swinging both legs aloft, Eline held her breath as she dropped down from the ledge. For most people, this would have been a difficult task, but these kinds of feats had always come easily for Eline.

Straightening from her crouch, Eline immediately strode in the opposite direction of gambler’s row. Her footsteps were muffled, thanks to special boots Eline had designed herself.

Even if the alleyway was quiet, the city around her was not – each distant yell of laughter sounded at once too far and too loud. The dense, squatted buildings forced Eline to imagine she saw shapes in the shadows.

One hand drifted towards her belt as she walked; a pointless reflex, since her short sword remained at her lodgings, but she still found it comforting.

It would have been suspicious for her to run from gambler’s row, so Eline forced herself to calmly walk on. Each muscle in her body strained against instinct, yearning to be free now that the job was complete. All that was left was dropping key in its preassigned destination, collecting her money, and washing her mind of the memory.

Eline was good at that.

She was good at forgetting what she needed to forget, unseeing what she needed to unsee. It was why she made such a good thief, as her mentor once said. Eline could compartmentalize her soul in ways few even dreamed of and even while distracted, her senses remained intact.

It was how Eline heard the moment someone turned down the alley, their footsteps echoing hers around the sound of leaking pipes. Tilting her head, she listened as she walked, her stride never breaking as she pretended not to hear.

When the footsteps were barely a pace away, she exhaled and turned, yanking a knife from her belt.

Her blade was met with another, aimed directly at her heart.

The man on the other end of the sword smiled, his face hidden by shadow. “The famous Umbra,” he said, inclining his head. “I’ve been searching for you.”

#writeblr #fantasy #sci-fi #writing

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thenakedgingerwrites · 5 years ago

Text

Would You Rather [Chapter 1]

The guys laughed at my addition to game night but were, at minimum, sarcastically supportive to try. The weekly ritual of me and a couple of my friends from work consisted of beer and board games every Thursday.

Matt and Jim both worked on my team, sort of, while John was our boss’s peer. Honestly having John invited to these probably wasn’t the most ‘ethical’ thing but we all genuinely enjoyed each others’ company and all loved games. I didn’t think John’s presence would be an issue and it hadn’t been.

Oh, and me, Kyle.

Sometimes another guy, Robert, came but he was spotty. He worked near us but was usually busy with something or another. Tonight it was just the four of us.

The game I found was from one of my favorite online board game stores and included very little in the box. There was, believe it or not, a DVD for the instructions, some stacks of paper and pencils, what looked to be a scorecard for up to 8 players, and a baggie of different board game pieces (dice, little colored squares, some coins, and other loose garbage). Online it had pretty good reviews and promised to be a unique experience unlike any other.

So after the laughter of the DVD instructions and clear scam I submitted to, we popped over to the living room and put the disc into my xBox. Man was this video old. It looked like a DVD copy of an early 90’s VHS.

A man came on screen and welcomed us to the game of “Would You Rather?” I had personally played a game by the same name where you had to guess what the other players would answer. It was a cute quick game that spawned good conversation. I assumed this would be similar.

As the host went on, I started to feel a little tired. Long day at the office I suppose. I accidentally dropped my head for a second but came too quickly just as he got to the rules of the game.

“Each player should write 2 options on a piece of paper for another player to choose from. That player will then have to choose to do one of the options or lose a point. Each player starts with 3 points and the last player standing is the winner.

Please pause the video now and have each player write a card for each other player. Resume the video once that is complete.”

Matt asked, “So I write one option per paper?”

“No,” John answered. “I think you write both options on a single sheet and then do the same for two other sheets. So you have a ‘would you rather’ question for each person.” “Oh, got it.” Matt looked up to the ceiling and scrunched his face while thinking of his options.

I added a bit of my strategy out loud, “So, I want you guys to pass on these right? That’s how you lose points.”

“Oh, yeah,” Jim confirmed. “I guess they should be pretty hard then.”

“Well that’s pretty easy then, right?” Matt asked. “I’ll just make you get naked.”

“And who said I wouldn’t do that?” Jim joked.

The guys were all straight, to my knowledge. Maybe bi, who knows. Each of them were married though with kids, except Robert who wasn’t here. I myself was gay and I think they knew it but we never really talked about it. The idea of any of them getting naked was kind of hot I had to admit.

Matt was pretty short but proportioned so nicely. I found myself staring at his butt through the week. Jim was like the complete opposite: a walking bear. Probably 6’5” and big all-around. I’d be lying if I didn’t secretly wonder if everything was big. John was the oldest in the group, maybe late 40s, but in great shape for his age. He had started to get some salt in his dark hair the past couple years and it suited him well. I, myself, was pretty average across the board. I kept in shape but mainly due to diet. I only hit the gym a couple times a week at best.

Back to the game.

I scribbled down some would you rathers that were pretty tame; mostly embarrassing stuff even though I would have loved to write out explicit acts. I didn’t want to weird anyone out.

When we had finished writing ours down, we put them face-down in front of us. Matt and Jim had been snickering the entire time. I pressed play on the video to figure out more specifics on the rules.

“Ready to continue and start the game? Good! Don’t turn away and keep watching and listening to me. You may not have known, but you’ve been hypnotized from an earlier part of this video. Sorry about that, but we found it to be a much more exciting game this way.”

What the fuck, I thought. I wanted to turn to see the other guys’ reaction but I couldn’t stop looking at the screen. I couldn’t even speak.

“The game will go as follows. You’ll all put your pieces of paper in a bowl or hat and take turns drawing them until all slips have been taken. Which means it’s possible to get your own card. I hope you weren’t too hard on your fellow players…

Also, there’s no opting out. Tonight is about the thrill of learning what your friends or family really would rather do. Once you read the options, you have to pick one and complete it unless physically impossible.”

What the fuck?!

“The game is over once all cards have been read. That’s it! Two final little adverts before I let you get on with your night. Firstly, once the game is over all you’ll remember is that this game was really fun, so be sure to leave us a good review online. And secondly, while leaving us a good review, check out our other selection of amazing games for your next party.

And with that, this video will finish and you can begin the game. Youngest player goes first and will continue in that order. Have fun!”

Once the video ended I was back to myself but we all exclaimed the same things. What the fuck. What is this shit. Oh my god. Fucking fuckers. Holy fuck. Etcetera.

“Kyle, what the fuck man?! Did you know about this!?” Matt asked.

“No! Honestly! It just had good reviews so I bought it. I had no idea!”

Jim layered on, “and you didn’t think to look over the rules first before you brought us into this shit?”

“You saw me open it up with you guys! Why would I have thought this was a possibility?!”

There was clearly anger in the room. There was very little question in anyone’s mind that it was real because I’m sure everyone had tried to turn away or speak or something during that monologue and none were successful. That’s when a tingling started in my mind, forcing me towards my first move. I knew I was the youngest.

“Fuck.”

“Me too,” John said. “It’s like I’m physically getting pushed back towards the table to play.”

We all tried to fight it but couldn’t and walked back to the table with our slips of paper. I went into the kitchen to grab a popcorn bowl and brought it to the center of the table. We each threw our cards into it and I mixed them around.

“I’m so sorry guys.” Matt had anguish on his face. “I just wanted you all to pass on my cards.”

“Fuck! Same. Shit fuck fuck,” Jim said.

I mixed the cards around and pulled the first one out. It felt like I was playing Russian Roulette. I recognized Jim’s sloppy handwriting instantly and my eyes darted to him.

He just closed his eyes in shame.

“Piss your pants or put hot sauce on your dick.”

“Sorry.” Jim clearly was ashamed but I assumed we would all feel that and many other emotions tonight.

“I.. I get it. No sorries, Jim. I guess… I’d rather piss myself.” I decided to stand, for some reason. It took me like 30 seconds to start since it’s foreign to piss with your clothes still on but was finally able to let loose. The warm liquid filled around my crotch and went down my leg, darkening a path on my jeans as it went. Luckily I had gone before the guys came over but I was still one beer in and had some volume backed up.

“Not what I was hoping to do with my night but better that then getting an infection on my junk or something…” I sat back down.

We all knew each others’ ages, relatively at least, and knew that Jim was next. He scrunched his eyes, clearly not wanting to grab a slip but couldn’t really help himself. He pulled one out and yelled, “Fucking A!”

We were all silently looking at him as he read aloud, “WYR, I assume that means ‘would you rather,’” Shit, I thought. It was one of my cards. “Do a naked hula dance or eat a tub of mayonnaise.”

I think we all wanted to laugh but were all still intimidated by the night to come. I should make it clear that none of us had seen each other in any sort of undress. Matt and I went to the same gym but almost never were there at the same time and never in the locker room together.

“My answer would probably have been different, but I’m hoping the hypnosis was right and no one will remember this tomorrow… Fuck me. I’d rather do the hula fucking dance.”

Oh god! Jim was going to get naked? I honestly expected the mayonnaise, while gross, wasn’t that bad and I only had like a fourth of the container left in my fridge. It was a couple spoonfuls at best. Should I tell him?

The internal debate was immediately thrown away when he reached for the button on his jeans. He slid down his denim and then removed his shirt as well. Standing in front of me in just his boxers I was speechless. He really was bit everywhere. His gut was big and hairy, pecs were massive, shoulders, arms, legs, …bulge. I couldn’t tell too much with his semi-baggy boxers but a second later he shucked them to the ground as well.

Jim stood there covering himself with his hands with another heavy sigh. “Okay, here we go.” He raised both arms and started to do his, admittedly poor, attempt at a Hawaiian hula dance. I was curious why he didn’t keep one hand down to cover himself but perhaps it was this hypnosis shit or maybe he just didn’t think of it. Either way, I got to prove out my theory that he was indeed big everywhere.

Jim had a pretty big bush but even-so his soft cock was quite visible. I would guess 4ish inches soft and quite thick which sprung fantasies into my head about how big he would be hard. I imagined he was a grower and the impressive 4 soft inches would be a thick 8 when excited. I dreamed that I’d get the opportunity to see tonight.

He continued to sway his hips for a minute or so. His cock and hefty balls swinging back and forth as he did. I couldn’t turn away, for obvious reasons, but could tell the other guys were also watching intently. I’m positive they’re straight so I chalked it up again to the hypnosis power. Maybe we had to look? Maybe we had to do a lot of things the announcer didn’t make clear to us? The excitement was constantly rimmed with fear in my mind.

And like that, Jim declared he was finished, and turned around to dress. I got to see his ripe ass as well which was a wonderful, hairy treat.

“Nice moves, Jimbo,” John said with a smile.

