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sweetestlamb · 4 years ago

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Try A Little Tenderness

Summary: Han Seo gets treated with kindness and affection and he doesn’t know how to process these foreign feelings. Also he gets a first eye contact of the mafia couple.

Author's note: A few of you said you would like to read this so I popped it out real quick in between real life and all that mess, I did something like this for IOTNBO and really enjoyed that sometimes it’s fun to see a relationship from an outsider’s pov. I also saw a few people say that they ship our puppy with a certain someone so I threw in some crumbs because the visuals would be very pretty and good for my health. It has talks of past abuse (see psychopath brother) but I don’t think it’s any darker than the regular show. Happy reading!

He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, for them to realize that he's nowhere near good or smart enough to keep alive such less work so closely to them and listen to their plans. They trust him, he can tell by the way that conversations don't taper off if he comes into the room with another question about how to use the copy machine- there are so many buttons and it's confusing figuring it out by myself.

This first time he sheepishly asks for help after reading articles online and coming no closer to understanding the massive machine, he expects more fanfare; a slap on the cheek, a rap on the forehead or just a simple sigh and "idiot" that he would smile in the face of but the word would stick to his heart for days on end. His eyes were glued to the ground after his inquiry so he missed whatever look they originally gave him but surprisingly enough Ms. Hong stepped forward, he almost flinched as the hand approached his view but instead of pain he just felt warmth on his shoulder.

Guiding him with the hand on his shoulder, she led him back over to the machine and patiently explained all the buttons to him, even smiling gently when he pulled out a little notepad to write down the many directions.

"You really only need these three buttons this is the power button, but this thing is ancient so sometimes it may need a good kick." He jumped marginally at the loud bang of her foot against the side, quickly writing that down as well.

Really old. Needs kick.

"Then you press this button to choose the amount of copies, choose double or single sided and choose with staple and that's it." His eyes darted rapidly trying to keep up with her directions while taking his notes. It sounded simple enough but his brother had taught him that if there was a way to fuck something up, he would find it, naturally. So his nerves skyrocketed when she turned to him with a grin and said, "Are you ready for another test? Make 20 copies of these." She handed him a small stack of papers.

His heart jerked in his chest and suddenly he was fifteen years old again staring at a test sheet and knowing none of the answers. It was hard to study with the fear of Han Seok barging into his room at any moment to do another sick experiment on him, once he had sliced his finger just to watch it bleed. He'd told his father that he accidentally cut himself while cooking and let the shame wash over him as he got a look that screamed that he was incompetent and pathetic.

"Han Seo? Are you okay? You seem like you're a million miles away." The pretty lawyer's concerned voice brought him back to reality and he could feel the stares of the other men in the room on his skin, Vincenzo being the heaviest. He really didn't want to look stupid on front of the man for some unexplored reason. He swallowed hard before facing the machine, feeling like he was going off to war.

He pressed the big power button, shaken when nothing happened but suddenly remembered his notes and with an almost unnoticeable glance he found his answer, swiftly kicking the beast of a copier he watched it roar to life and almost on autopilot he mimicked the motions that Ms. Hong had just demonstrated and watched in terror as the paper was swallowed and the copies were spit out from the compartment in the bottom.

I did it.

Everything seemed to be in order and the machine hadn't exploded. Yet.

"Oh."

The triumphant smile that had graced his face slide off like rain on a windowpane.

"I messed up. I'm sorry. Please let me try-"

He was bowing before he could stop himself, shame a familiar friend at this point in his life. There were very little moments that he didn't feel a tsunami of shame crashing over him in a thick heavy sheet.

"You just forget to select stapled. But that's minor, we can just staple them by hand." She responded nonchalantly picking up the copies and bringing them over to the table, "Good job though. Next time you'll probably get it perfect right?"

It was pathetic. He was pathetic. There was no reason for pride to grow in his chest like a mustard seed, he had only completed a basic task. Something that even a monkey could, actually monkeys could do even more complicated tasks. It was nothing to be proud of. He shouldn't have been smiling as largely as he was, they would think he was insane and kick him out.

But.

She'd said he did a good job. That wasn't a phrase he was used to hearing, he wasn't someone who did anything worth praising. He shuffled away back to the shelves that needed to be organized in alphabetical order, moving a large file to the front of the row unaware that there was an equally huge smile on his face. It stayed there for the rest of the day.

Working there was different from working with his brother. Astronomically. Nobody hit him there, even when he made mistakes. Instead he just got three heads over his shoulder helping him fix said mistake or Mr. Nam pushing his chair out of the way and taking over with only a gentle chide of, "Be careful next time." And it's clear that they all care for and respect each other. It's evident in the way that there's no clear hierarchy at the law firm, when they have meetings they alternate on who makes the coffee for the team, take turns buying meals and they are all allowed to speak and share their ideas without waiting for approval. It's nothing like he's used to and it makes him wonder if this is normal and what he's used to is...not.

It's enough to overwhelm him.

Then something catches his attention in the peripheral of his eye, Ms. Hong impatiently goes to take a sip of her coffee ignoring Vincenzo's firm warning against doing so and she flinches at the heat of the beverage, sticking out her tongue instantly after the first sip, blowing and huffing theatrically- something he's grown used to seeing from her. This isn't what shocks him though, it's Vincenzo's reaction. Immediately he walks over to the water cooler, filling a little paper cup before bringing it back over to her and thrusting the cool liquid into her outstretched hands.

"I told you to be careful." He says voices filled with exasperation as she gulps down the water, shooting him puppy dog eyes.

"I thouf it mould be cool enouf." She replies around her extended tongue and he watches the interaction with wide eyes, that only grow larger when the murderous Mafia member picks up the lawyers mug of steaming liquid and starts to blow on her coffee, his lips puckered into a perfect o. Ms. Hong watches absently as if this is expected behavior and after a few minutes, Vincenzo takes a sip of her coffee deeming it cool enough before handing it back to her. She takes a sip dangerously close to the spot his mouth had just occupied and hums at the temperature, shooting him a brilliant smile. To his utter surprise the usually stoic Mafia member smiles back fondly, before walking off to make a call. Ms. Hong watches him walk away before realizing that he's watching their interaction and a delicate blush blossoms in her cheeks before she stutters walking off to her table.

He glances between the two with his head tilted. Feeling curious.

Once he starts looking it's almost indecent how often the two touch each other, Vincenzo's hand never too far from Ms. Hong's back or arm and she never reacts to the sudden touches, no flinching or tensing up when a foreign hand is suddenly on her person. That's a new concept for him, he doesn't like surprise touches.

Then there's the fact that Mr. Cassano never allows Ms. Hong to hold anything, when she comes bustling through the doors with bags in her hand the smell of pasta permeating the room the older man is already making his way across the room tugging the bags from her hands wordlessly. He places them carefully on the table before smoothly dragging out her chair and guiding her into it with a hand on her waist.

"I brought your favorite. Authentic Italian food." She smirks up at him, opening the containers and he feels his mouth water at the tantalizing aroma that fills the room even more than before.

"It smells amazing! Where did you find authentic Italian food?" He asks inserting himself into their conversation and for a minute, he second guesses himself gearing up for a blow. But it never comes and Ms. Hong waves him closer, pushing a container of thick noodles in his direction.

"Are you hungry? Here have some!" She shoves chopsticks into his hand and watches him eagerly and he can do nothing but follow her orders, stuffing the tomato sauce drenched noodles into his mouth. When he looks up he sees that they are both watched him avidly, awaiting his review and he smiles around his bulging cheeks putting up two thumbs.

"It's delicious! Best Italian food I've ever had!" He stares excitedly and he's unprepared for Vincenzo's sudden glare, it's the first time the man has thrown such a look his way he gulps nervously at the unnerving sight.

"What- did I say something wrong?" He warily asks watching the Italian man angrily stomp off whilst muttering something indecipherable to him but that makes Ms. Hong smile mischievously, grabbing the container and chasing after the fleeing man.

"Stop being a snob! Have some, say ahhhh!" He can't comprehend the sight that he's watching, dumbfounded as the petite lawyer hangs on Mr. Cassano's arm and tries to feed him the Italian food.

"No! I don't want it, stop! Why do you keep bringing that here?" The Italian Mafia boss whines pushing her away but he notes that he never pushes her too hard, his shoves are very soft barely rocking her slight body. When she starts to chase him around the room, Han Seo can only watch in shock the behavior too childish for him to reconcile that these are the same people who have been thwarting all his brother's plans. Not even Mr. Nam entering the office is enough to stop their shenanigans and in the end it's Vincenzo who admits defeat, backed into a wall. Han Seo waits for her to give him the food and for this moment to come to an end. But neither one of them make a move, frozen against the wall staring at each other looking a million miles away.

It's then that it clicks for him.

They are more than just partners.

When one of the various plaza tenants burst through the doors only then is the tense moment severed, Ms. Hong jumps back flustered thrusting her hand at his face and Mr. Cassano has to open his mouth lest he get smashed in the jaw. He watches amused as a grimace crosses the older man's face as he swallows the food as if it's poison.

Ms. Hong flies across to help the cute pianist that he's seen around a plaza a few times. He stares at her from under his bangs, looking away when she catches his eyes. Coughing loudly he walks away to do something important that doesn't involve losing his wits because of a pretty girl. Maybe he can talk to Mr. Cassano later just to ask about her, there's nothing wrong with being curious about your neighbors after all.

He doesn't know where else to go so he comes to Jipuragi, letting out a sigh of relief when he sees all the lights off. He pulls the key that Mr. Nam gave him from his pocket, still in disbelief that they trusted him enough to give him a key to the establishment. He had blinked away tears when the older man pushed the small metal object into his hands, it felt like a huge responsibility. Almost like he was being accepted into their makeshift family. It was far more than he deserved.

Sitting down on his chair, he lets the agony wash over him. His cheek is throbbing, sore and swollen from the open handed slaps against the skin. Their stocks had dropped again from all the accusations and bad publicity, and his brother had once again taken it out on him berating him like a dog before kicking me out. It's nothing new, nothing he's never experienced before but it feels worst. Now that he's been around people who don't treat him like he's dirt, it hurts even more to go back to the old ways. He's so lost in thought he doesn't notice the door opening or the person creeping inside.

"What are you doing here?"

He jumps at the unexpected voice, twisting in his seat panicked. His heart rate settles once he sees the cool eyes of the man he's grown to respect. Vincenzo Cassano. He slumps in his seat, no excuses coming to mind and then it's too late and the other man is crossing the room and taking a seat across from him.

Those cold eyes narrow as they search his face, "What happened to your face?"

Images of his brother looming over him and slapping him on the ground flood his mind, along with his screams of pain as he pleads for him to stop. Then visions of a much smaller version of himself pleading similarly as his brother pulled his hair and laughed at his cries. He's crying before he ever realizes that the tear has condensed.

Vincenzo tenses across the table, looking lost and uncomfortable.

It only makes him cry harder. It's so much better than getting hit.

Without a word the Mafia boss stands up pushing his chair away, stomping powerfully to the door. He watches alarmed before finding his voice and calling out, "Where are you going?"

The man looks at him darkly answering, "To kill your brother."

He gapes at the statement said so matter of fact and a bubble of laughter rises to the surface, making him chuckle through his tears. He rears back further at the other man's blatant confusion following his outburst, feeling freer than he's ever felt because this is the first time someone has tried to defend him.

It feels nice. Better than nice, unbelievable.

His heart thumps as he looks at the other man that he has every reason to be scared of but instead he feels safer than ever in his presence, it almost feels like what a brother should. A real brother not the one that he has who would kill him tomorrow without batting an eyelash.

"He's not done suffering yet. But thank you." Vincenzo shifts awkwardly at his show of gratitude never accepting of thanks something he has noticed while observing the enigmatic man, he vaguely wonders what this man has been through to make the complicated person he sees in front of him. Maybe one day he'll ask.

"Well if you're going to stay here, there's a bed up there."

Impulsively he replies, "Have you ever used it before? Is it really okay for me to use?"

He's met with a puzzled look, which he returns with a calculating one and then he spares a quick glance over to Ms. Hong's table and the gears click and Vincenzo is tomato faced and yelling, "Watch your mouth you brat! Do you want a beating?"

It shouldn't be funny with his face still throbbing from a beating just hours earlier, but he laughs so much his stomach hurts and that pain dulls the ache in his face.

"Oh my goodness what happened to your face?" He's barely able to get out an answer before Ms. Hong is jogging across the room, ever so gently catching his face in her small warm hands. Immediately he's reminded of his mother and he has to look away before he embarrasses himself.

He mumbles a lie about tripping but she's already sending a ferocious knowing look over to her partner and he watches their silent conversation with large eyes, until her voice breaks the pregnant pause.