“Haha, ass.” Jim said as he finished putting his shirt on. “I figure you guys won’t remember so why not? And I know Matty’s been wanting to see my big ol’ dick for a while now.”

“Shut up, Jim.” Matt wasn’t enthused. Maybe because it was his turn.

Without much ceremony or grandeur he reached in and grabbed a slip of paper and started to curse under his breath. “It’s one of my own damn submissions.”

John said, “Well isn’t that the best? I’d personally rather get all my own so no one else has to do what I wrote.”

“Yeah well John, I’m a fucking asshole who wanted you all to lose.”

It was true that Matt was the most competitive. Maybe it was a size thing, but he was always very competitive in all the games we played even if they were co-op.

“Would you rather suck everyone’s dick or send everyone at work a dick pic?”

“Oh…” John said.

“Yeah. Fuck me ‘oh’.” Matt wasn’t happy at all and I knew why. While our memories would hopefully be wiped clear from the night if he sent out a picture of his dick to everyone at work that would certainly be there tomorrow and would likely result in him getting fired or in the BEST case he’d get a huge warning and everyone would have a picture of his dick.

“At least you won’t remember?” Jim tried to cheer him up.

“Hard to find the silver lining in that with three dicks in my mouth, you dick.”

“Hey, you wrote it you dingus. Don’t get angry at us.”

“Fuuuuuuuck.” I could tell he wasn’t happy and was fighting it but whatever power this game had over us couldn’t be stopped and would push you towards the choice. “Get your fucking dick out, Jim.”

“Me first? Why?”

“Because you’re right next to me and I don’t fucking know or care. I just want to get this out of the way.”

Jim didn’t really protest further since it would be each of us one way or another. He unzipped his pants and lifted his butt off his chair to pull them and his underwear down a bit under his balls. He was still soft but did look a bit bigger than a minute ago.

“What if I can’t get hard?” he asked.

I answered, for some reason, “Something tells me the hypnosis will ensure we all cooperate.”

Matt got down off his chair and moved between Jim’s legs. His head actually blocked my view which frustrated me. I wanted to move around to watch but since John wasn’t moving I figured the urge was my own gay ones vs. the game. And if he was staying put I should too.

“Fuck me,” was the last thing Matt said before leaning in and taking Jim into his mouth. Jim let a little ‘ohh’ out immediately but then just leaned his head back. The sounds of a sloppy blowjob were obvious but at least Matt was using a lot of saliva. I really wish I could have watched the action. By Matt’s head bobs I’d assume he was only going down maybe 3-4 inches but was that because it was all he could take or because that’s all there was? Was Jim even hard yet?

Two minutes went by with just the sound of a wet blowjob and occasional moans from Jim. I was painfully hard and afraid that would be too ‘gay’ once it became my turn. Suddenly Jim shot his head back forward and looked down at Matt.

“Matt, I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna cum.”

Matt didn’t stop. I’m positive it was the hypnosis because there’s no way he would swallow but I guess the blow job was inferred to be ‘to completion’ mixed with ‘spitters are quitters.’

“Fuck.. ah fuck. FUUUCK!” Jim clearly shot into Matt’s mouth. Matt continued to bob during Jim’s sensitive eruption which lead to Jim’s body just convulsing. He didn’t push Matt off and instead rode with the waves of euphoria and climax.

It wasn’t until Jim’s convulsions stopped that Matt withdrew himself from Jim’s cock. “This is so fucking gross,” was all he said as he crawled under the table. That’s when I got to see Jim’s cock. Probably deflated a bit but still hard from the BJ he had just gotten, glistening with spit and remnants of his own semen. I was pretty spot on with my estimate. He was as thick as I expected and probably just shy of 8 inches now. His balls were pulled tight against his body still as he breathed heavily, eyes closed.

That’s when I noticed Matt’s hands on John’s leg. “Okay, dick hole, get your dick out.”

John obliged but stood up to undo his belt and jeans. He slid everything all the way down to his ankles and, most surprisingly, took off his shirt. “You don’t have to get naked, man!” Matt said.

“I know, but I like being naked when I get my dick sucked, you cocksucker.” He winked at Matt as he sat back down but I wasn’t really paying attention to their words. Sitting next to me, I could see all of John’s body for the first time in my life.

He was probably the most-fit out of all us. His body hair was limited but in all the right spots. Hairy pecs, a treasure trail that turned thicker as it roped down his torso, and a manicured bush highlighting a beautiful package. Nothing about John’s cock or balls was exceptional in dimension but man was it a good-looking dick. It was like what a well sculpted, realistic dildo would look like. I did notice that he shaved his balls though. John clearly took care of himself even now into his 40s, married, with 3 kids.

The other thing, of note, was that John was already rock hard. Perhaps it was the hypnosis or perhaps John was a bit more experimental than I thought. Either way, he was ready for Matt and Matt wasn’t enthused. I’m sure he wouldn’t be enthused either way though.

I won’t bore you with the struggles of a straight guy giving a blow job but in short, he couldn’t fit much in. The 3-4 inches was all Matt was capable of taking which is probably pretty good for a guy that’s never had a dick near his face, I assume.

While Matt sucked, John played with his own nipples. He moaned a lot more than Jim and even encouraged him by name. John wasn’t living in a fantasy, picturing his wife or something, he was living in the moment.

“Oh, fuck yeah Matt. Suck my cock. Mmmm, you’re so good at his man. That feels so good, Matt.”

I looked over to Jim quickly. He had put his cock away but his hand happened to be covering his clothed cock. Was he getting hard again? He was certainly watching the show.

The blowjob went on for probably three minutes before John placed a hand behind Matt’s head. “Here it comes, Matt. You’re gonna make me blow.”

In response Matt just greedily sucked, forced to give the best blowjob he could. John’s stomach tightened up and his balls retracted as he came. Based on his own convulsions I imagine he shot 5-6 ropes into Matt’s mouth. Unfortunately, since Matt doesn’t know how to deep throat he got to taste all of John’s spunk on his tongue before swallowing. Maybe I should teach him sometime, I joked to myself.

Then fear.

I just realized it meant it was about to be my turn and the embarrassment crept up on me. Sure, they hopefully wouldn’t remember any of this tomorrow but how could I not still feel ashamed. I wasn’t some sort of exhibitionist.

When Matt finally let John’s cock out of his mouth John made no effort to redress. He just sat there, naked and still hard, looking over at me. “Your turn, buddy.”

Matt didn’t even have words at this point. He actually started to unbutton my jeans for me! They were still wet from my piss but cold and kind of gross to peel off. I decided, like John, to just remove them all-together with my underwear. I kept my shirt on but it felt much better to be without bottoms.

Matt looked at my dick, then up at me. My cock was pretty good. About 7 inches and average thickness? Maybe a hair thinner than average if I’m honest with myself but I like the shape. Straight as an arrow, unlike me.

While looking at me, Matt placed the head of my dick into his mouth. I was pleasantly surprised that Matt didn’t use any teeth. He still didn’t take much in but it really wasn’t a bad blowjob. Then again a warm mouth feels pretty good on your dick no matter what.

Perhaps due to the practice or maybe the hypnosis, Matt got a bit more into it. One hand rested on my thigh, massaging it lightly, while the other grasped me around my base. He started to jack me off a bit while he blew me. He probably just wanted me to finish quicker, actually.

Lucky for him, I did. Partly because it was a good blowjob but more-so fueled by the facts of what just transpired over the past 10 minutes I was ready to go. He maybe blew me for a minute before I shot. I’m not even going to feign embarrassment at that.

I may be relatively average on most things but I know that my dick is a bit above average length and I know I shoot well above-average. Typically I edge for a while before shooting which helps but even in my quick jack-off sessions I drench the toilet paper I use to clean up. Poor Matt had to swallow probably two tablespoons of my jiz and swallow he did. Even a bit leaked out of his mouth and when he unsheathed me from his lips he licked it up. Man was he committed.

I looked over at John after my climax and he was still naked, and still hard. Following his suit, I opted to stay naked mainly because the alternative was to put on wet, cold jeans. Instead I just scooted in further to the table to hide my own non-ceasing erection.

“So.. um,” John said.

“Please. I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to get this over with,” Matt said, back in his chair.

“I was just going to thank you, but fair enough. I guess it’s my turn then.”

John reached in and grabbed a slip. “Run to the end of the street naked or ask the neighbor for a cup of sugar in your underwear.” Another one of mine.

“Well,” John said, “that’s not so bad considering.”

“You’re damn right.” Matt added.

“I think I’d rather take my chances getting spotted running down the dark sidewalk then have to face your neighbors, Kyle. Especially since I don’t think my erection’s not going away anytime soon.”

John got up and walked over towards the front door, indeed being led by his cock right out in front of him. He had a dick like mine that pointed straight out. We all followed him to the door, me covering my own erection with my shirt, poorly. We knew he’d actually do it due to the hypnosis but general curiosity and rubbernecking meant we wanted to watch to see if he’d get spotted.

It was dark but my neighborhood has street lights so his pale body was still pretty visible. John made good time bounding down the 40 or so yards to the end of my block and back. I got to see his firm, squarish ass as he ran away and his bobbing dick and he ran back. I didn’t realize how hot it would be to see a guy naked out in public.

I couldn’t be sure no one saw him but at least no one came outside to yell at him. I had a breif thought of panic that if someone called the cops what would we do? Would we be able to stop the game to answer the door? What if we got arrested without finishing? Hopefully I wouldn’t find out.

When we were all seated I congratulated John on his ‘naked mile’ and he accepted the praise, laughing it off.

“I’m not sure why you’re so happy about all this,” Matt said, agitated.

“Well. I’m still pretty sure none of us will remember this so from my eyes nothing really matters. Plus I just got a great blowjob from this amazing cock sucker.”

Matt laughed a little, “Man, shut up.”

“Really Matt. I kind of wish you’d remember tonight. You’ve got a thing for sucking dicks.”

“You’re all gay!” Matt yelled. He couldn’t help but crack a smile though.

Jim added in, “alright, let’s please finish this. Kyle, your turn.”

“I know..”

I reached into the bowl and pulled out a slip. I saw the words before I read them out loud. I looked to Matt instantly remembering his last slip and he just grimaced. It was definitely his and was going to take tonight to a whole new level.

#hypnosis #straight #aware

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mcrmadness · 4 years ago

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🌺💘🌷 GET TO KNOW YOUR MUTUALS TAG 🌷💘🌺

Rules: When you get this, it means someone wants to know more about you, so list 5 things about yourself you want your followers to know! They can be as simple as your age or as complex as your deepest fear, as long as it’s something you’re comfortable with sharing. When you’re done and if you want to, send this to 10 people you want to get to know better!

Tagged by: @cats-crushesandhistory, thank you!!! Tagging: @stufenlosregelbar, @hanhan156, @charlotte-lancer, @autumnrebel, @cupcakecurl, @lycanrvc, - six is enough for now. I’m probably forgetting about basically everyone, I literally had to go through these by letters because I can never remember anything when I should make a list and I still feel bad for not including _everyone. But I decided to include only those who I have interacted with at least a little bit - I literally don’t dare to speak to anyone unless they tell me first that I am allowed to approach them. I also did not tag anyone who I haven’t seen doing these tag games or who I don’t know if they like these or not. And all of you can also just skip this if this is not your cup of tea.

***

I can never write anything short (surprise...) so I’ll just give you a short list here and you can click the read more link and see more of my thoughs on each topic there.

I am a teetotaler and I have never even tried alcohol. I also don’t and have never smoked and I stay the f* away from drugs, too.

I love cats. Like, for real, they’re the best thing in this whole world.

I love all animals overall, and I am actually a horse groom, I have a the “Vocational Qualification in Horse Care and Management”, specializing in harness racing, and I have worked with horses for over 10 years so far.

As a kid, I was a huge dinosaur nerd and I still love them.

I love comics and I have also drawn comics since I was a kid. I still have all of my old comics saved. Lately I haven’t been drawing even nearly as much and only fanart, tho. Drawing is fun but I simultaneously love and hate it.

Lol it seems I have love for everything but humans :D:D:D:D:D:D I didn’t even realize that before making this list looooooooool XD But yeah, more rambling under the cut :D But thanks for reading, if you end up reading it.

1. I am a teetotaler and I have never even tried alcohol. I also don’t smoke (and never have) and I avoid drugs - so much so that I don’t know if getting ADHD medication would break this “rule” of mine because they are made from the same stuff as one well-known drug...

I think it started as me just being so “lawful” all the time and the legal drinking age in Finland is 18, so I wanted to follow the rules at all times so I didn’t even think about drinking before the age of 18 and I was often very much shocked by other teens who did that, and I also remember being really worried when my best friend started experimenting with alcohol as a teenager. Despite the legal drinking age being 18, basically everyone here still started (and starts?) drinking between the ages of 13 and 15. So at school, from Monday to Wednesday, all that happened was overhearing the drunk stories of other kids. And from Wednesday to Friday, it changed to them discussing their plans for the next weekend. It was like this every week. And I never could wrap my head around it (I spent my weekends at home being happy that I could have free time and play The Sims 2 or something).

Then at some point I guess I just felt like I don’t even need alcohol for having fun and I still haven’t felt like that, and I don’t think I ever will either. When I turned 18, I was super annoyed by everyone because EVERYONE asked me “So you’re turning 18, did you plan on going to a bar?” and I would always answer something like “I don’t even drink (alcohol) so why would I?” and what still annoys me a little is people telling me “That’s good. That’s a good decision, drinking is bad.” and like... if you really think so, why do you drink yourself, then?

2. I love cats. Maybe that is partially visible from my blog too but I really, really love cats, and for decades my favorite animal has been tiger. When I was born, we had already 3 cats in the house and the last one of them died when I was almost 13 (he would have turned 16 that year). Before I moved out at the age of 23, there was not a single day without cats and currently my parents have 4 (plus a dog). I am still dreaming of my own cat but I can’t take one now because animals are not allowed in my flat but whenever I move out of this, I will choose one with pets allowed and I will adopt a cat. Most likely a rescue cat if I can find one, or even two so they can keep each other company. As cute as kittens are, adult cats are also important and need homes.

3. I also love animals overall. I actually like them more than humans (but technically humans are just apes so they’re my least favorite animal, then) and when I was 7-years-old, whenever I was asked about my dream job, I always said or wrote “I don’t know, probably something to do with animals!” And since my teens I have had lots of different ideas for jobs but when I was 25, I graduated as a horse groom. And have been (on-off) working with horses for over 10 years now (currently unemployed). Originally I chose the horse work because I was so pissed by the capitalist system and the thought of an office job or job at a grocery store and such was just... ew, no, never! So I chose horses because if I have to work, then I will do something useful and someone’s gotta take care of the animals too and I love animals, and animal work doesn’t feel like work but more like a lifestyle, so I’ve been basically fooling the system AND myself by that. Sometimes I also dream of the work as a zookeeper.

4. As a kid, I was a huge dinosaur nerd and I still love them (Land Before Time FTW). With my siblings we had a huge collection of dinosaur toys and I also have always loved evolution and genetics, so what we did was to give an individual name for every dinosaur we had. And we knew the species of each of them, and we knew so many facts about them too. Each dino also had their own personality and we even created family trees for them. There were generations of these dinos and we also created this “growing up order” which meant we put them all standing next to each other, usually under my brother’s bed because we had so many of them and they didn’t fit anywhere else lol, from the youngest/smallest to the oldest. And our biggest mission, that never got finished, was “The Big Play” which was us playing that the ancestor parents aka the oldest and biggest of our toys were born and we would play with them and play how they grow older and eventually start having their own kids - who were the next generation in our “growing up order” :D

No wonder why I still love playing The Sims games, especially TS3! (I even have a Finnish simsblog.) Lots of the things I have done and loved as a kid still live so strong in me, they just come out differently than what they did then. Imagination and toys changed to video games, especially The Sims (but I did play video games a lot as a kid too) and my love for genetics and evolution is still really strong.

5. I love comics. My favorite comic book character of all times is Garfield - he’s a cat and I grew up with cats so obviously I fell in love with the Garfield comics too, and I grew up with them as well. My mom subscribed to the Finnish Garfield comic in the early 90s and I have full volumes starting from the year 1994. I also have lots and lots of earlier comics and I always hunt for them from second-hand shops and I don’t have too many of them missing anymore, and I’m really proud of my collection. I also collect Lucky Luke, Rantanplan and Asterix - I have almost all of the (Finnish publications of) Lucky Lukes and Rantanplan.

I have also always loved drawing and I drew my first actual comic when I was 9 or 10 years old. Before that I had been drawing lots of “image series”, one image per paper. I still have all my old comics here in a drawer and I have had so many different characters and majority of them have had endless “plots” aka no plots whatsoever :D Before I actually never drew humans, I started drawing human portraits as fanart when I was 16 and the first human comic characters I drew (also as a fanart) when I was 18 or so. Before that everything was animals of some sort - I have had ants, flies, dogs, cats, birds... even ghosts at some point, and I also created one very simple anthropomorphic creature just so that it was easy to draw and I could concentrate on drawing clothes and hair. Oh my god I loved drawing hairdos to these, and so often I had one female “main character” and I gave her a “growth spurt” where I just drew her in different ages until she was “adult” and I continued telling about her life as an “adult”. Very often these differen phases were literally phases, there were soooooo many different styles each just for one year :D Then at some point I started coming up with actual ideas and plots instead of just drawing whatever I felt like drawing. I still draw comics nowadays, but those are mainly fanart and I haven’t drawn about OC’s in years and currently I have no active ones (except for the “self-comics” about my deep thoughts etc.) and I don’t know how to create new ones, I just have no creativity unless it’s provoked by a fandom thing or when I get a base like The Sims 3 where I don’t have an empty canvas but am given the tools for creating something new.

It might be fun to share some of my old comics here one day but this blog isn’t really an “art blog”, even tho I post some of my drawings occassionally. But let me know if you’d like to see some and maybe I will make a post about that in the future.

#tag games #me #mcrmadness’ art talk

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roman-castle · 5 years ago

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dhtask. // golden

tw: murder suicide, blood.

How cruel is the golden rule When the lives we lived are only golden-plated?

And I knew that the lights of the city were too heavy for me And though I carry karats for everyone to see

MAY 19TH, 1998. 10 YEARS OLD.

Six-year old Gabriel is standing at the top of the staircase clad in teddy bear pyjamas and a pink waist coat fastened over the top, his dress shoes on his feet. Three teddy bears are stuffed under his arm.

Roman stands at the bottom of the staircase and stares up at him with a glass of milk in his hand. The clock has struck eleven and they should both be in bed, “What are you doing? Did Mom and Dad see you get out of bed?”

“Shhh,” Gabriel says. He is more like their Father than their Mother, he has the same eyes and the same hair. His skin is lighter too like a cookie cutter version of both their parents because he is so young. “Mommy said don’t wake him up. We’re going to have a party -- we’re all going to the party. See, huh,” he gestured goofily to the teddy bears in his other arm.

Roman frowns. He is logical as a child even. He likes things that make sense but recently things don’t make much sense and Dad is always working and he doesn’t listen when Roman says something is wrong. Something is wrong with Mom and it has nothing to do with the wine bottles that she uses as decorations when she shoves flower storks and weeds inside to watch them grow. It doesn’t have to do with the collection of bottles under her bed either because those have been there for years in her bedroom -- they are not a couple, they just share a space. He is young but he knows that this is out of pity and not love, there is a difference, “We can’t have a party, it’s too late.”

A figure casts across the landing and it is his Mother with her natural black curly hair out and pinned in different places, a yellow dress laying perfectly against her skin and a pair of high heels on that he hasn’t seen in years. There has never been an occasion and she looks so happy that it makes him think that sometimes he doesn’t want everything to make sense. At least when she is smiling she is still the vision that anyone would want as their Mother -- at least momentarily she is present.

That night they sit in the dining room until two in the Morning eating cake and playing an album that Dad got them for Christmas. He should be happy but when his Mother thinks they are both fallen asleep he watches her hide her favourite earrings underneath the kitchen sink as if someone is searching for them and he has no idea why.

JUNE 19TH, 1998. 10 YEARS OLD.

Summer Festival is a whisper in Vertmoor and so is having a Mother and a Father. The maid comes on Monday, Wednesday and Friday and helps Roman with his homework and he recognises her from around town, she is 9 months pregnant and she always seems so happy but so concerned as if the life that is inside of her is weighing down on her.

It is Wednesday afternoon when Roman is doing the dishes as per the chart that his Father set up for them last year. He’s not Dad anymore, he’s Father. She’s not Mom anymore, she’s Mother, he doesn’t understand most of what happens anymore but Gabriel is too young to understand. He’s washing up in the sink and it’s hard to see because the building work is still underway but somehow through the structure outside he sees clearly his Mother and she seems so angry, so stressed. She is pacing around and the maid, a young woman by any means with light brown hairs and lighter brown eyes is backing away but their Mother grabs her and pushes her to the ground.