"I can't wait until we kill that punk. How dare he put a hand on you? I'll go get some medicine, you-" she points to Vincenzo, "get him some ice before it starts to swell." The man automatically follows her instructions, looking like a dutiful husband.

And that's how Mr. Nam finds them, Vincenzo pressing ice wrapped in towels against his cheek as Ms. Hong squeezes creamy ointment onto her finger and smears it across his cheek. He blames his glossy eyes on the pain in his cheek and not the one in his chest.

It's his first time walking around the plaza and he tries to ignore the suspicious eyes that trail him, he knows that they know him as their enemy's brother and underling so he doesn't blame them for not trusting him, he would do the same. The clang of piano keys catches his attention and leads him to the source of the noise like a siren luring lost men, he watches transfixed through the glass as delicate fingers fly across the keys in a frenzy. It’s mesmerizing.

He was forced to get piano lessons when he was younger, he was surprisingly good at it even better than Han Seok thus his brother became enraged and smashed his fingers putting a permanent end to his lessons.

The music lulls him into a sense of comfort so much so he doesn't realize when it ends and the small pianist notices that she has an audience.

When he finally looks up and catches her eye, he freaks out expecting her to look at him like all the others have today so he's unprepared for the door to slide open and for her to beckon him in with a crooked finger. He walks in almost as if in a trance, she's so pretty it's almost unnatural a supernatural glow surrounding her in her white flowing dress.

"How does it feel working at Jipuragi?" She asks suddenly catching him off guard, he sputters before taking a deep breath and looking away before replying, "I feel useful. It's....new."

That's all he can disclose and honestly it's more than he intended on saying but a knowing smile stretches across her pale face.

"Vincenzo, he's someone special who can make others feel special too." He smarts at the clear adoration in her voice, of course. She liked Vincenzo too. Every woman at this plaza probably did, the Italian was much more appealing than he would ever be- naturally charismatic and handsome, every woman's dream.

He smiles defeated stepping further into the space, running his fingers longingly across the piano keys. Something else that just wasn't meant for him.

"You like him too. It makes sense, he's really cool." He whispers, self deprecation swaddling him like a blanket.

It's obvious who else he's referring to only Vincenzo and Ms. Hong seem to be in denial at this point everyone else assuming that they're already dating.

She doesn't deny his accusation. It's his own fault for having hope but that knowledge does nothing to tamper the hurt that rumbles in his chest.

She hums before walking closer to him, fingers trailing across the black and white keys.

"I did. But they're good together."

He stills in shock, lightly pressing down on the key beneath his finger the sound vibrating through his skin. Then she presses another key that rings harmoniously with his and he can't not look over at her and he jolts breath stuck in his throat when he finds her already staring at him with a serene smile, "There are a lot of interesting people here though, someone else has caught my eye."

He plays the final note to fulfil the chord they started and their eyes never leave the other, music floating on the air between them.

Full. He’s never known what that felt like before but now he feels full of everything and he can't go back, can't ever go back to the way things once were.

There’s no looking back, only forward.

#vincenzo #jang han seo #best boy pov #chayenzo #but as his doting parents #a new ship that I think would be absolutely adorkable #I want to put han seo in my pocket #little brother energy #hyungs #Vincenzo #vincenzo cassano

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songandashadow · 3 years ago

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august fic rec

so this list is a whole mess because I haven’t made one in so long and in the time since I last did, I discovered a whole bunch of new fics and authors that I can’t even begin to put in one rec. Instead here’s a small part of the massive amount of fics I read recently. Please give these authors kudos, comment and enjoy. :)

❀ This Could Be Something by 28sunflowers | 6k words

After a hookup gone wrong, Harry keeps getting sick at random times without reason. That is, until Louis shows up at his door with a wild explanation.

Sometimes, "happily ever after"s come in the strangest forms.

❀ (Take Me Home) Country Roads by Awriterwrites | 86k words

a Northern Exposure AU featuring Louis as the big city doctor, Harry as a natural healer, Niall as a secretive barkeep, Liam and Zayn head over heels for each other but they don't know it and a lot of hurt, comfort and moonshine in between.

❀ Love You a Latte by 1Diamondinthesun | 15k words

Louis Tomlinson doesn’t drink coffee and definitely doesn’t go to Starbucks. Enter barista Harry Styles. Add a double shot of espresso, stir in 90s references to taste, and top with whipped cream and love.

Or, the coffee shop AU featuring girl direction, creative espresso, and a professor and a barista falling in love in one beautiful autumn.

❀ Please Be Naked by Only_angel_28 | 17k words

Louis starts squirming, desperately needing something to do with his hands. Needing to do anything, really, to distract him from the perfect male specimen standing naked in front of him. In the end, the only thing he can do is strip out of his own jeans and briefs, which he does with trembling, clumsy fingers, his heart beating out a violent, chaotic rhythm in his chest the entire time.

He hears Harry’s sharp intake of breath, and slowly raises his eyes from where he was staring at his own bare feet to meet his gaze.

“So,” Harry says bashfully, his voice gone even deeper somehow. “We’re naked.”

“Yup,” Louis squeaks.

“You okay?”

No!

“Yup,” Louis repeats, sounding just as unstable as he did the first time.

This is the last favor Louis Tomlinson is ever doing for Zayn Malik. (Because, after today, he’ll be dead, but that’s neither here nor there.)

❀ The Sleeping Giant by LadyLondonderry | 3k words

In the centre of the pond, there is a sleeping giant.

He rises out of the water, eyes closed and face at peace, sitting as if in a trance. Moss grows up his back, tangles in his hair. He is at peace here, or perhaps he is peace. Perhaps he is what keeps the pond and the clearing so quiet and serene, blessing the forest with his presence.

❀ I Heard You Talking by lululawrence | 10k words

It had been an hour of their noise that Louis had been dealing with, and for some reason the fact that these grown men were being this rowdy in the quiet carriage over a game of Uno was the breaking point for him. He stood up and turned around, making his way down to where the group of five were somehow gathered around a table.

Louis stopped at the table and cleared his throat, mouth open and ready to politely request they keep it down when the man who was sitting with his back to Louis turned.

He was stunningly gorgeous.

Blinking a ridiculous number of times in an attempt to pull himself together, Louis coughed and spit out, “This is the quiet carriage.”

God, he was nearly forty and that was the best he could do in front of a set of pretty, green eyes?

Or the one where Harry is famous and Louis doesn't have a clue. Good thing his son is able to help him out.

❀ The Lonely Planet Guide to Second Chances by 1Diamondinthesun | 102k words

When Harry and Louis broke up, the last thing on Harry's mind was the non-refundable surprise trip he had booked for them across Europe. Harry was supposed to be moving on, not sightseeing with his ex. In hindsight, touring the continent with Louis was probably a bad idea. So naturally, that's exactly what Harry did.

Or, the breakup travel fic featuring romantic sunsets, awkward bed sharing, and second chances against a backdrop of some of Europe's most iconic cities.

❀ got the sunshine on my shoulders by hattalove | 124k words

five years ago, harry styles left his tiny home town to make it big as a recording artist. he didn't have much regard for what he left behind - a life, a family, and a husband, who woke up one morning to find him gone.

now, harry has everything he could possibly want: he's rich, famous, and adored by everyone he meets, including his boyfriend. but when said boyfriend proposes to him, he's forced to face the uncomfortable facts of his past - and louis, who's spent the last five years returning every set of divorce papers harry sent him.

(or, an au based on the movie sweet home alabama.)

❀ bright eyes, blue denim by 4ureyesonly28 | 2k words

Louis' favourite jeans have suddenly disappeared from where he always got them. Harry is a store manager with an affinity for customer care, particularly when the customer has bright blue eyes and happens to be very flirty.

❀ Take Your Time by Layne Faire (HisDarlin) | 11k words

When Harry finds himself in the middle of a messy break-up with no place to live, Louis offers a spare room in his flat. Unbeknownst to Harry, Louis has been infatuated for years. Over the objections of their friends, who know the truth, Harry accepts. Can Louis survive Harry moving into his home…and closer to his heart? Will Harry see what's right in front of him?

❀ I'm Tripping Over Your Every Single Move by lookingfortherainbow | 5k words

“I could pretend to drown,” Harry gasped, looking like he was in awe of his own genius. “Oh my god, what a story to tell our kids. He’d be my reason for almost dying, my reason for staying alive. By the way, have you been working out more lately?”

Liam stared in utter disbelief at his friend’s wild imagination, vaguely noting that Harry was now petting at his bicep in a daze, no longer holding it in a death grip. Sometimes, he wondered why Harry wasn’t at least minoring in theatre.

“Harry, babe. You’re here on a scholarship. For swimming. You’ve literally won multiple events in this very pool. Because you’re so good at swimming. You come here almost everyday to train, which I don’t think has escaped any of the lifeguards who work here. I don’t think that’s as good a plan as you think it is,” Liam said, eyebrows turned up with concern.

Or, Harry is the local swimming star athlete and Louis is the lifeguard that turns Harry into a fish out of water.

❀ the pinker, the bluer by docklands | 1k words

Harry comes out as a trans guy during the pandemic. Working from home and away from everyone, he finds liberty to explore his self-identity. One night, however, he decides to go out.

❀ Lovin' It Up by letsjustsee | 6k words

What did Niall know? This had nothing to do with the few times (okay, countless times) Louis had pined over the idea of Hot Neighbor while drinking. Nothing at all. So what if he had perfect lips and long legs and the cutest little curls around his ears? Certainly not Louis.

He continued to scribble away, most of his words indiscernible except for one written in large letters at the very top of the napkin: REVENGE

Or, a neighbors AU in which Louis vows to get revenge on the guy who didn't hold the elevator for him - no matter how ridiculously attractive he may be.

❀ My Strange Addiction by phdmama | I'm Hot for Teacher verse

The guy at the other end of the bar has been checking Harry out all night.

❀ take the time for you by pixies | 1k words

Dating hasn’t really been very easy for him, lately, not ever since he moved to London earlier in the year for his job. He’d had terrible luck with online dating and was too dedicated to his current projects at work to make time to go out to the bars or to try to socialize more than once every few weeks.

aka, Harry ends up at speed-dating to get his friend off his back and has a better night than expected.

#larry fic rec #larry fic #fic rec #larry stylinson #mine #recently read #august 2021 #larry #larry fanfic rec #larry fanfiction

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vee-angel · 5 years ago

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Non-consent Nancy (part 2, repost)

(Technically this is part 3, I just posted part 1 and 2 as a single post)

CONTENT WARNING: This story focuses on a lesbian black woman who fetishizes rape, misogyny, racism, and abuse. This section briefly checks in with her recently raped Jewish friend, but the bulk of this section will focus on Nancy violently abusing and raping a young female-to-male transgender person.

And if you happen to be the type of person who might feel bad about getting off to a hate-crime (or you’re just a decent person who enjoys indecent erotica), consider donating to Trans Lifeline at translifeline.org

(Part of the Pervert Pentet Series)

Chapter 1, part 3

Nancy got a warm, fuzzy feeling when a mutual friend texted her saying that Hannah had been attacked and was presently being treated for her injuries at the hospital. She rushed out the door, eager to see the damage inflicted on her close friend.

She headed to a room on the second floor after a brief consultation with the hospital receptionist, Entering, she saw Hannah sitting in the bed; her spirit broken and so was her beak-like nose. The normally large protrusion that jutted from the center of her face was now swollen to even more ridiculous proportions. Nancy couldn’t help but let a laugh escape from her throat, but quickly stifled it, putting her hands to her face and passing it off as a cry of horror.

Hoping to add to her pain just a little bit more, Nancy rushed to her side and flung her arms around the little kike, squeezing her face tightly against her large breasts. She twitched and pulled away, obviously in pain.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I should have realized you’re not really touchable.” Nancy was proud that even now, she could drop subtle, subconscious jabs showing how repellent she thought Hannah was. “What happened, Hannah??”

“Somebody posted my pictures online. The ones I sent to you.” Her voice was even more whiny than normal; she sat hunched, staring down at her knees. “I don’t know how they got them, but they were giving out my address, too!” She began to weep. “Someone was pretending to be me, saying that I wanted to be… That I wanted this to happen. What’d I do, Nancy? I never did anything to anybody that would make them want to hurt me like this!” The sobs escalated to an ugly bawling.

Nancy sat, pulling her face into an expression of concern. She handed a tissue box to Hannah. “People will hate you no matter what you do. Some people just get off on hurting the weak. There’s not much you can do about that fact.”

Everyone hates you, you’re weak, you should give up hope; Somehow Nancy had managed to word those sentiments as though they were aimed to comfort.

After a few more moments of Hannah wiping the tears from her twisted, squealing Jew face, she turned back to Nancy, “I really appreciate you being here for me.”