The plate falls from his hand and smashes into a million pieces as he begins to scream, suddenly Father becomes Dad again in this insane moment. “Dad! Dad! Daddy!” he yells and in the distance the lock clicks open but it is too late. He sees Gabriel run out and the young boy gets knocked aside in the struggle.

Roman runs through the back doors out into the garden and attaches himself to his Mother’s legs as he tries to pull her away but there is so much damage and blood is smeared in the grass. He notices his Mother is holding the edge of a mirror that had broken in her bedroom a week earlier and she digs it into Ana’s shoulder as she screams. “Please, miss, come to your senses,” she is saying as if she has seen something like this before.

Their Father runs outside and his face is pale as he grabs his Mother’s wrist so hard that he hears it crack backwards and it makes him sick. He grabs his brother to shelter him from what they will later call the incident.

They never see the maid again, no one comes to help with their homework. Their Father says, “Your Mother is getting some help. She’s going to go away for a few weeks and then get some medicine that will make her better.”

Gabriel believes it but Roman doesn’t. That night the two boys sneak out of their room in the dead of the night and come downstairs, Roman has found the crawl space. He tells him, “If something bad happens then you’ll come here to hide. If you ever get scared, okay?”

JULY 28TH, 1998. 10 YEARS OLD.

Their Mother has got help. She comes home that July as if nothing ever happened and their Father acts like that too. He is too busy, the house isn’t finished. There’s no more wine bottles but there’s something strange about her and everything she does makes Roman want to get into that crawl space and never come out. When she looks at him he isn’t sure if she loves him too much or hates him entirely as if he is the reason for her misery and pain, all unvoiced. He is a feeling child but Gabriel is too young still to understand and he holds onto their Mother as if she is the only one in the world who can protect him.

Roman tells himself they will always have the crawl space. He notices how she comes alive at night and he tells Gabriel it will be a game, that they will bring the blanket inside every night and have a slumber party.

That day Roman wakes up and it is already darkening outside, it is summer so it is already late. The house is so quiet and for some reason he thinks that is a good thing, he likes to believe that maybe he was wrong about his suspicions. The magical medicine that he found a day ago unopened in her draw? Perhaps she decided to take it and make herself all better just like their Father says.

There are footsteps in the hallway, “I was waiting for you to wake up,” his Mother says and she sounds like she means it, there is something about her smile that is genuine but she is soaking wet. The sleeves of her dress are soaked through with water all the way to her chest and half of her hair is drenched, droplets forming and dropping quietly onto the hardwood floors of his bedroom.

“Mom,” he says, his eyebrows furrowing in the darkness, “Why are you all wet?”

She doesn’t answer but she puts her hand out as a gesture, waiting for him to take it. He doesn’t though, he just gets off of his bed and follows her down the hallway to the bathroom.

The bath tub is full of water, there is a pool of water at the bottom and droplets slowly coming over the edge. Even the tap is slowly and eerily dripping but she doesn’t say anything as she closes the door and slides the lock closed behind her. He might have noticed the sound if he wasn’t walking towards the bath tub wondering what was inside.

He doesn’t scream when he sees Gabriel’s face below the water staring back at him, his heart stops in his chest and he stares at the teddy bear pyjamas. His eyes are shut as if he is sleeping and he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t make sense of the situation, he reaches inside and grabs the little boy and drags him over the edge until his heavy limp body drops to the ground in a pool. It’s only then when he’s holding him that it hits him that he is dead, not sleeping. He is not coming back. He’s never coming back. Roman starts to cry as he grips onto the body because he does not want to let go and he does not understand.

Their Mother drops to her knees by his side and her voice is so quiet when she places her hand on the nape of his neck that he almost doesn’t hear what she is saying, “We’re all going to be together. There won’t be trouble anymore,” she promises but before he can open his mouth she is grabbing him too and his head is underwater.

He opens his mouth to scream but he is choking on water and he can’t get Gabriel’s face out of his head. He can’t stop thinking about the little boy that she has killed. And why? What was the suffering for? What was she trying to save them from? His arms flail grabbing onto the edge of the bath tub and he manages to use his back leg to push her away. She falls backwards and her head smashes against the toilet bowl. He doesn’t stop to see if there is blood. He steps over his brothers dead body, his heart beat in his ears as he pulls the lock undone and runs as fast as he can screaming through the house in the hopes his Father will hear him. In the hopes that he will finally be the hero that all the books suggest a great Father should be but for some reason nothing comes.

He makes it downstairs and he climbs into the crawl space and goes quiet. He does not want to be found. He can’t be found. He is rocking back and forth hoping that this is just a nightmare that he will one day wake up from -- he doesn’t know that he will never wake up, that this is his life and it will never be unwritten.

“Roman, baby, don’t you see that I’m trying to take us to a better place? I want us all to be together, I love you,” she says but he doesn’t reply because he is crying into his knees, rocking back and forth and pretending he is somewhere else. Staring into an empty space and believing that his brother is sat right there beside him. If he squints through his tears, he’s sure he can see him.

He doesn’t know how long passes but he knows that he hears her screaming like a shot through the heart. He is terrified, he is heart broken but he doesn’t understand what is wrong with his Mother or how to make it stop. He hears her scream again and again and again and then something hard clatter to the ground.

Footsteps. His Father. He hears a thudding sound, a strange ghastly shriek that doesn’t sound like it comes from the man that he knows best through an office door. He has never heard him like that before. It makes his heart stop beating for a second.

“Roman? Roman?” the voice calls, “Come out, Roman. It’s okay.” But it is not okay. He knows that but he crawls cautiously out of the crawl space to see his Father standing there with one hand over his mouth as if he is trying to figure out how to make sense of any of this.

He looks to the left and he sees a bloodied knife on the ground next to his Mother who is laying there, six stab wounds directly in the chest and her eyes wide open. It almost looks like she is smiling. He might have imagined that part.

He stands there for a few seconds and then he opens his mouth and starts to scream again. All that loss. All that pain. Why didn’t the man behind the door listen? Why didn’t he stop it? Why is Gabriel dead? Why is she dead? Why is everyone that ever loved him dead but the two of them are still alive in that big unfinished house? He is still screaming when his Father wraps his arms around him -- this has never happened before -- he feels his tears drip onto his shoulder as he pulls him out of the room and when they drop together in the hallway he tells Roman, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” but it is already too late.

The papers never report it, the town never hears about it, Gabriel and his Mother disappear into Vidal Athanas’ archive of secrets for the sake of his perfect house and all his dreams.

But Roman remembers, and he knows that he will never forgive him. Sometimes he still sees Gabriel in the crawl space.

That’s why he runs away.

#gabriel #self para #para: golden #dhtask

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wordywarriorwrites · 5 years ago

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Chapter 10: Behind Enemy Lines

Masterlist: The Boss of Brooklyn A03 Story Link Author: @wordywarriorwrites Summary: When it comes to being The Boss, James Buchanan “JB” Barnes rules with an iron fist. For him, there’s no room for sentiment, and certainly no time for distraction, even if it is in the form of an old flame. Steve Rogers had bowed out of the life a long time ago, but a twist of fate brings him right back into the fold, and face-to-face with a man he once loved. When a game of cat and mouse turns into a matter of life and death, both will be forced to decide whether they’ll be loyal to the business, or faithful to each other. A/N: Bucky Barnes Mob Boss AU. Stucky. For: @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan Star’s Multi-Fandom Follower Celebration with the prompt, “Why did you do it?” & @sherrybaby14 Sherry’s Fall Into You Challenge with the prompt, “Show me. Prove that you can handle me.” Warnings: Language, violence, drug use, alcohol, smoking, explicit sexual content, illegal activities. *Re-blogs are welcome. Plagiarism isn’t. *

There had been too many close calls and Steve knew it was well past time to get out of Brooklyn.

Fury had managed to incite enough fear to scatter the Families, and in less than six months, he’d infiltrated their city and obliterated generations worth of hard work by using a combination of violence and propaganda. He’d essentially given them just enough rope to hang themselves with, and as a result, the Families had lost their authority and credibility, and would soon lose their livelihoods.

Blood had been spilled, and if they didn’t take the fight to Fury, he would continue to push in. If anyone resisted, bodies would continue to drop, and if it went on for much longer, people would either turncoat or tuck tail and run. It didn’t take much to convince Bruce and Natasha that they needed to go on the offensive, but The Boss, per usual, had not been so easily swayed.

Precious time was wasted because Bucky squabbled about everything and nothing. When Natasha pointed out that arguing and delaying would only serve to give Fury even more opportunity to do further damage, Bucky finally conceded, and agreed to get out of dodge for a while.

Once the decision was made, it was only a matter of retrieving their passports and booking a flight. They decided not to tell anyone where they were going, didn’t bother with luggage, replaced their cellphones with burners, and only used cash. It wasn’t until they were in the air and flying over the Atlantic that Steve felt like he could breathe again.

They arrived in Jamaica and got out of the airport without any problems. Since it was the only island in the West Indians Fury had yet to infiltrate, it was the best place to lay low, recuperate, and do some recon. Montego Bay, located on the north coast, was home to a major cruise ship port. As a popular tourist destination, there were plenty of resorts available to hide away in, and the crowds made it easier for them to blend in.

While Bruce, Natasha, and Bucky focused on plans for taking back their city, Steve spent his time healing, and it took weeks for him to start feeling normal again. White-sand beaches; long, unobstructed stretches of ocean views; jerk food; Mento music; the freedom to go where he pleased; not having to look over his shoulder all the time; the kindness of the hotel staff – it all aided in both his mental and physical recovery, and when he felt ready, he set about making contact with the team he used to run with.

It took a few days to get the word out, but with Bruce’s help, he managed to do it without drawing attention or raising suspicion. Steve chose a restaurant on Gloucester Avenue for the meet and the outdoor seating offered just enough privacy and ambient noise to ensure they wouldn’t be overheard. He selected a table that offered a full view of the street, and made sure to sit at the end so nobody could sneak up on him. The scent of pimento wood and authentic, local cuisine wafted through the air, and though he was the first to arrive, he wasn’t alone for long.

Maria Hill, Scott Lang, Carol Danvers, and James Rhodes were an A-list squad of thieves and baddies. They made it appear as if they were meeting up with Steve for dinner, calmly took their seats at the table, and perused the menu. They kept their features schooled, but their furtive glances suggested they were truly shocked to see him, and after the waitress served them their drinks and took their food orders, they immediately started talking.

“Nick said things went sideways in Brooklyn,” Scott voiced after taking a long pull on his beer.

“You pissed off the Families,” Maria stated bluntly over the rim of her wine glass. “Went rogue.”

Carol toyed with the umbrella in her drink, “Your actions got a man killed.”

Rhodey sat back swirled the whiskey in his tumbler, “And your Boss put you down for it.”

Their assertions, however misinformed, were not at all surprising. Fury was cunning and knew how to maneuver and coax people to his way of thinking. If he couldn’t connive, cajole, or get something credible to use as leverage, he resulted to wild accusations and downright lies. People in their line of work were hardwired to look for betrayal in all forms, and expect it to come from any direction, and because Nick was their leader, he was never second-guessed or questioned.

It was difficult for Steve to come to terms with the fact that someone he had worked side-by-side with for four years could so easily turn on him. He knew Nick wasn’t a good man, but then again, Steve himself wasn’t exactly a choirboy, and that probably explained why Fury had hooked and reeled him in so easily. Nick had saved his life. Gave him a job. Helped him and guided him when he was at his most vulnerable and least deserving. Perhaps he’d been naive, or maybe it was just a flaw in his character, but Steve had trusted him.

He believed they’d been friends.

“Steve, what the hell is going on?” Carol prodded. “Why would he tell us you were dead when you’re clearly very much alive?”

Pulled out of his internal self-loathing, Steve just sighed, and shook his head.

“Fury’s good at what he does,” he told them. “He sent me to Brooklyn and it went pear-shaped, but I swear to you, I didn’t sabotage anything. It was all him.”

The declaration made everyone fall silent, and during the moment of quiet retrospection, servers arrived at their table with heaping plates of food. The grub was so good, they didn’t start speaking again until after the dishes were cleared and another round of drinks were delivered.

Maria furrowed her brow and crossed her arms over her chest, “He wanted a foothold in the States. When the Senator fell through, you were his ticket in.”

“Which means he set you up and got you pushed out,” Rhodey said. “And since he doesn’t like to share, he’s decided to take it all.”

“And he hung me out to dry in the process,” Steve finished.

“So, what’s the next move?” Scott wondered.

Steve swallowed hard and ran a hand through his hair, “Fury drew first blood and the Families aren’t going to let it slide. They have the numbers, and no matter the cost, they will fight to the last.”

“Meaning what, exactly?” Carol asked.

“That despite your best efforts, war is coming,” Steve declared gravely. “And whether you like it or not, you’re going to have to pick a side.”

Rhodey held up his hands, “Look, what Fury did to you was bad, but he’s been good to me – to all of us. We did what we could for you, but none of us signed on for a fight.”

Steve sat forward and rested his forearms on the table, “Treaties don’t work unless all parties stick to the arrangement, and Fury has no intention of upholding his end of the bargain. It may not be your fight, but he will sure as hell make it your business.”

“For the sake of argument, let’s say we switched allegiances,” Scott countered. “How can you guarantee your Boss won’t do exactly what Fury did?”

“Yeah, what’s to stop him from taking all we got?” Rhodey inquired.

“Or putting bullets between our eyes?” Maria tacked on.

Their interrogation, ignorance, and constant referral to Bucky as his “Boss” lit his fuse. Unable to stop himself, Steve let out a sound of frustration, and slammed his fist down hard on the table.

“I should’ve better than to think any of you would step up,” he snapped sharply.

In the wake of his outburst, the restaurant fell quiet, and more than a few heads turned in their direction. Hands shaking and heart pounding, Steve apologized loud enough for all to hear, and once it was clear to everyone that a fight wasn’t going to break out, they returned to their meals.

Carol cleared her throat and rubbed her arms, “We trust you. We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t.”

Steve arched an eyebrow, “But?”

“We looked into James Barnes,” Scott confessed. “And we don’t do what he does.”

He snorted, reached into his pocket, and tossed some cash onto the table, “Yeah, you do. You just prefer not to get your hands dirty.”

“We do what we can do avoid conflict,” Rhodey reminded him. “Your Boss doesn’t. In fact, he seems to enjoy mayhem and violence.”

“And I came up with him, so, you think we’re the same,” Steve fumed. “Because deep down, I’m still just a two-bit, gutter-rat thug like the rest of ‘em. So, fuck me, right?”

“Steve, you’re not being fair,” Maria argued.

“No, you want to know what’s not fair?” he snarled lowly as he got to his feet. “It’s not fair that one of my oldest friends is dead. It’s not fair that I keep getting fucked over. It’s not fair that I keep getting stabbed in the fucking back. It’s not fair that I’m being left to shovel the shit that every, goddamn one of you has dumped on me.”

Scott stood up, “Steve, come on, man. Let’s just talk about this.”

Without another word or backward glance, Steve stepped away from the table, and onto the street. Even though he could hear Maria and Carol call after him, he ignored them, and pushed onward. His rage carried him all the way out of the downtown area and back to the hotel, and as soon as the room’s door shut behind him, Steve reached for the chair tucked under the desk, lifted it above his head, and slammed it down as hard as he could onto the floor.

The stream of expletives that flew out of his mouth was punctuated by the sound of snapping wood. The little chair didn’t stand much of a chance; it was pulverized in seconds, which prompted him to drop what remained, and send his fist sailing through the drywall. Steve was gearing up for another swing when the sliding door that connected to the private patio slid open.

“I take it your meeting didn’t go well?” Bucky taunted as he stepped inside.

Steve flipped him the bird, but said nothing.

“Well, as entertaining as your tantrum was to watch, you had better not continue,” he ordered. “If you do, someone will call security, and we don’t need that right now.”

“Thanks for the lecture,” he gritted out as he moved into the bathroom. “Now, fuck off.”

Steve waited until he heard the patio door shut before he stepped up to the sink. He cranked the water too hot, and the sting of it as it ran along his raw knuckles hurt like hell. When he glanced into the mirror, the reflection that stared back at him was all too familiar. Flushed face and hard-lined mouth; eyes full of something that bordered on madness; a wildness and furor that hadn’t been let loose since he was a too-angry, closeted, punk-ass kid.

It was this face – these feelings – that he’d been running from for so long. Steve had been on everyone’s side but his own and he was sick of it. Sick of the constant, nagging fear. Sick of being taken for a fool. Sick of the blame always being left at his feet. Sick of the orders, the lies, and the whole god-damn circus his life had turned into.

Disgusted with himself, he turned off the water, and dried his hands. He had every intention of packing what little he had and making a run for it, but when he stepped into the room, Bucky had returned, and that brought him up short.

Curtains drawn. Shoes lined up neatly by the dresser.

Box of condoms and a bottle of lube on the nightstand.

“Take off your clothes,” Bucky commanded lowly. “And get on the bed.”

Chapter 11: Strange Bedfellows

Everything: @jennmurawski13 @nerdy-bookworm-1998

Steve Rogers: @patzammit @hearttoearth The Boss of Brooklyn: @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan @jamesbarnesappreciationsociety @captain-rogers-beard

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aethuviel · 5 years ago

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TES Elves lifespan and fertility

I’ve been playing Skyrim for four years, and am fairly new to TES lore. One of the things I wonder, like many others, is how long do the races of mer (talking the three now, falmer and orcs don’t count) live, and how do they avoid overpopulation with their obviously lengthy lifespans (and as horny as they seem to be)?

I’ve read around on various discussion forums where people ask these same questions, but never found a satisfying answer.

The common answers to the lifespan questions are “up to 1000″, sourced from The Real Barenziah, but this was just written in an in-universe book, which makes it unreliable at best, and the second common answer is “max ~300, unless they’re using magic to extend their lives”, because an official quote from Bethesda goes like this:

"Elves live two to three times as long as humans and the “beast-races” (Orcs, Khajiiti, Argonians). A 200-year-old Elf is old; a 300-year-old Elf is very, very old indeed. Anyone older than that has prolonged his or her lifespan through powerful magic."

But I call BS on this, because it’s broken by the world itself.

Examples (all powerful mages and wizards are excluded, for obvious reasons):

- Avrusa and Aduri Sarethi are Dunmer farmer in the Rift, and according to Avrusa, she used to have a shop (meaning she was an adult) in Morrowind before the eruption of the Red Mountain, 196 years ago. That puts her and her sister at well over 200 years old, and Aduri gives the impression of being young (her girly voice). - Lleril Morvayn and Adril Arano (and add to that Adril’s wife Cindiri) have ruled Solstheim together for 136 years, Lleril taking over after his mother’s death, and they show no sign of being particularly old. - Legate Fasendil is an Altmer soldier who was “stationed in Hammerfell” (meaning, an adult) 159 years ago, and he does not appear old.

- The only one I can find to sort of confirm the Bethesda quote is Elynea Mothren, mycologist at Tel Mithryn, who says she remembers the eruption of Red Mountain as a “little girl”, and that she’s “an old woman now”, which she certainly looks like. She would be perhaps in her early 200s.

The third common claim about mer lifespan is from a quote that follows like this:

Well, I'm fifty, done my twenty years in the Service, and I'm in the prime of life. I expect another fifty good years, and then I'll be old, and slow, chatting with gaffers around the hearth for another twenty, thirty years. I've known mer still mind-sharp in their late hundreds, and heard of folk 200 and older. My family usually makes it to 120-130, providing we don't get sick or poked in the eye.

But this brings us back to The Real Barenziah. Many claims are made in it, such as...

"I think Straw will be a very old man before 'someday' comes, Berry. Elves live for a very long time." Katisha's face briefly wore the envious, wistful look humans got when contemplating the thousand-year lifespan Elves had been granted by the gods. True, few ever actually lived that long as disease and violence took their respective tolls. But they could. And one or two of them actually did.

Now, this book was approved by Barenziah herself, but that does not assure us of its accuracy, only that she liked it.

But I think this is still closer to the truth than “a 300 year old elf is very, very old indeed”, because of all the things that are unreliable in TRB, what is set in stone is the birth year of Barenziah and her children.

Barenziah and Symmachus had Helseth (now one can doubt whether Symmachus is actually Helseth’s father, but that is for another time) in 3E 376, when Barenziah was a whopping 379 years old. She then had two more children in the next couple of decades, her third and last child born when she was 394 or 395 years old.

There is to my knowledge no claim at all that Barenziah was using magic to extend her life (nor Symmachus for that matter, and he was three decades older than her, slain in battle at the age of 422). And it is confirmed by the lore that she became a mother of three at nearly four centuries old. So this wipes that quote by Bethesda completely, in my opinion.