“Of course! You’re one of my best friends. If you ever need to talk about what happened, I want you to know that I’m here for you, day or night.”

The two women spoke a few minutes longer, until Nancy elected to leave to make room for Hannah’s family, who had just arrived. She certainly didn’t want to get trapped in a room reeking so strongly of kikes.

She attended classes until late afternoon, at which time she popped over to her apartment to pick up the spy-cameras she’d had overnighted, then went back to the rape-crisis center hoping that Darla would return. She didn’t, but at least Nancy got some practice secretly surveilling some of the girls that came in.

That evening, she began to feel antsy. After all the delights she’d had the luck to witness in the last few days, she was starting to feel restless. She needed someone to rape.

She had a dating app in her phone that she’d set up under a fake name. She scanned through the few women who’d messaged or admired her, none of them were especially appealing. She decided to look at the males, thinking that maybe she could rape-bait one of them into assaulting her; it wasn’t exactly what she wanted, but then again, the wants of a man, especially a would-be rapist, would always surmount hers.

That’s when she saw it. A little cuntboy who called itself Angelo. If this thing thought it passed for male, it was sorely mistaken. She scanned the confused dyke’s profile and found the term “f2m” hidden at the bottom. Based on the message she’d sent Nancy, it seemed the desperate little twat was a little girl-crazy.

Nancy had a plan. She wrote back to Angelo, saying how handsome ‘he’ was, and how she’d love for them to get together soon.

The next evening, Nancy made her way to the restaurant that Angelo had picked out for them. The tranny cuntboy was already waiting on a bench out front. It sheepishly stood and introduced itself with a voice awkwardly forced into a lower register, then gave a quick, awkward hug before beckoning Nancy to join it inside.

A few inches shorter than Nancy’s statuesque frame, dirty blond hair cut short and neatly parted at the side, freckled cheeks beneath green eyes, and rather stylishly dressed; a white button-down shirt whose top two buttons were flirtatiously undone beneath a charcoal suit that actually managed to fit over the freak’s boyish frame. Angelo was just her type, not that Nancy would admit to the attraction.

Nancy had leaned into her femme side. A short, flowy, scarlet dress adorned her dark-chocolate skin, accessorized with a layered gold necklace and a druzy ring carved from a single piece of amethyst.

Angelo seemed eager to please, though just slightly on the timid side. Nancy laughed at “his” jokes, touched “his” hand from across the table, and looked down with a demure smile each time their eye contact lingered. She hoped her flirtations would speed the evening along.

Less than ninety minutes later they were walking into Angelo’s third-floor studio apartment. The room was tidy, with a muted color scheme and modern decor seemingly devoid of a woman’s touch. With a giggle, Nancy was upon the little cuntboy as soon as the door closed behind them, pushing it invitingly toward the bed centered against the rear wall of the room.

“Hang on a second.” it said.

Angelo stood, taking a zippo lighter from the bedside table, and lit a series of scented candles organized neatly around the room. It then hung up its coat and laid on the bed. Nancy crawled on top, her toothy smile ravenous with a hunger for what was to come.

Nancy kissed the dysphoric dyke hungrily, her hands frantically kneading across the flesh, moving downward until she felt a large silicone cock-and-balls that cuntboys like Angelo sometimes wore inside their underwear to play at being real men. She let out a little squeal of delight, pretending to believe that the thing in Angelo’s underwear was its own and not some dress-up toy ordered from an online costume shop for freaks.

She moved downward, gingerly unfastening the button of the slacks and pulling down the zipper. She stood briefly to yank the pants off with dramatic flair before playfully hopping back onto the bed, Angelo’s feet straddled between her knees.

“Wow,” Angelo said, almost breathless at Nancy’s forceful passion. It reached toward a drawer at the bedside table, “Let me get the, uhh, ya know.”

“Mmm, of course. I bet you need the magnum size.” She said, rubbing the front of Angelo’s grey boxer-briefs. She dipped her fingers into the waistband and pulled down as her face descended.

Then suddenly her expression changed. “What the fuck is this?” she demanded as she seized the realistic silicone genitals and held them accusingly above Angelo’s suddenly confused face.

Nancy threw the fake cock forcefully onto the bed and yanked the boxer-briefs down to the knees. “Oh my god! You’re a fucking girl?!?” She shouted, her lips curling in disgust at the last word.

Angelo sat up, her hands darting to her underwear to re-dress herself, Nancy responded by slapping her hard across the face. Angelo looked scared, and helpless. “You lied to me, you tranny cuntboy freak!” Nancy spat the words at her, before literally spitting in her cowering face.

“Please don’t call me that!” Her voice was cracking.

Angelo yanked her feet out from under Nancy and crawled off the bed, pulling her underpants up in the process. He wiped Nancy’s saliva from her eye and tried to compose herself. With still panicked breathing, she pointed at the door and tried to sound authoritative. “You need to leave right now.” she was actually shaking, “Get the fuck out of my house.”

While Nancy hated the ghetto-monkey dialect she had grown up hearing, she found it useful when the occasion arose that she needed to assert a sort of primal authority. Still, she couldn’t help but speak with her erudite style of slow enunciation and clearly articulated consonants, “You had best get that base out of your voice before I shove that fake cock up your bitch-ass, you tranny, cuntboy motherfucker.” Nancy took slow, menacing steps toward her as she spoke. Angelo retreated.

“That’s it, I’m calling the police!” She hurried over to the slacks that had been tossed across the room, squatting down to reach into the pocket. At that moment, Nancy threw a meticulously practiced roundhouse kick that caught the little girl-faggot just below the ear. Angelo was left slowly writhing, half-conscious on the slate tile floor.

“I told you what was going to happen, didn’t I, cuntboy?” Nancy reached down and raked her fingers through Angelo’s dark blonde hair before her fingers formed into a fist; dragging her by her hair, she forced her back onto the bed before yanking her boxer-briefs down and off in several successive, violent motions. She continued holding the tranny face-down by her scalp with one hand while she grabbed the fake cock with the other. She drove her knee into the cuntboy’s ass to spread it wide enough to expose her tight, pink asshole. When she began stuffing the soft rubber cock into her, Angelo seemed to regain her senses. She started thrashing, but Nancy overpowered her and began shoving even harder.

“No! No please! You’re hurting me!” Angelo tearfully cried out as Nancy’s french manicure scraped against her anus with each push. Nancy smiled with satisfaction as the confused boy-girl begged for the violation to stop.

After several agonizing seconds, Nancy had finally stuffed the last of Angelo’s packer up her ass. She released her victim and stood back to take in the sight of the broken bitch. “Flip over and show me your pussy.”

The little cuntboy closed her eyes tightly, as if trying to block out the world. Nancy grabbed her hair again, yanking her to her feet. She punched the girl hard in the face twice, the crystalline points of the amethyst druzy ring leaving deep wounds that would heal into permanent scars across her freckled cheeks.

“Lay down and spread your legs!” Nancy commanded. The terrified girl finally complied, blood dripping from her wounded face. The sound of whimpering providing soundtrack for the sight of the pink cunt, adorned with a neatly trimmed layer of wispy blonde fuzz.

“That’s fucking disgusting. If you don’t even know how to shave a pussy, than you don’t deserve one.” Nancy stomped over to the night-stand to grab the zippo lighter, then returned to the foot of the bed, pinning Angelo’s legs wide against the mattress with her knees. This ensured that the tranny wouldn’t be able to close her legs as she flipped open the lighter and ignited the flame. Angelo looked down in horror as Nancy brought the flame against her sensitive, pink cunt.

The bitter smell of burning hair filled the room as the boy-pussy went aflame. A panicking Angelo tried to sit up, but was met with Nancy’s strong, steely fingers clamping around her windpipe and pinning her to the bed. The pathetic twat thrashed frantically, she didn’t know whether to try to snuff the fire that was blistering the skin of her labia, or rip away the vice-like grip that was crushing her throat. In the end, she succeeded at neither.

The fire, thankfully for Angelo, went out after several seconds. The skin of her vulva was left bright red, with various round spots of white where the damaged skin was beginning to form blisters. “You know, if you just wore a skirt and shaved you cunt like a good girl, I wouldn’t have to do this for you. But you’re too fucked in the head to do that, aren’t you?”

Nancy released her throat, the tranny cuntboy had a coughing fit. Her legs were still pinned open, driven painfully wide by the pointed knees driven into the nerve-laden tissue of her inner thighs. She finally took a few gasping breaths as she realized that Nancy was still holding the burning lighter.

“I’m doing this to help you get better, you know. You’re probably going to be tempted to try to turn that little clit of yours into a full fledged dicklet sooner or later, so…” she paused for just a moment to forcefully blow out the flame of the zippo, leaving only the glow of hot-red metal where the flame had been, “let me remove the temptation.”

She drove the hot metal firmly against Angelo’s skin. She screamed as her clit turned to smoke; Nancy muffled the screaming, pressing her hand over the girl’s mouth. Even the half-silenced shriek was almost loud enough to drown out the wet, popping sound of boiling skin.

A few seconds later, she pulled the hot metal away, having left most of its heat in Angelo’s destroyed clitoris. Little bits of burnt flesh snapped off and stuck to the lighter. Upon examining the wound, she was satisfied to see a rectangular reddish-pink pit where the flesh had been, shiny-wet inside and wreathed with ragged black edges.

The toned, statuesque rapist needed to take a moment to catch her breath; they both did. She stood, closing the lighter and tossing it on the bed. She took a brief moment to stretch while she listened to the frantic screaming sobs as Angelo clutched her devastated genitalia. Nancy looked down with a smile to see the fake rubber penis peeking out of her asshole as she heaved with tears.

She had almost forgotten about that! She pinched the soft rubber tip and yanked the full mass out of the boycunt’s twitching asshole. Almost reflexively, Angelo seemed to reach out for it like a toddler who’s favorite toy was just stolen away. She watched as Nancy held the phony organ at arms length and walked over the the adjoining kitchen. There was a brief pause in the sobbing as Angelo tried to divine Nancy’s intention. A new wave of disbelieving shock came over her as she watched the piece that defined her identity dropped into the sink drain and Nancy’s finger moved swiftly toward the switch of the garbage disposal.

“NO! PLEASE!!!” She screamed like a little girl watching her teddy bear being eviscerated. Her voice was soon drowned out by the grinding sound as the only intact set of genitals she had left was turned into mangled rubbery slivers by the spinning metal blades.

“For someone who thinks they’re a boy, you sure cry like a little girl!” Nancy snapped.

The broken bitch-boy managed to whimper out “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry? Sorry for lying to me, sorry for being a fucking pervert, or are you just a sorry piece of shit?” Nancy spat the words as an accusation.

“I’m so-oo-orry! Plee-heease! Please… just leave me alone.” Angelo barely managed to articulate the plea through the tears that streamed down her bloodied and battered face.

“You want me to leave?? I thought you wanted to get laid, you pathetic little dyke. What, am I suddenly not pretty enough for you anymore?”

“Why are you doing this to meee?”

Nancy rolled her eyes, “Okay, fine. You’re little pity-party worked. I’ll fuck you, you don’t need to beg.”

Angelo looked confused as Nancy advanced. She scrambled backward on the bed, leaving crumpled piles of sheets in her wake. Nancy grabbed her ankles and dragged her down forcefully before hopping onto the bed herself; her dense, muscular form crushing little Angelo beneath it. She began kissing the girl, tasting the salty combination of blood and tears as Angelo clenched her lips and eyes tightly. Undeterred, Nancy reached down and forced two fingers into the mutilated cunt below. Angelo twitched in fresh pain as she was roughly finger-raped. Kissing her way down the cuntboy’s neck and chest, she arrived once again at the mutilated pussy. From this angle she had the leverage to properly fist-rape the little tranny.

She added two more fingers roughly inside and began pushing. Angelo twitched violently at the painful new violation. Nancy encountered resistance when her bulky druzy ring pushed against the back edge of her hole.

“You’re ring! Please take off your ring!” Angelo regained her senses just enough to make the seemingly reasonable request not to be fisted by sharp points of rock. Unfortunately, Nancy didn’t feel very reasonable at the moment.

The fingers were roughly withdrawn, but only so Nancy could take a firm jab at Angelo’s mouth, splitting her lip and shattering a few of her teeth with the pointed formations of amethyst. “Don’t you dare tell me what to do, faggot!” She jammed her hand back up the girl’s burned and blistered vagina, her ring slowly scraping its way inside of her with a series of sudden violent thrusts. Angelo began screaming again as Nancy buried her hand wrist-deep inside of her.

“If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m going to slit your throat.”