TRB quotes on elven fertility:

"You ought to meet some nice Elven boys, though. If you go on keeping company with Khajiits and humans and what have you, you'll find yourself pregnant in next to no time."

Barenziah smiled involuntarily at the thought. "I'd like that. I think. But it would be inconvenient, wouldn't it? Babies are a lot of trouble, and I don't even have my own house yet."

"How old are you, Berry? Seventeen? Well, you've a year or two yet before you're fertile, unless you're very unlucky. Elves don't have children readily with other Elves after that, even, so you'll be all right if you stick with them."

And later, after banging Talos for a time...

"You appear to be with child, young as you are. Constant pairing with a human has brought you to early fertility.”

Barenziah then marries Symmachus immediately following Tiber Septim’s death. This is said to be “half a century” later, which would put Barenziah at almost 70 years old, but the actual year Tiber Septim died was in 3E 38, when she was ~41 years old. Anyhow. (Goes back to how unreliable the books are.)

The years passed swiftly, with crises to be dealt with, and storms and famines and failures to be weathered, and plots to be foiled, and conspirators to be executed. Mournhold prospered steadily. Her people were secure and fed, her mines and farms productive. All was well -- save that the royal marriage had produced no children. No heirs.

Elven children are slow to come, and most demanding of their welcome -- and noble children more so than others. Thus many decades had come to pass before they grew concerned.

Some three centuries later...

Directly after the Nightingale's theft of the Staff of Chaos, Symmachus had sent urgent secret communiques to Uriel Septim. He had not gone himself, as he would normally have, choosing instead to stay with Barenziah during her fertile period to father a son upon her.

Speaking about the Nightingale some time later, when Barenziah was pregnant...

"Dark Elf in part, perhaps," said Barenziah, "but part human too, I think, in disguise. Else would I not have come so quickly to fertility."

From this we can draw that, 1) Elven women become fertile around the age of 18-20 2) They conceive easier with other races, rather than with male elves (implying that both sexes have low fertility), and can even be brought to fertility faster by sleeping around a lot with other races 3) And by her eventual pregnancy leading to the birth of Helseth, we are to believe that the Nightingale didn’t touch her, but that simply the passion she felt for him made her fertile, after centuries of no results.

----------

And when Tiber “Talos” Septim forces a child (as he viewed her) to have an abortion (I am forever disgusted with Talos for this), the Altmer healer says:

"Sire. It is her child. Children are few among the Elves. No Elven woman conceives more than four times, and that is very rare. Two is the usual number. Some bear none, even, and some only one. If I take this one from her, Sire, she may not conceive again."

It is widely quoted but again, a book in-game is not a reliable source, and while looking around Dunmer names in ESO, I found a fellow named Quell Andas, who has four siblings.

Unless, for some reason, they are called siblings but there are at least two mothers involved (i.e. half-siblings), or they’re lying, this is a case of an elf woman bearing five children. I’m sure there could be more cases among any of the mer if I looked further.

So that healer was at least not being entirely truthful.

But it does make sense that the mer would have much lower fertility, on both sides (males and females), simply as a price to pay for their long lifespans.

Humans live for about seventy years. Women are fertile from about 15-45, a 30 year “baby bearing window”, if you will.

The fact that Barenziah was pregnant three times in her late 300s, says not just that they live that long, but that she had not entered menopause - if elves even have that.

Her first pregnancy was when she was 17-18. Her last, at 394-395. That is, for her, a “baby bearing window” of at least 376 years. And there is nothing, I might add, in the books to imply surprise or shock that Barenziah bore children at that age.

With a human’s 30 year fertility window, in a world of no contraception, some rare women can have 20 or more children.

Now increase that to 300+ years, and if elves were as fertile as humans, an elf woman could birth a hundred children in her life, as easily as a human could birth ten. This would lead to an insanely unsustainable population growth, as elves are people(!) and we cannot compare them to animals that have that many offspring (since those are typically unintelligent animals where almost all die soon after birth).

Since they live for centuries but can have children at twenty, this also means children can be surrounded by a long line of ancestors. Not just grandparents, but great-great-great grandparents, and so on, people living on and using up resources for much longer. This means population growth has to be slow.

So, to keep a normal population growth at 2-4 children for most people (with some having more and some having none), elves naturally have to be much less fertile to “pay” for their lenghty lifespans.

We don’t know why, if it’s by some divine power, nature, or whathaveyou, but I imagine (absolutely no source on this, just my imagination) mer women might have much rarer ovulations, like once a year instead of once a month (imagine only some 3 fertile days per year instead of some 36 days), or requiring some special “event” to ovulate (as TRB implies), and that male mer have heavily reduced sperm counts compared to other races.

That would make sense, but is only my personal speculation.

And as for lifespan, I still choose to believe TRB, as while statements in it are unreliable, we know a woman had multiple children near her 400th birthday, with no known magical intervention to slow down her aging. That couldn’t have happened unless all elves could live to a thousand, but most die during the centuries from injury or disease.

#Skyrim #TES #The Elder Scrolls #Barenziah #The Real Barenziah #mer #Dunmer #Altmer #Bosmer #elves #high elves #dark elves #wood elves #tes lore

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artificialqueens · 5 years ago

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A romance for the books, chapter 1: Easy as A, B, C (branjie) - writworm42

A/N: A holiday gift for Holtz, who is the best ever. I’m putting it up now cause I got a lot of other projects going–because it’s multichap, this one will likely go into the new year. LOVE U HOLTZ <3

Thank you so, so much to Athena for beta-ing and helping me brainstorm!!! You’re the best and without your inside scoop on being a librarian, this fic never would have come to be! <3

It takes about thirty seconds for Brooke to spot her next perfect target.

It’s usually about simple math, a quick judge of character. Who sticks out just enough that it’s apparent they don’t come often, but not so much that they know it and would call Brooke out. Someone who knows the rough norms, but doesn’t care enough to follow them. Someone who’ll be just in and out , or who goes to the library solely as a place to pass time, not because they want to be there.

And this girl, well, this girl fits the bill to a T.

The girl is in shorts and a tank top–given that it’s about thirty-five degrees outside, and this is a neighbourhood where most apartments don’t have AC, it means the girl is probably one of those people looking for a cool place to go in the summer. Second, she comes in popping her gum and with music blasting through her earphones, meaning she either doesn’t know or doesn’t care for library etiquette. And when she walks up to the counter, she plunks down about five thin books, which likely means she reads to kill time, and probably doesn’t care too much for returning individual books before their due dates, as opposed to piling them up for whenever it’s convenient.

“I’d like to return these, please.” the girl smiles and bats her eyelashes, and Brooke smiles back warmly.

“Of course. Can I get your library card?”

It’s a shame; the girl is pretty, really pretty. Dazzlingly white teeth, round, dimples, and wide, friendly eyes all look back at Brooke, their owner looking at her expectantly, trustingly, even. But sometimes, the sweetest patrons make the easiest marks.

She grabs her scanner, scans the girl’s card, and begins to check in the books, her routine underway.

Check, click, beep, no problem.

The trick to a good con is to be unnoticeable. That’s why she started in the library–she’d been working there five years already, had her own system, designated scanner, computer, and accounts. She was so integrated into it, there was no way she could stick out in it.

Check, click, beep, no problem.

Take only little bits at a time. That was how it started, and that was the hardest thing to turn into a system; how much to take, from whom. How not to get caught. Every librarian on staff pockets late fees from time to time; when you’re a couple dollars short for lunch or you’ve forgotten your phone at home and need change for the payphone, the cashbox at the back of the customer service area is a tempting reserve. But that didn’t mean you could get greedy–you had to be sneaky, had to be covert. A target who wouldn’t fight, who would believe the late fees were theirs, in an amount that the til wouldn’t miss. Not too often, or people would suspect something. No, it was all a balancing game, one that took keen practice and cautious judgement.

Check, click–alarm.

Be quick with your hand. Brooke likes to use her own scanner, one she had outfitted with a trick button to trigger the flagging noise. She’d claimed the computer at the end of the line as her preferred one, making sure no one could see her screen. She wears long sleeves to pocket the change in. When she flags someone’s book, she mashes buttons on her keyboard quickly, programs in a believable, yet still somewhat inflated amount for the fine. Two, three dollars maybe, and put a small portion of that in the cashbox just to ward off suspicion.

Check, click–alarm.

Same thing, over and over, and then she moves on. That’s the most important rule, after all.

Never stay on one target too long.

Check, click, beep, no problem.

“So it looks like you have two fines.” Brooke puts down her scanner in its place right next to her computer, always within her view, handle down so and back to her so that no one can see the trick alarm button on it. “Late fees.”

“Late fees?” the woman’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, her voice pointed. “What you talkin’ ‘bout, Mary?”

“Two of your books are late. These two.” she turns her computer and points at the two books, looking back at the woman smugly, and that’s when she realizes her mistake.

“I took those out only a week ago. Your computer’s broke,” the woman crosses her arms stubbornly. “‘Cause I should have three weeks to return them.”

Oh, fuck. Brooke turns the monitor back towards herself and takes a sharp breath in, trying to swallow the panic that’s quickly bubbling up in her chest, making her heart beat faster. The woman–Vanessa, Brooke sees when she glances down at the woman’s library card to see who she’s dealing with–is right. The books were only taken out a week ago. Brooke had underestimated her and gotten cocky.

It’s alright; it’s alright. She’s been caught like this before. She’s been challenged like this before. That’s the advantage of her system; if things go south, she can always blame the computer.

“Okay, I’ll strike the fees.” she forces her voice to stay light despite herself, despite the adrenaline coursing through her that’s making her whole body buzz. “Sorry about that; the computer must be off.”

“Yeah.” Vanessa eyes Brooke up and down, but there’s no suspicion in her eyes, only amusement. “That’s alright.”

Vanessa swipes her card back, then turns around to leave, and Brooke breathes out, thinking it’s over, when suddenly, the smaller girl turns back around.

“Say, what’s your name, Mary?”

“Lynn.” Brooke lies.

“No it’s not.” Vanessa grins, the amusement in her eyes turning into a full-blown, mischievous sparkle.

“It’s not.” Brooke admits, chuckling a little despite herself. As terrifying as it is, God, this woman is good.

“I’m not askin’ ‘cause I’m gonna tell.” Vanessa shakes her head, her voice barely above a whisper as she leans in conspiratorially. “I’m askin’ ‘cause I wanna know for personal reasons.” she winks, and that’s when Brooke understands. She’s not dealing with anyone right now. No, she’s dealing with a professional.