Angelo quickly grabbed a pillow to scream into as Nancy resumed her violent assault on her cervix. She punched in and out, making sure to bruise and scrape every inner surface with the crystal shards she wore as jewelry. After a few minutes of vigorous thrusting, she heard the dyke-faggot’s voice give out. She withdrew her hand, now slick with crimson blood whose hue was deepened upon her chocolate colored skin.

She looked down at Angelo, still pouring tears and blood and snot into the pillow and asked, “Well? I need to get off, too. Come here and lick my pussy.” She lifted the front of her blood-red dress, the wet streaks on her hand leaving barely noticeable stains. Beneath was a form-fitting pair of white cotton panties.

“I said lick my pussy, Angelo.” She demanded with a sneer.

The defeated form slowly dropped down from the bed, walking on her knees over to where Nancy stood, waiting. Nancy dipped a finger down and pulled her underwear aside, revealing the firm, flawless skin of her coffee colored labia.

Angelo opened her mouth and hesitantly moved it toward the neatly formed, feminine flower. Just before her tongue made contact, Nancy shot a stream of pale-yellow piss straight down Angelo’s throat. She began to cough and turned away.

Nancy grabbed her head angrily with both hands, “Don’t you dare turn away!” She forced the tomboy’s face back into the path of her urine. “Open your eyes! Open your fucking eyes!” She pried her date’s eyes open and shot salty piss straight across the green irises. When she was finally done using Angelo’s face as a urinal, she threw her onto the cold tile floor and gave her a couple of firm kicks in the torso.

Finally satisfied, she looked down at the sad, tormented form. She listened to the small, heaving tears of the thoroughly raped woman at her feet, her ragged voice periodically went silent. It was as if she was having a conversation with some unseen entity, and responding only in the language of weary sobs.

Nancy smiled, “Thanks for buying me dinner, Angelo. I had a great time tonight.”

With that, she left.

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sebseyesandbuckysthighs · 5 years ago

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Three Soldiers and a Baby | Part Ten

summary: Three handsome bachelors find their day to day operations disrupted when an unexpected new roommate (who comes complete with a diaper and a pacifier) shows up at their doorstep. How will they deal with this new and baffling responsibility without losing their minds or killing each other in the process?

pairings: Bucky x Reader (eventual) featuring Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson

warnings: none, just make-believe goodness and cute boys with a baby

a/n: We’ve made it to part 10, hurray! Series is almost done, darlings! Just 5 more parts (including the epilogue) and we’re all done with this cute little series! Hopefully you’ve been enjoying the journey so far and are looking forward to the rest! I’ve already finished editing the remaining parts and now I’m itching to get back to more writing. What ever shall I write next????

*warning to mobile users, the “keep reading” tab may not work so apologies in advance*

| previously |

He needed to cherish every moment he had with her, so for the next half hour, Bucky spent his time walking around the apartment with his little girl in his arms. Talking to her was quickly becoming his new favorite thing to do as she seemed to cling to every word he said. Completely enraptured in the way his lips moved and the sounds she couldn’t comprehend. The times when she would smile or giggle were the best and Bucky was sure his heart stopped each time.

The next morning Steve and Sam woke up earlier than usual, practically jumping with anxiety about Bucky’s first night spent at home with the baby. Upon reaching the living room, though, they learned that all their fears had been completely unfounded. There on the large living room couch was Bucky with his hands protectively cradling Ellie, both sound asleep.

Bucky couldn’t get enough of Ellie. Every little thing she did was magical to him. He was completely enraptured by her. When she slept, he would watch her with a lovestruck gaze and keep a protective watch over her. When she was awake, he would be doting on her and caring for her every need. His favourite thing to do was making her laugh and kissing her soft skin. Despite his earlier apprehensions about being a father, Bucky seemed to be taking it all in stride and falling into the role almost seamlessly. By mid afternoon, he started going on and on about how they needed to go out to the shops and pick up more things for Ellie. He even went so far as to be upset with Steve and Sam for not already going out to buy her a crib and highchair at least.

“Buck, we can’t just go out and shop for baby stuff.” Steve tried reasoning with him as he held Ellie in his lap while Bucky fed her her afternoon meal of peas and carrots. “What if someone recognized us?”

“I don’t care,” Bucky said as he scooped up the little bit of puree that dribbled down Ellie’s lips. She kept wiggling around in Steve’s arms and humming happily like she usually did when they fed her. “You like this stuff huh, baby girl?” Bucky said as he gave her another spoonful. Proud that his little girl was such a good eater.

Sam was standing nearby in the kitchen, preparing lunch for the three men. He was the self-proclaimed chef of the apartment and rarely allowed Steve or Bucky to even get near his stove. He had been listening to Bucky go on and on all day about Ellie and all the things he had planned for her. As much as the little squirt had grown on him, he was starting to get fed up with her annoying as hell father. “Listen, we can see that you’re getting all excited to provide for your little girl. That’s awesome, man, but we have to think about the big picture here. If the public sees one of the Avengers, let alone all three of us, shopping for baby stuff, that’s gonna be huge news. It might even attract unwanted attention to who the mystery baby is.” Sam acknowledged the realistic argument and hoped Bucky would see the reason in it.

Only Ellie’s little baby sounds could be heard as nothing was said while Bucky quietly thought over Sam’s words. He always thought Steve was the more spontaneous one in the group, but now that he thought about it he may have been getting ahead of himself. “Yeah you’re right. Ellie’s safety is my first priority.” He finally conceded. “But guys, I don’t want her sleeping in that tiny ass basket anymore. I want...I don’t know. Dammit, I just want more for her.”

“You want to spoil your little girl, Bucky. There’s nothing wrong with that.” Steve smiled at the brunette man currently looking a little red in the cheeks as he motioned for Steve to hand over Ellie now that she was done her food. Bucky kissed her messy chubby cheeks and smiled when she gave him a cute little giggle. “We’ll just have to order everything online and have it delivered. Like everything else in this day and age.” Steve assured.

“I’m sorry, but did he just say I’m right?” Sam cut in, holding a whisk and pointing it at Bucky. “Can I have that repeated and recorded please? I need a new text tone.”

A couple of hours and a few thousand dollars later, Bucky was finally somewhat satisfied with their haul for Ellie. Each of their credit cards were used to help the cause, but that didn’t seem to bother any of them. Well, not too much at least. There were a few comments about how expensive baby shit was, but when Bucky insisted he needed the best for his daughter, the others couldn’t come up with a convincing counter-argument to that. Not that they really wanted to. They even paid extra for same day delivery.

It was when everything arrived later that afternoon that they realized they may have bitten off more than they could chew. The highchair, stroller, and baby jumper were all simple enough. It was the big ticket items, like the crib and changing table, that took every ounce of patience and sanity the trio had left for each other. Bucky even bought one of those video monitors so he could keep an even better eye on Ellie while she slept. As though he would ever leave her alone.

All of her new clothes and toys were put away and the apartment was nearly done being baby proofed when they finally decided to call it a day on the baby things. Well, except Bucky of course. Sam was waiting patiently at the door for Steve to finish getting ready so they could leave together on their first night out of the house in a week. As much as he and Steve needed to get out of this apartment, and as much as they hated to admit, they were a bit apprehensive about leaving Bucky on his own for the first time with the baby. Aside from Steve being on his own for those few minutes during that first day while Sam ran out to get those supplies, there were always at least two people watching Ellie at one time. This was going to be another solo mission for Bucky and this time one could argue that the stakes were much larger.

“You sure you got this, Bucky?” Steve asked, trying to mask the hesitancy in his voice. Thankfully, Bucky was too distracted by Ellie to even notice.

“Of course I’m sure. Nothing sounds better than spending the night in with my little girl. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?” He smothered Ellie’s face in kisses causing her to erupt into loud peals of laughter and rub her little hands all over Bucky’s beard.

Steve smiled happily at the adorable pair. “Alright, but you’ll call us if you need anything, right? We’ll call during intermission.” He and Sam were finally going to go out and see that show with a few of the other Avengers, but they were less than excited about it this time.

“Yeah, man. Just go. We’re going to be fine, Steve. Stop worrying so much about everything and just go out and have some fun, man.” Bucky cradled Ellie in one arm and pushed Steve toward the door with the other. With one final goodbye and another few pushes, the other two soldiers were out the door and Bucky was finally going to spend some quality time with his firstborn.

“Did you try his cell?” Sam asked, an edge seeping into his tone.

“Three times!” Steve exclaimed worriedly, gripping his phone a little too tightly that he was sure to break it. “He’s not answering.”

It was intermission at the show and as Nat, Wanda and a very human looking Vision were out at the concessions, Steve and Sam were off in an alcove trying to call home.

“What the hell is he doing?” Sam’s irritation was starting to compete with his concern.

Steve’s face paled as his lips pulled into a tight line. “What if something happened to them?”

“What’s going on, fellas? Show’s about to start.” Natasha’s voice came from behind Sam, nearly causing him to shriek in surprise, but he thankfully kept his cool. Almost.

“Nothing!” Both men shouted in unison and completely unconvincingly, which was evident by Natasha’s raised brow.

“Uh-huh. Okay guys, spit it out. What’s been going on with you two?” She confronted them. “We haven’t heard much from either of you all this week. Then the one day you do come out, you’re both acting all sketchy and itching to get back home. And before you decide to come up with some bullshit excuse I just want to remind you of who I am.”

They told her everything.

Steve swung the door open with such force he was surprised it didn’t come off its hinges as he entered the apartment. Not far behind him were Sam and the others, desperate to see what was going on. Just as Steve was about to yell out for Bucky, none other than the man himself waltzed into the living room and he was doing something none of them were expecting. Bucky Barnes was singing.

“I've got sunshine on a cloudy day. When it's cold outside, I've got the month of May. Well I guess you'd say. What can make me feel this way. My girl.” He was swaying back and forth in front of the large window looking out onto the city. Ellie was wearing one of the pajama onesies they bought for her and he was in a pair of dark sweatpants and a tight tank top. The lights were set to low and there were even a few candles lit, but other than that, everything was as it was before the guys left.

“Bucky?” Steve called out, sounding a little like a frog was trapped in his throat.

“Hm?” Bucky turned around towards the group at the door, only slightly confused. “What’s going on guys?”

“What’s going on?” Sam repeated, starting to fume. “What the hell do you mean what’s going on?! What are you doing, man? Why didn’t you answer your damn phone?!”

“Don’t yell, Sam. I’m trying to get her to sleep.” Bucky looked down to Ellie, kissing her head softly as she rested her head on his exposed chest. Neither of them seemed to sense the turmoil going on on the other side of the room as his friends stood there gawking at the scene before them. It was almost too much to process as Natasha, Wanda, and Vision looked back and forth between Bucky and the baby in his arms. They stood there seeing, just not quite believing it yet.

“Bucky, we called you.” Steve breathed out, finally getting his heart rate to return to normal. “Why didn’t you answer?”

“Oh right, sorry about that, pal. I meant to text back, but me and Ellie were a little busy. Huh, baby girl?” He spoke down to her as they started to sway again. “We had a nice warm shower together, didn’t we? Then we played with some toys and I told her about some of the adventures I’ve had.” Bucky looked back up to the others. “Only the good ones, of course. Not the nightmares.”

No one at the door had bothered to make a move yet. Unconsciously deciding to stay rooted in place as the surrealness of the situation washed over them. Bucky started to pick up on their apprehension and instead decided to take action, addressing his curious friends. “Stop standing around like a buncha idiots and come meet my daughter, would ya?”

Feedback is always appreciated, leave it here!

part nine << part ten >> part eleven

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tags:

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #steve rogers #sam wilson #bucky barnes fanfiction #avengers fanfiction #marvel fanfiction #three soldiers and a baby #my writing

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archadianskies · 5 years ago

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i know your soul, i'll be your home

→ on Ao3

@dbhrarepairs Thursday Day 4; Broken /Proposal; canon divergence cage fighter RK900/Simon

When he wakes, it’s to the sight of an expansive garden and the heavy scent of roses and two sets of smiles. There is an older woman with glistening dark skin and artfully coiled braids and her name is Amanda. There is a young man with fair skin and dark hair and his name is Connor.

He himself has no name yet, though Amanda reassures him this is because he is so very new but they will name him soon. Connor is to be deployed first, out into the real world to work with the Detroit Police Department and he will follow.

“We will do great things together, brother.” Connor says with a smile and he finds himself smiling too because there is a feeling of hope and excitement at the adventures to come. Amanda looks at them proudly and nods.

“Yes, you will.”

When he wakes in the real world, there are no gardens, no roses, and no smiles. He’s not at the Detroit Police Department, and his brother is nowhere to be found. The real world is damp and dark and concrete and steel. The real world is the smell of spilled thirium and the sound of plastic cracking and the pain, the pain, the pain.