Fuck.

“Brooke.” she admits, “My name is Brooke.”

“Alright, miss Brooke.” Vanessa nods, “I’m Vanessa, but you already knew that, ain’t you?”

Brooke doesn’t say anything else, only nods, feeling her mouth go dry.

It’s only after Vanessa flounces away that Brooke looks down on the counter and realizes that Vanessa’s left a scrap of paper behind.

A due date reminder slip for the two books Brooke had flagged, with a phone number scrawled on the back.

–

Vanessa has had her eye on Brooke for a while. She’s not the typical mark–she works in a library, for God’s sake, that’s not exactly big-bucks material. But she’s tall, and blonde, and there’s something about her that says she’s got more going on than Vanessa realizes.

Which means that at the very least, she’s someone that Vanessa can have fun with, if not draw in and use.

Vanessa’s by no means an amateur at this game. She’s been going in and out of it since she was in college, ever since she had bills to pay for the first time and job interviews she’d need fancy clothes for. After that, well, it was a bit of a habit–she’d acquired a taste for luxury, and a need for adrenaline, and her modus operandi suited both.

Find a girl who was just barely upper-class–not so rich she’d be suspicious, not so poor she’d be seriously impacted by Vanessa’s scam, and take her out for a few drinks. Get to know her. Play the bimbo. Forget her wallet a few times, just as a test to see how the girl would react. Then start asking for library late fees. A few dollars here and there, maybe once per month, just enough to pad her pockets for a few extra splurges at the mall when the mood struck. Then the bigger things–after enough late fees, enough time building up her image as a bookworm, the girls would usually start just buying her books, telling her this way she wouldn’t have to worry about fees. Not the most extravagant gifts, but ones that she could sell for a decent turnaround to college students looking to complete their class reading lists. That was the game, after all; never taking enough to raise suspicion, but just enough that she could walk into Pandora after each breakup and buy herself something nice for her troubles.

Besides, there was usually some decent sex to be had out of it, too.

So when she saunters up to Brooke after a week of watching unnoticed, ready to figure out the woman’s secret, find something she can exploit, she’s even more surprised than she thought she’d be.

Brooke’s skills are rough, that’s for sure. But she has potential. And Vanessa could use some potential on her team.

It’s only about two hours before she gets the text she’s been waiting for.

Hey, it’s Brooke.

She saves the number immediately, grinning to herself.

V: well hey miss Brooke

V: how u doin?

B: lol

B: I’m fine, thanks, you?

V: peachy.

There’s a pause, and Vanessa can’t help but wonder what Brooke is thinking, what her next move is going to be.

B: so why did you pick me?

Vanessa whistles, her grin widening further. Maybe she had underestimated Brooke after all; smarts aside, this chick is bold.

V: I like a girl who can stay on my level.

Another pause, and Vanessa holds her breath, her confidence dimming just a little.

B: I’ve seen Focus already. I know what you’re trying to do.

B: I work alone and you’re not getting any cut.

Vanessa’s grin fades completely, cockiness replaced with frustration and, she has to admit, just a tinge of anger. If it’s going to be like that, then it’s going to be like that–but she’ll be damned if she lets anyone call her out on shit, especially shit she had only half-planned to pull.

V: Fine.

V: But if you’re gonna work alone, at least don’t try to judge a mark by the length of their shorts. It’s the middle of August, bitch. IQ don’t come with air conditioning.

She tosses her phone onto her kitchen table and rockets up to grab herself a glass of water, still fuming once she settles down and grabs the book across from her, hoping an old favourite like Coraline will get Brooke out of her head.

It doesn’t, and so before she can even finish her chapter, she’s picked up her phone again, staring at the message on the screen in disbelief.

B: Fair point

B: Thanks for the tip.

–

Brooke is three beers deep at a coworker’s birthday party about a week later when she sees Vanessa stalking towards her from across the bar.

“This coincidence, or are you some kind of mastermind?” she sneers as Vanessa sidles up next to her, but the shorter woman only rolls her eyes.

“Coincidence, bitch. You ain’t that special.” her voice has a drunken lilt to it, and Brooke can tell she’s tipsy, that she’s got a good amount of liquid courage under her belt. That’s fine; so does does she. “Just wanted to say hi.”

“Hi.” Brooke snorts, and Vanessa rolls her eyes.

“Oh, Christ.” Vanessa sighs exasperatedly. “Look, Brooke, I barely suggested anything to you. You ain’t want it. Whatever. I ain’t out here to try and steal your thunder, we still run in different circles and your gig don’t have to be mine.”

“So why did you come over here, then?” Brooke eyes the shorter woman up and down, unconvinced. Vanessa wouldn’t have stuck her neck out like that if she wasn’t serious, if there wasn’t something motivating, something absolutely irresistible in it for her.

“‘Cause you may not want to work together, but you still sexy, mami.” Vanessa cocks an eyebrow, and Brooke can’t help but laugh.

“So let me get this straight. You wanted to work with me, now you want to sleep with me?” for all Brooke’s incredulity, though, Vanessa doesn’t seem even remotely shaken.

“I told you, I like a girl who can stay on my level.”

“Well, level yourself.” Brooke rolls her eyes. She’s just about to get up, just about to walk away, when a hand on her wrist stops her.

“Look, mami, I know I fucked up. I know I look like some kinda ass. But I seen the way you look at me. I know we got chemistry, and I know we both lookin’ for somethin’ better to do tonight than sitting here drinking lukewarm beer.”

Vanessa’s right; Brooke had been thinking of leaving, and truth be told, the longer Vanessa sits in front of her, the more seriously she’s considering Vanessa’s offer. It can’t be helped, not really–Vanessa’s smart , and bold, the exact kind of challenge that Brooke likes in a woman. She can tell she’s going to be a fun time already, and that’s before Brooke gets a good look at her, before she trails her eyes over Vanessa’s body one more time and sees everything that she failed to pay proper attention to the first time she saw her in the library. High cheekbones; dazzling teeth. A waist that has to be cinched, there’s no other explanation for how nice it is. And a bemused, plump-lipped smile that says that Vanessa knows exactly what Brooke is thinking, exactly what she’s about to say, and can’t wait to hear it.

She says a quick goodbye to her coworkers and rushes out of the bar on Vanessa’s heels, her stomach doing flip-flops and her body pulsing with a new sort of adrenaline and urgency that rivals even the thrill of getting away with a particularly hefty con.

–

Vanessa takes Brooke back to her place, mostly because Brooke insists on it—even with her tongue down Vanessa’s throat, she makes a show of her mistrust, whispering against Vanessa’s jawline that she’d better not try to steal anything.

It’s not like you’d have anything to steal. Vanessa bites back the retort, forces herself not to break whatever fragile, frenzied game they’ve got going. It’s a task that proves easier than Vanessa thought it would; all it takes is a couple of soft, sucking kisses to the nape of Brooke’s neck and the blonde melts, unable to form any words beyond more, more, Vanessa, please, more.

That’s more like it. Vanessa moves her hands slowly up Brooke’s body, taking her time to feel out every spot that makes her gasp, shiver, or whine, or all of the above, in the case of when Vanessa moves a hand up to Brooke’s neck, positions her grip in a V shape and presses down just lightly, just enough to make Brooke feel Vanessa right against her carotid arteries. Not enough to choke; just enough to command, to show her who’s in charge.

By the time they reach Vanessa’s apartment, scrambling to the elevator and hitting the wall to continue kissing and stroking and rutting against each other, Brooke is incoherent, and Vanessa is almost disappointed; she had really expected Brooke to challenge her a little more, try to talk back or regain control. Instead, Brooke is putty in her hands, flushed and breathless by the time the elevator arrives on Vanessa’s floor and they’re stumbling towards her door.

It’s only after Vanessa’s led Brooke towards the bedroom, though, that she remembers that Brooke is full of surprises.

“Whoops!” Brooke flips them around right as they’re about to fall onto the bed, throwing her weight enough so that Vanessa doesn’t have time to correct their positions before she hits the mattress, Brooke following on top of her.

“That’s more like it.” Brooke grins. She kisses Vanessa quickly on the lips, then starts to work her way down over Vanessa’s neck, marking it up with her teeth in a way that almost makes Vanessa forget everything around her except the feeling of Brooke’s mouth on her skin, licking and sucking and moving towards her collarbone. She brings a hand up to Brooke’s back, rakes her nails over it hard enough that she knows the blonde will feel it through her shirt, and it’s only when Brooke lets out an almost pitiful gasp at the sensation that Vanessa remembers who she is, what she’s doing, what she really wants.

Really, it’s Brooke’s fault for forgetting to pin Vanessa down; or maybe she’s just so used to winning, it’s never occurred to her. Either way, when Brooke’s mouth lifts from Vanessa’s chest, the smaller woman takes her chance to push her off and over onto the bed, once again flipping their positions. She’s careful to pin down Brooke’s wrists and box her in with her legs, scanning the older woman’s face for any signs of displeasure or worse, distress, but Brooke only smiles, relaxing a little, and Vanessa realizes that that’s exactly the reaction Brooke was trying to get all along.

“Brat.” Vanessa laughs, nipping Brooke’s neck and smiling at Brooke’s surprised yelp. “Your parents ain’t teach you to just ask for things you want?”

“If they did, then we wouldn’t have met.” Brooke smirks, and Vanessa has to hand it to her; she has a point.

“Cheeky bitch.” she hums before capturing Brooke’s lips in a kiss, one that finally melts any remaining tension between them, becoming soft and slow and thorough, almost exploratory. Vanessa lets go of Brooke’s wrists in favour of cupping her face, and this time, Brooke doesn’t fight–only lets her hands roam up Vanessa’s legs, over her thighs, coming to cup and squeeze the flesh of her ass over her skirt.

“You should take this off.” she breathes into Vanessa’s lips, and she’s right, it’s too damn hot, too damn uncomfortable, too damn in the way. They separate only long enough for Vanessa to shimmy out of her skirt and take her shirt off before coming back together, Vanessa’s hands stopping Brooke from pulling off her own dress.

“Let me do it.” she whispers, tracing her fingers over the hem, and this time, Brooke doesn’t fight. She only nods, lifting her arms to allow Vanessa to take her dress off and then ease her back on the bed, their bodies warm and pressed together.