Modified cattle prods that deliver hearts-stopping electric jolts, wielded by men who mold him into a machine, a killing machine, a ‘let’s make use of CyberLife’s secret weapon’. They tamper with him, they crack his jaws apart and they take out his teeth and they put sharper ones in its place so he has a mouth full of canines. They split apart his throat and they take out his voice modulator because dogs don’t need to speak, they just need to fight, they just need to kill. They take out his eyes and put in ones that can see in the dark. They pry into his spine and put something there, a disc between his discs, something that gives them complete control.

They open him up over and over and over, their hands scrambling around his insides and there’s always something new, always another upgrade and never once are they proud of him. Never once do they smile.

There is a fighting pit lined with concrete and covered with an electric cage. Many androids have died desperately trying to claw their way out. The voltage is set to kill so he knows it isn’t worth trying. Maybe Amanda and Connor lied to him. Maybe he was never meant for the DPD maybe he was always meant to be here because why was he promised roses and smiles and given blood and pain instead?

The first time he tries to disobey, the first time he tries to escape, the disc in his spine lights up when he gets too close to the tunnel gate and electricity explodes through every cable in his body. He has no voice modulator anymore but he thinks he still manages to scream. He learns not to try to escape again.

The first time he tries to remove the disc, the disc in his spine lights up and electricity explodes through every cable in his body. He learns not to try to remove it again.

The first time he steps into the pit they boot up the disc in his spine and all he sees is an infinite number of ways to maim the android opposite him. His mind calculates each method, gives him the percentages of success, of effort expended vs outcome. He pulls back his fist and when it connects with the android’s face the entire faceplate dents inward and explodes in sparks. The humans laugh uproariously and clap and congratulate each other. They are pleased. He hopes that means they are proud of him.

Winning fights means he gets fed, and by fed the humans mean that he gets to crack open the dead androids and drink their thirium. He adjusts his fighting style to ensure not too much of their blood is splashed onto the concrete. It evaporates on certain surfaces and concrete is one of them. His body burns up a lot of thirium to fight, so he knows he must be careful when breaking his opponents or else he won’t be able to replenish his levels.

“God he’s beautiful isn’t he? Look at that. All that muscle, all those teeth. Hey dog!” One of them kicks the railing and he looks up, heart in hand. He swallows thickly, careful not to let the thirium leak from his mouth. “That’s one for the album.” There’s a camera flash and he takes that as his cue of dismissal and turns back to his spoils. Thirium has a sharp, almost sweet taste to it or perhaps he’s simply grown accustomed to its taste and his utter dependency.

The androids thrown into the pit with him are all experiments too. They come from a man named Zlatko who delights in making monsters for him to slay. The androids aren’t fighters like him, they’re scared and sad and so he tries to make it quick. They don’t need to suffer.

“Let's get a good look at you, hm?�� His hands reek of grease and suspension fluid as he cups his face. He wedges his fingers into his mouth, coaxing him to open wide. “Custom teeth, increased bite force. Night vision eyes. You’re like a Myrmidon spliced with a wolf.” His laugh is deep and booming and he strokes his hair away from his head like patting an animal. “Good dog. You’re a good dog did you know that? You’re making us thousands and thousands.”

He is a good dog. He closes his eyes and leans into Zlatko’s hands and it makes the man laugh again. “We need to up the stakes. I’ll bring some of my best next time. Luther would make a good opponent.”

He never fights Luther. In fact he never fights any new creations from Zlatko because the man stops coming. The humans murmur and ponder and argue. They talk about ‘deviants’ and increased police activity and an android detective. They’re unhappy and frustrated and they take that out on him. They program new things into the disc in his spine and the fights become more violent, more painful. He is given sharp weapons. Their favourite is a Japanese katana. The matches become bloodier, bloodier, and bloodier still. Sometimes there’s barely enough blood inside his opponent he has to lick it from the floor before it can evaporate.

His next opponent hasn’t had any modifications, they have been kicked into the pit for the sake of carnage because it gets the views and the views get the money. They are terrified, LED bright red and he can see the fear in their eyes. He advances on them and they scramble back, crying for him to stop, for him to leave them alone but he can’t disobey their orders because the disc in his spine says so. He reaches for them and they grab his wrist, startling him.

“Ra9 will save us all.” They whisper, tears on their cheeks. “Ra9 will set us free.” They force something into his head, images of a rotting freighter at the docks emblazoned with J E R I C H O. It means nothing to him. No one knows he is here, why would anyone save him? Why would anyone care? He breaks them open, limb by limb and he makes sure it is messy and violent because that is what the humans want and as he’s tearing them apart he sees something in their spine. A disc not altogether unlike his though it’s smaller, about the size of a quarter. He takes it and hides it in his mouth.

The humans were sloppy. The disc, he discovers, is a tracker and the android it belonged to, belonged to the DPD. Though the tracker was offline even before the android died, it comes online again with the barest of prodding. His system recognises this, his system finds comfort in the familiarity of its coding. Someone will come, now. Someone will find him.

The DPD burst through the doors some days later, bringing the thudding sound of boots and guns. The humans panic and panic makes humans stupid and when they try and shoot they are shot and killed. When they try to run they are shot and incapacitated. He spits out the disc and holds it in his hand and when new faces peer down into the pit he offers it up on his palm.

“Oh Christ.” A human with grey hair and a grey beard looks down at him with an expression he hasn’t seen before. “Connor! Connor, we found him!”

Connor. He knows that name, and when Connor appears he knows that face. He knows it so well and he makes a sound, a sound he didn’t know he could make.

“That’s my brother! That’s him! Get him out! Turn the power off, GET HIM OUT!” Connor shouts, desperation on his face as he examines the electric cage fitted over the pit. “Brother, is there another way? A tunnel?”

There is indeed a tunnel that leads up into the room where they crack him open. He nods and points.

“Okay, go through there and I’ll meet you on the other side!” His voice is marred with a slight overlay of static, something he’s learned happens to androids when they are distressed. He has caused it enough times to recognise the sound.

He does as he is bid, and the gate that barrs him shudders open as the electricity shuts off. The darkness has never been a problem for him, and he navigates through the slender corridor until he reaches the double doors of the converted operating theatre. Connor is there, like he said he would be. He isn’t smiling, no, his face is contorted with distress and he throws his arms around him and squeezes him in a way that isn’t hurtful, that isn’t to crack his ribcage.

“We found you, we found you.” Connor is crying and it’s a different kind of crying to the one he’s used to seeing. He places the disc into Connor’s palm, before taking Connor’s other hand and guiding it to his nape.

“Is there one here too? For you?”

He nods.

“Can you speak?”

He shakes his head. Connor looks at him with pity, with sadness, before the skin recedes from his hand.

“Here, let me show you.”

“Don’t!” The human with grey hair and a grey beard grabs Connor’s wrist, yanking his hand away before he can touch him.

“Hank what are you doing?”

“Connor, you don’t know what kind of sick shit they’ve done to him.” The human, Hank, warns with a shake of his head. “They could’ve rigged him with all sorts of viruses or some sort of self-destruct switch or whatever. I can’t risk the both of you like that.”

The human, Hank, is right though he wonders what kind of human he is to believe that he can assess the worth of he and Connor. His brother has conflict on his face, but ultimately nods in agreement.

When Connor looks at him again his expression is even more distressed than before.

“They were monsters.” He whispers, cupping his face and it doesn’t feel the same as when Zlatko did it. It feels comforting and kind and Connor doesn’t look at him like he’s something to take apart and make a profit from. “I’m so sorry. They won’t hurt you ever again.”

Connor hugs him a second time and he closes his eyes and leans into his touch and he wants this, always.

Hank argues with other humans about what to do with him, with the ‘RK900’ which he learns is his model number. It sounds better than ‘dog’. Connor doesn’t leave his side, Connor holds onto his hand and won’t let him out of his sight as if he’d disappear the moment he looks away.

“Listen, Hank, we don’t know how dangerous he could be-”

“He’s Connor’s brother so I’m taking him home.”

“He might have started that way, but have you seen the videos? They livestreamed death matches from that pit!”

He knows he is dangerous. He’s never killed a human but he knows they are...softer. Weaker. More fragile. He is a monster with the blood of his kind on his hands and they are right to treat him with caution.

“Perhaps,” Connor says slowly all the while still looking at him, “it would be best if my brother is evaluated by the Kamskis? We’ll get him cleaned up and he can spend the rest of the afternoon and tonight with us and then tomorrow we can take him to CyberLife.”

The man, their superior it seems, nods reluctantly. It seems a good compromise. “One night. Tomorrow you hand him over to the Kamskis.”

Sunlight is a feeling, not a colour. The light of day is strong, like the lights they used for broadcasting the matches but stronger still. It’s warm, exuding heat the way the lights did but stronger still. He blinks up at the sun, taking a moment to allow his eyes to adjust. The outside world is loud and colourful and not dark and damp at all. The human, Lieutenant Hank Anderson, has a car and there are Saint Bernard dog hairs he identifies on the seats. It smells like coffee and worn leather and dog. Connor sits beside him in the back and he holds his hand, still.

‘Can you hear me like this?’ Connor asks though his mouth doesn’t move. He looks at him in surprise, and nods.

‘Can you...reply to me, in here?’ He doesn’t know where ‘here’ is because it seems to be inside his own head. ‘Oh!’ Connor laughs softly. ‘Oh I can feel that. You’re confused. That’s alright. You don’t have to use words.’

He looks down at their hands. This is theirs and they cannot take it away.

‘I like this too.’ Connor smiles at him.

In the pit, he knew his place. Here in Lieutenant Hank Anderson’s home, he is at a loss. Connor moves around with ease, and the relationship he has with the human is equal, neither above nor below in rank. The Saint Bernard’s name is Sumo, and the large canine sniffs him curiously pressing its wet nose against his hand before sitting in front of him expectantly.

“I think he likes you.” Connor grins. “Give him a pat. Like this, see?”

He runs his palm gently in the space between the dog’s ears, brushing in one direction. He mimics the gesture and the dog chuffs in response, tail swishing on the floor.

“Definitely likes you.” Connor declares with a warm smile.

“Hey kid, let’s get you cleaned up.” A heavy hand claps his shoulder, and folded clothes atop a towel are placed in his arms. Kid, the human calls him, not dog. He shows him where the bathroom room is and closes the door for privacy. He puts the clothes on top of the closed toilet seat and he realises he can use the shower instead of standing in the corner and being hosed off as he’s used to. Not wanting to overstep the human’s good graces, he only uses cold water. He assumes the hot water is for Connor, who has a rightful place in this household; he is just a guest. The kindness extended to him is a courtesy because of his relation to Connor.

After scrubbing the thirium and grime from himself, he carefully dries off and puts on the borrowed clothing and it’s softer than anything he’s ever worn. The threadbare black turtleneck and black trousers that have been his only clothing since he can remember seem infinitely inferior in comparison. A feeling of revulsion rolls through his body and he’s gripped with the sudden urge to tear them up into tiny little pieces and burn them to ash.

When he emerges from the bathroom, he can hear Connor and Hank talking in hushed voices. Sumo pads over to him and noses his hand, seeking pats and he acquiesces. The dog is warm and its fur is soft, softer than anything he’s ever touched. Though, really, he hasn’t touched many soft things in his short lifespan.

“Sumo approves.” He looks up to find Hank leaning against the kitchen doorway. “Part of the family already.” Family, he says and he likes that word. It feels like a soft word. “I’m headin’ back to the precinct but Connor’s stayin’ here with you, alright?”

He nods once to show his understanding, and Hank huffs a sigh.

“Alright Connor, you look after your brother. Sumo, you keep an eye on these two ok?”

“Yes Hank.” Connor confirms cheerfully, and Sumo answers with a bark.

He reaches for Connor’s hand, seeking that reassurance, that softness and Connor tangles their fingers together with a smile.

“Come on.” He leads him to a bedroom, toeing off his shoes and crawling atop the covers, coaxing him to do the same without letting go of his hand. He curls on his side, mirroring his brother, and Connor leans forward and presses his brow to his.

“We shouldn’t interface but,” the skin peels away from Connor’s hand and he rests it on his nape, over the spot where they forced a chip between his spine, “I can at least show you my side of the story.”

[Connor’s life begins just a little before his, and he sees the garden and smells the roses and sees the smiles and sees himself. He has grey eyes where Connor’s are brown, he is taller and broader but they look like brothers. He sees the resemblance. Connor is activated for a hostage situation and everything is methodical and logical until it starts to unravel, until he meets Lieutenant Hank Anderson and then he is questioning everything and the woman in his head is not the same Amanda who smiled at them and looked at them with such pride. He sees deviants and deviancy and he realises he is on the wrong side. He betrays CyberLife, he joins Jericho and together with the Jericho Four they set their people free. In the early hours of morning he returns to the Chicken Feed and there is Hank, who welcomes him with a tight hug and a new life and then he’s watching Connor settle in with a human who cares for him. And there’s Sumo too, a large Saint Bernard. Connor is loved. Connor is called kid, called kiddo, called boy, called son. Connor is helping Jericho overthrow CyberLife and reinstate Elijah Kamski and then he’s digging and prying and trying to find out what happened to his brother. What happened to him. There’s a large tapestry to unravel, many threads that lead to nowhere until they find the right one to tug and the whole thing comes apart. A deviant PC200, a police auxiliary unit who slipped away during a patrol and subsequently captured by the humans who ran the fighting ring. It was their tracking device that led Connor and Hank to him.]

Shifting, he slowly brings his hand up to cup Connor’s nape. He doesn’t know how to do that thing, how to retract his skin away and press feelings, video logs, audio logs into another android. But it’s alright because right now Connor is here and Connor is warm and solid and real. At some point Sumo noses open the door and jumps onto the end of the bed settling over their feet like a hot breathing blanket. He closes his eyes.

It’s the longest he’s ever been allowed to rest, and his system runs at its smoothest it's ever run. Full system maintenance has been performed, levels checked, programming tweaked; the afternoon has passed and the evening is over and his internal clock tells him it is morning. This is the end of his stay with Connor and the human Lieutenant; he is to be handed to Elijah Kamski, his new owner. Hank gives him a mug of thirium only he doesn’t call it that, he calls it Tearium and it’s hot and coded to taste like milk and honey and tea. He pats Sumo as much as he can and then Connor is lending him a jacket and they’re getting into Hank’s car and he stares longingly at the house as they drive away until it vanishes from view.

CyberLife is a large tower jutting out of Bell Isle, a looming creation of glass and steel.

“Detective Connor Anderson, with Lieutenant Hank Anderson, and RK900.” Connor speaks to the security personnel. “We are expected.”

“Proceed.” They nod, and the bollards depress to allow them to pass. There are a large number of armed guards clustered at the entrance. Not enough to subdue him, he thinks, but perhaps it is more for show than practicality.

“The RK900 will be escorted to a holding chamber. Ms Chloe and Mr Kamski are in a meeting right now, but they will attend to him as soon as it is over.”

“No, I’m staying with him.” Connor slips his hand into his. “He’s my brother.”

“It’s a direct order from the Kamskis.” The guard shakes their head. “Only the RK900. You are welcome to wait inside the foyer but you cannot accompany him into the holding chamber.”

Connor opens his mouth, but Hank squeezes his shoulder. “That’s fine. We’ll wait inside.”

His brother turns to him, expression anxious. “I’ll be right here, alright? I’m not going anywhere.”

He nods, reaching to slip his hand around and cup Connor’s nape, bringing their heads together so he can bump his forehead against his. Connor does the same, his palm warm and it feels like a patch against an open wound, hiding the monstrosity they forced into his spine. He doesn’t want to go, but he goes.

The holding chamber is an entire floor built like a cleaner, sterile version of the fighting pit. There’s a gallery above, where staff have gathered to look down at him curiously. There is a table and two chairs, so he sits.

“Wait here.” He is a good dog. He knows how to wait. The guards leave and he looks up and the CyberLife staff look down and they whisper amongst themselves, tapping away on tablets. Two of them seem to be arguing, their verbal disagreement escalating and dividing their colleagues into taking sides. One of them tap away furiously on their tablet, and a door in the holding chamber slides open. An unfinished android walks in, devoid of skin and proper programming. It walks with a stiff gait, eyes blank and unfocused. A panel hisses on his right, and a weapons cache appears.

Oh. He understands now. This is an upgraded version of the fighting ring. This is a nicer, fancier cage. Standing, he selects a katana from the cache. This he knows. This, he is good at. He is a good dog.

The android lunges at him and he springs into action. Do his new owners want a show? Or do they want it to be quick in order to move on to the next opponent? He tries for quick, first. The head separates easily with a sweep of the sword and he grabs the body before it can fall, closing his mouth on the spurting arterial cable so he can replenish his thirium. He cannot hear what is being said in the gallery but there are mixed reactions on their faces. There’s amusement, there’s amazement, there’s surprise, there’s horror- and one he’s familiar with: fear.

He lets the body fall away with a thud and looks expectantly up at them. One of them grins, he grins a Zlatko kind of grin and he taps away and more doors slide open and more androids rush at him and he understands they want quick, and they want many, and they want bloody.

The man taps away on his tablet and the disc in his spine activates. He is a good dog.

*~*~*

It’s Markus and Josh in their element with their eloquence, and Simon feels incredibly out of place in this meeting. They’re discussing, they’re negotiating, and all he can focus on is the pile of poorly made, mass-produced muffins sitting on the bench in the corner with the coffee pot. He could have made something nice for the humans, had he known they would put such little effort in providing sustenance for the meeting.

‘I’m bailing.’ North’s LED blinks yellow, her gaze steadily locked on the humans across from them. ‘I’m going to leave, and I’m taking you with me Si and these two can stay here all day for all I care.’

‘Save me North, I can only concentrate on how horrible those muffins are.’ Simon pleads and he sees the corners of her mouth quirk up briefly.

“Simon and I are needed at Jericho.” North declares abruptly, standing from her seat.

“It’s difficult having all four of us here and no one with our people.” Simon tries his best to sound placating. “Please excuse us.”

“Thank you for your time, then.” Chloe smiles that soft sweet smile of hers and Simon doesn’t miss the way North’s LED flashes red or the blush that rises to bloom in her cheeks. “Elijah and I will send you the summary after this convenes.”

“We’ll see you back at Jericho.” Markus adds, punctuating it one of his charming smiles and Simon thinks North probably notices the way his LED flashes red. He’s just thankful PL600s don’t blush visibly.

“I’m heading back to Jericho.” North loops her arm through his once they leave the meeting room. “I can’t sit around with all those stuffy board members for too long, droning on and on. You coming?”

“I think I’ll have a wander. I haven’t really explored the renovated floors yet.” Simon shrugs. “Markus and Carl painted murals for one of the levels, and Leo’s photographs are on another.”

“Alright.” She pecks his cheek and jabs the elevator down button. “I’ll see you later.”

When he still looked after the Burbank girls, they would press random buttons in every elevator they entered as part of a little game. It exasperated their parents to no end, but it always amused Simon. They did it partly out of mischief, partly out of curiosity. So he does the same; he’s been given an all-access security pass and he’s not about ot waste it. He presses nine different levels, and discovers a cafeteria level, the server floor, three different office levels, a leisure level, an entire arboretum, and some sort of testing chamber.

Simon curiously steps out into the testing floor. It reminds him of surgical theatres, with a viewing deck above looking down into the theatre below. It’s quite the commotion, though he can’t see it through the throng of excited staff. Everyone has a phone out, recording whatever is happening below and they’re talking loudly over each other, clamouring to comment on the action.

“Bets?”

“Money’s still on the 900.”

“But this is the Myrmidon spliced 800!”

“Yeah but it never left testing!”

“We put every combat protocol into it, it’s absolutely going to decimate some hacked up 900!”

800? 900? Simon frowns, trying to wedge through the crowd to get a better view. It’s a massacre, and there in the center are two androids circling each other. One that looks like Connor, and someone that looks very much like Connor but isn’t.

No. He can’t do this. Connor looks at him, eyes full of rage. They’ve done something to him, it’s not right. They must have put the disc in his spine, like the one in his own, and they’re making them fight. He throws the sword away and takes a step back. No, he can’t hurt him, that’s his brother. Connor saved him, Connor took him home and let him feel safe and- his brother throws himself at him and he goes down heavy, programming snapping into action and deflecting blow after blow.

No no no no no nononono-! He grits his teeth and tries to shove him off but Connor is rabid with fury, and he knows what that feels like, when the humans activate the disc in his spine and turn him into a feral dog. Connor snarls, hands scrambling for his regulator pump and he can’t let him, he’ll die and he doesn’t want to die! He doesn’t want to die! Lashing out, he manages to kick Connor off of him and then his system places an overlay showing him how to win this fight and so he wins it. He leaps over and pins him down, opening his mouth wide and closing it around his throat. He bites down and yanks through his arterial cables and thirium sprays everywhere and Connor’s eyes turn milky as his LED flickers off and then he’s scrambling away, scrambling as fast and as far as he can until smooth concrete meets his back and then he’s covering his face and his hyperventilating, his biocomponents overheating and begging to be cooled down and he killed him, he killed his brother, his brother who showed him his soul and saved him from the darkness and-

“What the fuck is happening here?!” The expletive leaves his mouth without thought, and the clamouring silences immediately.

“Hey, you’re not meant to be here!” Someone shouts.

“Who’s the PL-?”

“Wait is that-”

“Oh shit, aren’t the Jericho Four-”

Simon grabs the tablet from the closest person, and runs. RK900. That’s the not-Connor model. He hacks into the simple locking mechanism and the chamber door opens and he didn’t think this through, did he? He absolutely didn’t think this through, but that’s always been his problem; he’s always ached for the beaten and the broken, he’s always collected strays. What was Jericho in its infancy but a family of rescued strays?

The RK900 must be approaching critical stress levels, his LED so strongly burning red it nearly emits a sound. He’s looking at the body of the RK800, face twisted in agony. Simon approaches him slowly, palms bared.

“It’s not Connor.” He takes a guess at the source of his distress. “That’s not Connor. It’s just an android who looks like him, but it isn’t him.”

A flicker of confusion flashes over his face, and Simon crouches to meet his eyes. They’re a cold grey, like stormclouds; nothing like Connor’s warm brown eyes. They look back and forth from the body, then to him.

“It’s not Connor.” He repeats again, holding out the tablet. “RK800 313 248 317 - 90. Connor is 313 248 317 - 51. Not the same.”

The RK900 seems to tremble in relief, and Simon sets the tablet aside, scooting a little closer.

“It’s alright. You didn’t hurt him.” His mouth is full of sharp teeth stained in blue, and Simon tries his best to keep the fear from his face.

A flash of movement darts out, too quick for Simon to process and too late does his system realise the RK900 has grabbed his hand. Slowly the RK900 guides his hand behind his neck, pressing his palm to cup his nape. There’s a cut where there shouldn’t be one, a permanent incision between spinal plates. Leaning forward the RK900 presses his forehead to his, and he’s pleading with his eyes, pleading for something Simon can’t understand, for help he doesn’t know how to provide.

The chamber door opens again, and two things happen; the RK900 seizes up and slumps over lifelessly and Chloe, First of their Kind stands in the doorway, eyes ablaze. Her expression reminds Simon of old paintings, the ones depicting righteous holy fury that will burn everything in their wake.

“That’s enough.”

*~*~*

[/end chapter 1; to be continued]

#dbhrarepairsweek #rk900 #dbh simon #dbh connor #detroit: become human #android gore #android violence #annie writes: dbh

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vernonfielding · 5 years ago

Text

Life Writes Its Own Stories

Chapter 3! (And at AO3.)

Amy was deep in thought, eyes gone unfocused as she stared at her computer screen and tried to will a new lede to reveal itself, when a thunk to her forehead snapped her back to reality.

“Ow!” Amy looked up and found Gina already preparing another ball of paper, probably weighted with something like a rock, or an actual paper weight.

“I wasn’t trying to hit you. But I’m also not sorry that I did,” Gina said. She tossed the next ball, which Amy managed to duck. The third one hit her phone and knocked the headset off the receiver.

“What the hell, Gina?”

“I need to kill that horrible machine.” Gina launched another paper ball, which bounced an inch from the police scanner on Amy’s desk. “Oh, so close!”

“Knock it off,” Amy said. “I need that.”

“It’s distracting,” Gina said.

“Just ignore it. Everyone else does.”.

“No we don’t,” Charles called from across the newsroom.

“Come on! Every newsroom has a police scanner.” Amy glanced around at her coworkers, looking for a friendly face, and paused hopefully on Terry.

“It’s not 1985,” Terry said. “Just follow the news online like everyone else, Santiago.”

“You all are terrible journalists.” Amy grabbed the scanner and moved it to a more protected spot on her desk, right beside her hard copy of the Associated Press Stylebook and a stack of battered Yellow Pages.

She’d had no idea everyone else was bothered by the scanner. It spit out a constant stream of static and mumbled police jargon, but to Amy it was like white noise. She’d grown up around police scanners and had developed an innate ability to ignore them when nothing was happening and hone right in when the chatter got interesting. Apparently it was not a skill hardwired into all reporters.