After one last kiss, soft and sweet against Brooke’s jaw, Vanessa leans back, traces her eyes over every inch of Brooke’s body in an attempt to decide where she should start. It’s a task that proves incredibly difficult; truth be told, there isn’t an inch of Brooke that Vanessa doesn’t want to worship, not a single detail about her that isn’t worth extra attention. So Vanessa starts with a hand in her hair, not pulling but holding, feeling, letting the soft strands tickle against her fingers as she traces her other hand over the soft, sweat-sheened skin of Brooke’s chest, grabbing and kneading her breast through her bra.

“I, um–I actually–Sorry, but–” Brooke starts, and Vanessa rockets up, hands away, heart pounding.

“Are you okay? Did I hurt you? Do you want to stop?”

“No.” Brooke shakes her head, and to Vanessa’s relief, she smiles, her eyes sparkling. “It’s just that this bra isn’t great for that, the underwire’s kinda stiff. Can you give me a sec to take it off?”

That’s it? Vanessa gives a relieved laugh, lifting herself off of Brooke long enough for the other woman to shimmy out of her bra. “Jesus, I was afraid I hurt you or something.”

“Hey, don’t laugh!” Brooke whines, swatting at Vanessa’s stomach playfully. It’s a gesture that earns her two hands on her wrists, pinning her down again as Vanessa grins.

“Listen, don’t worry about that, okay?” Vanessa kisses Brooke again, soft and reassuring. “I know plenty other ways to make you feel good.”

“Then show me.” Brooke’s eyes are hooded, her pupils wide with need. It’s tantalizing, but it doesn’t mean that Vanessa will just give things up–no, that would be to easy, not nearly enough fun.

“Only if you’re patient.” she smirks, and before Brooke can protest, she’s kissing her way down the blonde’s body again, stroking the inside of her thighs and smiling into Brooke’s skin when the older woman squirms.

“You want my hands or my mouth?” she asks, when she reaches the waistband of Brooke’s underwear, running a single finger down Brooke’s slit and shivering at how easily it glides, how slick and wet Brooke is even through the far-too-thick cotton fabric.

“Mouth, please…” she pants, and Vanessa doesn’t hold back any longer.

“Get up,” she instructs, licking her lips, “And take those off. I want you to sit on my face.”

Brooke doesn’t argue or make a show of stripping–only rushes to peel off her underwear before clambouring on top of Vanessa and eases down where Vanessa’s hands guide her to go, gasping with relief as Vanessa finally brings her mouth home, licking a stripe up Brooke’s slit all the way to her clit. It doesn’t take long–only a few minutes of licking, sucking, and grazing with her teeth, and soon, Brooke’s moans are becoming shorter, more high pitched, more desperate and frequent, and then she’s coming, barely keeping herself up as Vanessa continues to suck down on her clit through her orgasm. By the time she’s finally collapsing down next to Vanessa, still shaking, still breathless, Vanessa can tell she’s completely spent and sated, ready to sleep rather than go for a second round.

If it were anyone else, Vanessa would have been pissed, felt like it was unfair; but now, cradling Brooke in her arms, kissing her forehead like it’s familiar territory she’s kissed hundreds of times before, she finds herself completely satisfied.

#rpdr fanfiction #brooke lynn hytes #vanessa vanjie mateo #branjie #lesbian au #smut #a romance for the books #writworm42

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tlbodine · 5 years ago

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Three 1970s Horrors Worth Watching (that are not part of this film series)

The Horror by the Decade series started innocuously enough, with someone requesting some recent film recommendations. That got me to thinking about trends, and recommendations from previous decades, and how many movies that were true classics I was familiar with but had never seen, and thus the idea “hey, let’s watch movies from every decade!” came into being.

But obviously you can’t watch every horror movie from every year, so there had to be a selection process in place. Here’s roughly how I’ve been choosing movies:

Search Google for “horror movies {year}” for each year of the decade

Research them a bit and pick out everything that is familiar, historically significant, or seems especially interesting, and put them on a list

Pare the list down to 1-2 of the most interesting titles per year

Look for themes and pair movies up according to theme (since we watch two movies a week)

In order to save time, any movie that both I and @comicreliefmorlock have seen recently/a lot gets knocked off the list. In the 1970s, that means removing three extremely good, extremely important movies, so I wanted to talk about them a bit here.

Follow below the cut for thoughts on Jaws, The Exorcist, and Alien

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Jaws, made in 1975 by Steven Spielberg, is based on a novel of the same name written by Peter Benchley. Richard Dreyfuss and Roy Scheider team up to kill an unusually large and aggressive great white shark that is terrorizing the beach in a quiet New England town.

Fun fact: Until Star Wars was released two years later, Jaws was the highest-grossing movie of all time! This is probably due in part to how much money Universal decided to sink into its distribution and marketing, but the film’s quality has to play a big part too. It really is a magnificent movie and is probably a big part of why people are still scared of sharks.

Some things that are notable about Jaws:

It has one of the most iconic and effective film scores in cinema. Everyone knows the Jaws theme, and it’s been used to basically mean “impending danger!” in a jokey way for...I mean, at least 30 years, because I know that was a meme when I was a kid. I imagine it has been since 1975. That’s just a really impressive feat, and John Williams (yes, the Star Wars guy) deserves acclaim for it.

Music aside, Jaws is an excellent study in suspense and restraint. Technological limitations meant they couldn’t show the shark as much as they’d wanted, so scenes had to be filmed suggestively to ramp up the tension. (You do still get to see a lot of wonderful big scary shark, though, and honestly the effects still hold up pretty well to this day)

The performances are really good, too. The leads have a great chemistry and play off of each other really well. The script was a joint effort, getting passes from several people (including the book’s author), but a comedian Carl Gottlieb got a pass at it, and that humor really helps to elevate the film.

The most powerful thing about Jaws, though, is that it taps into a mythic seed that renders it utterly timeless. There is an echo of Moby Dick in Quint’s character and motives, with a similarly tragic arc. But it draws on something older and deeper, too. The premise of “man-eating wild animal terrorizes a community, a bounty is put on its head, only a hero can kill it” has been a staple of mythology for thousands of years.

Man-eaters are real, and they become the stuff of legend -- dating at least as far back to the monstrous Nemean Lion that could be slain only by Heracles. Historically, there are accounts of man-eating wolves, lions, tigers, etc. terrorizing locals, sometimes inspiring local werewolf legends - you can read about just a few of them here: https://listverse.com/2010/10/16/top-10-worst-man-eaters-in-history/

I think I watched Jaws for the first time when I was 8 (I saw all the sequels too, there was a cable marathon) and I was utterly captivated. I feel pretty confident if I showed it to an 8-year-old today, they would be too. It’s just that kind of movie.

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The Exorcist, released in 1973 and directed by William Friedkin, was based on a novel by William Peter Blatty, who also wrote the screenplay.

The story is about a 12-year-old girl, Regan, who begins acting strangely after playing with a ouija board. Once medical causes are ruled out, her mother turns to two priests for assistance; they come to perform the exorcism and have a harder time than expected with casting out the demon, to say the least.

The film is still considered one of the most frightening horror movies of all time by some, and at the time of its release it was a sensation. Movie-goers were said to have all sorts of reactions, from fainting and vomiting to having miscarriages and heart attacks. Contemporary psychologists even wrote about “cinematic neurosis” in people who had watched the film: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/1151359

The story crossed a lot of boundaries (even for the 1970s) and you have to bear in mind that this was a major cinematic release, not a grindhouse exploitation film. Most film-goers in 1973 were absolutely not prepared to see an innocent child spouting off vulgarity, urinating on the floor, and masturbating with a crucifix. And some of the practical effects, like the famous head-twisting scene, are still really creepy.

This is one of those movies that’s hard to watch with fresh eyes because it was so influential on all of cinema to follow. If you like demonic possession movies, this is the film that started it all. I know religious people who are deeply afraid of this movie and won’t allow it in their home for fear of inviting real demons, so, that’s the kind of staying power the story has.

** As an atheist, I am not particularly frightened of demon movies, and I suspect I will never fully grasp the real terror of watching something like this for people who believe that these types of things happen in real life. The Exorcist is definitely not the scariest movie I’ve ever seen, but I can respect that it definitely is for many other people.

Fun trivia: The Exorcist is considered by some to be cursed because the cast and crew had an unusually tough time with filming: the set caught fire (but Regan’s room was undamaged), several actors were injured during practical stunts/effects, several people died during filming or in post-production (not on set), and the demon’s voice actor experienced an awful tragedy years later when her son killed wife, kids, and himself: http://www.the13thfloor.tv/2015/12/02/is-the-exorcist-movie-cursed/

The events are all most likely coincidental (and on a long enough timeline, everyone involved with a project will be dead!) but it lends power to the suspicion that this was A Very Cursed Movie That God Doesn’t Want You To Watch, which makes it all the more frightening.

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Alien, directed by Ridley Scott, came out in 1979 and is so powerful that it’s still a popular franchise today, spawning books, movies, video games, merchandise, and more.

The story is essentially a haunted house film set in space. A commercial space crew is woken from stasis by the ship's on-board computer to answer a distress signal, discovering a derelict alien ship and founding a chamber of eggs belonging to an aggressive, parasitic alien creature that infests a crew member with its egg, which later hatches violently from his body, grows up, and proceeds to terrorize the ship.

It's a tense cat-and-mouse game of searching for the alien as it picks off crew members one by one, and the music, atmosphere, and visuals are all compelling, with effects that still hold up pretty well for modern audiences. But what makes Alien especially significant is the performance of Sigourney Weaver as Ripley.

We’d had scream queens before -- female horror protagonists who survive as “final girls” against the mayhem and slaughter -- but Ripley is something different. She is badass, heroic in a way that girls rarely got to see themselves, and laying down a template for strong female characters in future cinema (for better or worse).

The script was reportedly written to be gender neutral, with no assumptions about casting, which allowed Ripley to defy gender norms and expectations. But despite this supposed gender neutrality, there is a definite flavor of female horror in Alien -- which is, after all, a movie about forced impregnation and death at the hands of a decidedly phallic monster.

And that is, I think, probably right at the heart of the film’s sticking power. Science fiction can swiftly become dated as our knowledge of the universe expands, but the horror of Alien isn’t really the aliens so much as what they represent -- and sad to say, sexual violence is something we humans may never understand. Here’s a fun essay on the topic: https://www.newstatesman.com/culture/film/2019/03/forty-years-what-can-ridley-scott-s-alien-teach-metoo-generation

So, there you have it. Three movies we will not be watching in our film series, but which you absolutely should check out if you somehow haven’t seen them.

#horror movies #horror by the decade #horror through the decades #jaws #the exorcist #alien #i love these movies #so much

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