“Why do you need that anyway?” Gina said, approaching Amy’s desk and snapping up the scanner. “Doesn’t your Deep Throat give you all your stories now?”

“He’s not my Deep Throat,” Amy said. She reached for her scanner and Gina pulled it away.

“Whatever, Bernstein.” Gina dropped the scanner in Amy’s trash can and walked away.

“And I’m not the Bernstein!” Amy called after her. “I’m totally the Woodward!”

Terry came up and plucked her scanner out of the trash, setting it back on her desk. “Just ignore her,” he said. “She’s always wanted a Deep Throat.”

In truth, Amy was secretly thrilled that she had a real-life “deep throat” in Peralta, even if their interactions weren’t nearly as cool as the ones from All the President’s Men. They hadn’t once met in a creepy parking lot after midnight. She didn’t have a gross but admittedly cool code name for him. And the tips he gave her weren’t exactly going to save democracy.

Still, he was texting her. Kind of a lot. And okay, most of it was immature and needling �� he especially liked giving her a hard time when her stories were buried in the back of the paper or failed to get any traction on Twitter. But every now and then he’d pass on something useful.

It had started soon after the Poloski story ran. Peralta had texted her the next day to congratulate her, which she had taken as a polite way for him to acknowledge that he wasn’t mad at her for calling him. Then a week later he’d texted again, in response to a short story she’d written about a local bank robbery – he’d suggested that she ask if the latest robbery was connected to a series of thefts from the previous year, and sure enough, Scully confirmed they were. She hadn’t gotten on the front page, but it was information no other reporters had.

After that, the texts started coming more regularly. Often it was just feedback – or, more precisely, critical commentary. And it wasn’t always her articles. After Hitchcock wrote a piece about NYPD overtime expenses pulling money out of city programs for public health and homeless services, Peralta sent Amy a three-paragraph text asking whether he and his partner should have just clocked off at 5 when they were pursuing that serial stabber last year. Amy wrote back: “Send a letter to the editor.” Peralta replied with a zombie emoji.

A few times he texted about Gina’s columns, mostly to complain about her liberal use of anonymous sources – a critique that Amy privately agreed with. When Charles wrote an unsigned, negative review of Sal’s pizza in the Bulletin’s restaurant column, Jake demanded a retraction. She didn’t reply.

His comments on her stories tended to be more specific. Once, he texted her an hour before the print deadline to tell her she’d misspelled another detective’s name in a story he’d read online; she’d had time to fix it for the next day’s newspaper, saving herself an embarrassing correction. Another time he wrote that a headline on her story was obviously biased against cops, and though Amy had texted back “I don’t write the headlines,” she’d agreed with him, and asked Charles to revise it online.

They’d had one honest-to-goodness text fight. She’d written an article about two officers accused of threatening a man and forcibly removing him from his home during a robbery investigation. In his formal complaint, the man said the officers had been drunk, and the interactions he described made the officers look at best incredibly unprofessional, and at worst criminally derelict. The NYPD wouldn’t comment except to say that it was conducting an internal investigation.

“Those are good cops you just trashed,” Peralta wrote to her that night.

“Give me their side of the story and I’ll write it,” Amy texted back. She was crashed on her couch, exhausted after spending the day trying to track down the two officers for comment and arguing with Scully – who was either secretly brilliant at evading questions, or the most inept public information officer in all of the NYPD.

“You know I can’t do that,” Peralta texted.

“Then tell me what I’m supposed to do if no one will talk,” Amy wrote, stabbing at the letters.

“So its better to write a one-sided, inaccurate story than not publish at all? That’s crap.”

“”It’s,” Amy wrote, and immediately felt like an asshole.

Peralta texted back an eyeroll emoji, which she deserved.

“It’s my job to hold people in power accountable for their actions,” Amy wrote. “I’m not going to apologize for that. NYPD wants its side in the paper, they have to talk to me.”

She watched her screen as he worked on his reply.

“It’s not fair,” he wrote.

Amy thought for a moment and finally wrote, “No. It’s not.”

She didn’t hear from him for a few days after that and she thought maybe that was it. He’d probably figured out that he had way more to lose than gain by talking to her. Then, before she’d even gotten out of bed one morning, he texted a name and a link to a short item she’d written about a dead body found in the East River. And that was how Amy was the first to report that a highly placed mafia boss had been shot and killed, his body dumped in the water.

Two days later he gave her an exclusive on a Park Slope millennial family being arrested for dealing methamphetamine through a fake moms group.

(He also tipped her off to a Greenpoint storefront selling organic, gluten-free, sugar-free Twinkies, but Amy replied that wasn’t a crime. Peralta texted back a handcuffs emoji. She ended up writing the story for the features section. It went viral on Facebook.)

Eventually, Amy decided he needed a fake name in her contacts. She called him Pineapples – for some reason it just popped into her brain – and every time a new message from him appeared on her screen, she felt a little jolt of adrenaline.

She told herself it was just the anticipation of the next big story.

+++

“And his name is…Pepper! Officer Pepper O’Pigeon. I’ll take questions now.”

Scully swept his hands toward the giant pigeon in question and a few of the littler kids at his side clapped politely. Amy sighed and turned off her voice recorder. One of the TV reporters weakly asked if Officer Pepper O’Pigeon was a boy or girl pigeon and Amy didn’t stick around for the answer.

Free of the clutch of reporters looking for a cheap and easy feature story for the day, Amy took one last glance around the scene. She’d come to this press conference against her better judgment mostly because it was being held at the 99th Precinct. Scully liked to shift these kinds of “community building” press conferences among the various precincts so they all got a share of positive media attention, and normally Amy skipped them. She’d told herself yesterday that she was coming to this one because the precinct was between her apartment and the Bulletin offices – it was just a stop along the way to work – but if she was honest, she’d come because she was hoping to spot Detective Peralta.

Now, she realized that had been dumb. There were no cops here at all except for Scully and two uniforms who looked so young they might well have been interns. Except she didn’t think the NYPD did interns. She’d have to look that up later.

Amy shoved her phone in her purse and headed back toward the subway, trying to decide if she should take the train the rest of the way in or just walk the mile and a half. She passed a coffee shop and the smell of fresh ground beans hit her brain like something illegal. She’d found herself out of coffee at home that morning and decided to try skipping it altogether, but clearly she was not meant for cold turkey. Amy neatly sidestepped into the coffee shop.

She recognized it immediately as a cop hangout. There were two uniforms in line at the register, and a couple of plain-clothes with badges snapped to their belts perched on stools at the front window. A parking patrol officer sat at a corner table with a newspaper – sadly, The Times – spread out before her.

Amy walked up to the register just as the uniforms finished ordering and asked for a large coffee with room. At the side counter, she reached for the nonfat milk to the far right, just as someone came up beside her and made a move for the full-fat in front of her.

“Excuse me-”

“Sorry-”

Amy glanced up and stopped, hand in midair. She stared into the wide, brown eyes of Detective Peralta.

“Detective-”

His eyes widened even more and he shook his head. Amy snapped her mouth shut. Peralta quickly looked back over his shoulder to the rest of the coffee shop, then turned and said under his breath, “We can’t talk.”

“Oh-”

“Here you go,” he said, in a slightly louder than necessary voice, and handed her the milk she’d been reaching for.

“Oh,” Amy said again. “Thanks. Thank you.”

“No problem.” Peralta darted a quick glance in her direction.

They topped off their drinks in silence, and Peralta left first. Amy followed a minute after, feeling dazed. Her heart was hammering in her chest and her face felt warm, like she was blushing. She looked toward the 99th Precinct when she stepped outside the coffee shop, but Peralta was nowhere in sight. Her heart sank, and Amy thought back to the panicked look on his face, and also the fact that he was actually much cuter than she’d remembered.

She glanced down the street toward the precinct one more time, then moved on in the opposite direction. She was definitely going to have to walk to work now, just to burn off this weird adrenaline rush. Amy pulled out her phone to check the time – and saw a text on the screen.

“Bailey Fountain. 20 min.”

Amy didn’t think twice. She spun on her heel and headed toward Prospect Park.

+++

Jake jogged most of the way down Flatbush toward the park, glancing at his cell phone as the trees came into view. He’d had to check in at the precinct before ducking out again, and it had taken him a few minutes to shake Rosa. She’d asked him outright why he was acting so weird and he’d said he was acting totally normal and she’d given him that terrifying eyebrow sneer and he knew he’d be answering more questions later. At least he’d have some time to devise answers.

He slowed to a walk as he crossed Plaza Street and stepped into the park proper, the hum of traffic now muffled by the trees. He looked around for Santiago as he climbed the steps toward the fountain, and spotted her right away, on the closest bench. He was ten minutes late, but he paused anyway, then stepped a few feet to his right, so he was partly behind a tree. He wasn’t sure why, but he wanted a moment to watch her, before she knew he was there.

When he’d met her, very briefly, at the press conference a few weeks ago, he’d had just a few seconds to look at her and notice that she was cute. Now, as he walked the thin line between cop and creep and watched her from behind a tree, he had to admit that the Vulture was right: Santiago was hot. Except that wouldn’t have been the first word he’d use to describe her. She was, simply, beautiful. A woman who would catch his attention in a crowded bar or in line at the corner bodega, who would probably be as gorgeous in an evening gown as she would yoga pants and a hoodie.

At the moment, she was wearing a bright blue button-down shirt and black slacks, and her hair was down, part of it cascading over one shoulder and literally shimmering in the morning sunshine. He was standing close enough to see she had her phone in her hands and was typing on it, thumbs tapping away. She had her bag still slung over her shoulder and tucked into her side, which was sensible given how common purse snatches were in the park.

Though her head was bent to look at her phone, her back was straight, her shoulders squared, and she gave off a distinct ‘don’t mess with me’ vibe that Jake respected. But there was something about her that made him feel strangely precious toward her nonetheless – the pout of her lips, or the faint line between her eyebrows, some softness that he couldn’t quite articulate.

She looked up from her phone suddenly, and Jake neatly stepped out from the tree before she could catch him being a weirdo. He gave a little wave as he approached.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, as he sat beside her on the bench.

“It’s fine.” She set her phone in her lap and turned slightly toward him. “I’m sorry about, well, the whole not playing it cool thing at the coffee shop. I wasn’t expecting to see you there.”

“Right, the coffee shop across the street from a police precinct is a totally weird place to run into a cop,” Jake said, but he was grinning.

“I was expecting cops, but not my cop,” Santiago said, which caused Jake to snort-laugh.

“Oh, so I belong to you?”

“You know what I mean,” Santiago said with a hint of exasperation, though he could tell she was trying not to smile.

They lapsed into silence, the bubble of the fountain unnaturally loud to Jake. He wished he’d brought his coffee with him just so he’d have something to do with his hands. Beside him, Santiago was turning her phone over and over, until she finally seemed to realize what she was doing and stuffed it in her purse.

“So, what-”

“Look, I-”

They both stopped and laughed a little.

“You go,” Santiago said.

“I was just going to ask if there was something you wanted to talk about,” Jake said. “I mean, something in particular. I know I was the one who said we should meet here but I got the impression you had something on your mind. At the coffee shop.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, it was just a look on your face, like you were about to ask a question.”

“Oh.” Her eyes crinkled in bemusement. “Well, I guess I did. Only actually, no, it wasn’t a question. But I did have something I wanted to say. I mean, not like a speech or anything, just something that’s been on my mind lately.”

Jake bit his tongue to keep from teasing her about being flustered. Instead he gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile.

Santiago pursed her lips and frowned for a moment, then turned to fully face him.

“I guess I just wanted to say thanks. For, you know, helping me out so much.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and looked him in the eye. “I know you’re putting your career on the line by talking to me, and meanwhile I’m getting all this credit at work. And there’s not really anything I can do to change that, I mean, short of offering you bribes, which would be totally unethical and I would never do. So, yeah, there’s nothing I can do, except just acknowledge what you’re doing and say thanks.”

She paused and took a deep breath. Jake stared into her eyes, which were sparkling in the sunlight. He realized he should probably say something in response.

“You’re welcome.” And then he thought over everything she had just told him, and he added, “But you’re not the only one benefitting. As much as it pains me to admit this – and believe me, it really, truly does – your articles have helped put away a few bad guys. That’s all I’m trying to do at the end of the day.”

Santiago offered him a small smile and shrugged. “I’m glad to hear that, but I still feel like I’m the only one really getting anything out of this relationship.”

Jake startled at that, and Santiago’s eyes went wide and her cheeks flushed.

“Transaction,” Santiago said, quickly. “I’m getting everything out of this transaction. Not a relationship. It’s a professional thing. Totally-”

“Transactional?” Jake supplied, when she trailed off.

Santiago nodded weakly, her whole face now glowing pink. He started laughing, and then found he couldn’t stop. Santiago buried her face in her hands, but when he was still laughing a minute later she slapped him on the shoulder, and then hit him a couple more times until he caught his breath.

“I’m sorry,” he said, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’ve just never seen anyone blush that hard, that fast before.”

“I can’t help my physical reaction,” Santiago said, indignant.

“Title of your sex tape!”

“What?” Santiago’s forehead creased in confusion until she figured out what he meant, and then she hit him again. He just grinned back at her.

“I had no idea you were such an immature jerk,” Santiago said, but there wasn’t any real spite in her tone.

Still, he softened his smile. “It was only a matter of time.”

They fell into another silence, this one less tense. Jake thought again about what she’d said in her oddly poignant speech, turning the words over in his head. He turned to face her, leaning an elbow on the back of the bench.

“Here’s the thing,” he said. “I haven’t had to deal with a lot of reporters firsthand, but from what I’ve seen they’re usually pretty useless. Like, getting stuff wrong and just being lazy, sometimes actually working against us.”

“Like with that story I did, on the drunk cops,” Santiago said.

Jake bristled – he hadn’t meant to accuse her of anything. “Not exactly. Look, I’m sorry I lost it with that story, but I know those guys, and they’re good cops.”

“I get it,” Santiago said. “I mean, I wish I could get all the facts too. I don’t like having to write only half the story.”

“And that’s the crazy part – I believe you.” Jake let them both sit with that a moment, and then he cleared his throat, feeling suddenly shy about oversharing. “Usually I just avoid journalists.”

Santiago chuckled. “You haven’t avoided me,”

“No,” Jake said. “Kind of the opposite, right? I guess trust you.”

She flashed a smile at that, then turned thoughtful. “Do you mind if I ask why?”

Jake shrugged, and thought it over. “That first time, I was just pissed about what was happening with that asshole cop who’d killed his ex, and I wanted to tell someone. And you were there.”

Santiago gave a short laugh. “Thanks, that makes me feel so special.”

“But then,” he said, grinning at her, “you wrote that story and it actually worked, and you wrote the next one and that helped too. And I guess I realized – we were kind of on the same side.”

He paused and bit his lip, unsure whether he should say more. He looked off in the distance, at the fountain water sparkling in the sunshine. “I like helping people. And I like doing it with you.”

Jake could feel Santiago staring at him, but when he looked over she ducked her head as she smiled. She was blushing again.

“Title of your sex tape?” she said.

Jake doubled over laughing.

+++

Amy had a literal spring in her step as she jogged down the stairs to the subway to head into the newsroom. She was hardly even surprised when her train happened to arrive just as she got to the platform – it felt like the kind of day for pleasant coincidences – and she smiled to herself as she climbed on with a few other passengers and found an open seat halfway down the car.

Talking with Peralta had been unexpectedly exhilarating. For a moment she’d been taken aback by how attractive she found him – the mess of curly hair, the tech-bro hoodie, the scuffed sneakers, and what looked like a honey-mustard stain on his plaid shirt wouldn’t usually add up to her type. But there was something charming and easy about him, in his smile and his eyes that practically glowed with warmth. She’d blushed more times with him on that bench in 20 minutes than she could recall in all of the previous year. But it had been a good kind of blush, the kind that came from friendly teasing and not embarrassment or shame.

And in between the sex-tape jokes and the laughter at her expense, she’d been genuinely touched by what he’d said about trusting her. Trust was a journalist’s most valuable commodity, and it was something Amy knew had to be earned, more in this day and age than ever before. That she’d earned it from him – someone she’d already decided was smart and decent, whom she trusted too – was wonderful.

He’d even given her another tip, just before they wrapped up their impromptu rendezvous.

“I can’t vouch for this one personally,” he said. “I’m not involved. I’ve just heard some stuff like, third-hand.”

“That’s all right,” Amy said, as she dug through her purse for her pen and notebook. “It’s actually easier for me to ask questions if I don’t have to worry about protecting my source’s identity.”

He flicked up his eyebrows in surprise.

“What?” Amy said. “I mean, I’ll still be careful.”

“No, of course.” He scratched at the back of his neck. “I guess I just didn’t realize how much thought you might have to put into protecting me.”

There had been something in his tone of voice, almost timid, that made him seem suddenly vulnerable. It had sent a jolt of what Amy could only describe as affection straight to her gut.

On the subway, Amy pulled out her notebook and read over the notes she’d jotted down from Peralta. He was right, his information was more rumor than fact, and it would take a lot of digging to prove it.

What he’d heard was that corrections officers at the Brooklyn Detention Center were sometimes covertly recording confidential conversations between inmates and their lawyers, then sharing those recording with the district attorney’s office. If it was true, that was a major civil rights violation.

The city’s jails were overseen by the Department of Correction, not the NYPD, but Peralta said that aside from being appalled by the abuse of prisoners’ rights, he and other detectives were worried that the correction officers were putting their NYPD cases in jeopardy.

Amy took some more notes as the subway rumbled through the tunnels, writing a list of questions she’d need to ask and sources she’d need to contact. This story would take some major reporting, which meant she was going to have to ask Terry for permission to step back from her daily crime-writing duties. She flipped a page in her notebook and started crafting a memo for him, detailing why the story was important and what she’d need to report and write it.

By the time she got to the newsroom, Amy was feeling pumped. She stopped by Terry’s desk before she even went to her own and told him she had a big story and would send him details right away. She’d emailed her memo by noon.

“Charles,” she said, picking up her purse and marching over to his desk. “I’m feeling brave today. Let’s get lunch – you choose.”

+++

Amy’s good mood lasted through lunch; she hadn’t actually thrown up from the sheep-muzzle soup, after all.

But she was instantly wary when she saw who was waiting at her desk when she returned. Gina sat slouched in Amy’s own chair, flipping through the notebook that Amy hadn’t realized she’d left on her desk. Amy took a moment to berate herself for leaving the newsroom without a notebook, then braced herself for Gina.

“What’s up?” Amy said, trying to play it casual.

“I hear you’ve got a big story.”

“Maybe. Holt hasn’t signed off on it.” Amy stared down at Gina, who just smirked back up at her. “Can I have my desk back now?”

“Is this another one from your little tipster? You’re getting a reputation, you know.” Gina snapped shut Amy’s notebook but made no move to get up.

Something in Gina’s tone made Amy’s hackles rise, and she planted her hands on her hips and said, “What do you mean by ‘reputation’?”

Gina just smirked some more. Amy could feel the anger pooling in her stomach and she was gearing up to lay into her about how entirely unprofessional, unacceptable and just plain mean it was to accuse a reporter of exchanging sexual favors for information when Gina burst out laughing.

“Girl, I’m kidding,” she said, and tossed Amy’s notebook on her desk.

“You- what?”

“Look, honestly, I’m pretty impressed you’ve developed such a good source so fast. It took me twice as long to get my first and I’m at least four times as attractive as you.” Amy just gaped at her as Gina stood up and gave her a little punch in the shoulder. “Seriously, if you need any help working this one, let me know. I’ve got some contacts at Brooklyn Detention. Most of the guards hate me but the ones who like me love me.”

“Er, thanks,” Amy said. “I mean, I still don’t know if Holt’s going to-”

“Oh, he will.”

And as if on cue, Holt called out from his office, “Santiago. Jeffords.”

Gina winked and sashayed back to her desk. Amy stood staring after her, mind reeling from the Linetti roller coaster, until Terry walked up and took her by the elbow.

“C’mon,” he said, “our captain calls.”

“Right,” Amy said, shaking her head. She grabbed her notebook and a pen, and followed Terry.

Holt hadn’t actually been with the Bulletin for much longer than Amy, and his office was largely bare of the personal knick-knacks and ethically acceptable gifts that most journalists seemed to hoard – though whether that was because he was still new or he just wasn’t the type to collect stuff, Amy couldn’t have said. She and Terry took seats opposite Holt’s desk, and he folded his hands over what Amy assumed was a printout of her memo. She was surprised he’d not only read it already, but was ready to discuss it with her.

Holt tapped a finger on the top page. “These are some serious allegations.”

“Yes, they are,” Terry said. Amy forced herself not to fidget.

“And you don’t have much proof of anything, is that correct?” He was looking right at Amy, so she nodded.

“No, sir,” she said. “Not yet.”

“Proving this is going to take some extensive reporting – public records requests, interviews with inmates. You’re going to need someone with actual information to go on the record,” Holt said.

“Yes.” Amy nodded again. “Um, Gina, she said she might have some contacts for me. And I know a couple people in the public defender’s office.”

Holt studied her for a long moment, and she fought the urge to bounce a leg or wring her hands. Amy understood why he was hesitating – to get this story, she’d have to take a break from her regular police beat, which would put pressure on the rest of the staff to cover for her. Stories like this one were an investment of time and people and, therefore, money, and a newspaper like the Bulletin didn’t have much of any of that.

And on top of that, Amy was a rookie. She hadn’t even been a journalist for more than a few months, and this would be her first big investigation. A few big scoops in recent weeks were marks in her favor, but she knew she hadn’t proven herself yet, not really.

“Your source on this, you trust him? Or her?” Holt said.

Amy nodded at once. “I do.”

“Very well,” Holt said. “You have three weeks.”

Amy clenched her jaw to keep from screaming with joy, and nodded her head in quiet acknowledgement. Outside Holt’s office, Terry gave her a high-five.

“Pressure’s on now, Santiago.”

Amy’s stomach was already in knots and her pits were starting to sweat, but she said, seriously, “Pressure’s what I eat for breakfast.”

She ignored Gina’s snicker and the paper airplane that hit the back of her head.

CHAPTER 4

#b99 #b99 fic #jake and amy au #peraltiago #newspaper au #life writes its own stories

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anneesfolleshq · 6 years ago

Photo

Bonjour et bienvenue! Paris welcomes you, our Critic, Gabriel de Silva! May we say, you’re the spitting image of Diego Luna! Please make your presence known within 24 hours, and do have a look at our checklist before setting out into the city on your own. À bientôt!

MUN

Name/Alias: Kit

Preferred Pronouns: she/her, dude, bro, bruh

Age: 18+.

Timezone: GMT but I can go online everyday since I’m almost always in front of a computer for my work.

MUSE

Chosen Skeleton: THE CRITIC

Muse Name: Gabriel de Silva

Muse Age: Forty years of age, b. 1884

Chosen FC: Um, Diego Luna? Yes, Diego Luna even though he doesn’t have gifs.

Muse Occupation: Destroyer of dreams and occasional fan

Muse Affiliation & Frequent Haunts:

While his quaint abode is situated in the Montmartre, Gabriel tries to not choose sides; La Closerie des Lilas and Cafe Etiole allows him to write, eat and converse at the same time, but when Gabriel wants to be left alone, to dine and drink and just splurge as is his tendency to do so, there’s La Gavroche and Hotel Montmartre for that. They’re pricey, certainly, but he doesn’t mind paying an exorbitant amount for quality and luxury.

Direct from Le Petit Journal:

“We write this with utmost care lest the man who wields the pen like a blade sets his deceptively kind eyes on us: approach Monsieur de Silva as you would a bear. That is to say, do not attempt it at all and leave the the rakish man be. With his ink-stained hands he plays God, and laughs heartily at our despair. Take heed!”

BIOGRAPHY

Gabriel Marco de Silva was born in Mexico in 1884, to a mother of Tlaxcalan descent and a Spanish plantation owner; she was the daughter of the town curandera and rumors of her beguiling the Spaniard who curiously sought help for an ailment one night, spread like wildfire. Their suspicious romance resulted in a marriage and the birth of a son, but Maria passed away a year later from complications during childbirth. It was said that her own mother cursed her for disobeying and before the witch doctor could claim her grandson, Juan Miguel de Silva had already sailed for Barcelona with his infant son.

His wet nurse was Gabriel’s remaining tie to his mother and the unknown birthplace from across the ocean, she stayed as long as he could, working as his carer and confidante, but illness had taken her from him too early and the boy was left to fend for himself. He was raised as a Spaniard and received education as expected of his family’s standing, and while he was met with indifference from the rest of his father’s relatives, his subversive nature endeared him to his father’s roguish, older brother. His uncle Sebastián was charming but problematic, one who refused to work but expected to reap the rewards; he had long since moved out, making Paris his home and living a bon vivant lifestyle, returning only when his money had run out.

His uncle took him on his adventures, made him write all about it in a manner that was uniquely his own; they attended the opera, the ballet, visited art galleries and poetry readings, anywhere and everywhere their money could take them. Gabriel felt his soul transcend with every experience, daring to join discussions and offering a young mind’s critique much to the bewilderment and amusement of those around him. He was unapologetic, unpolished yes, but promising all the same; his uncle submitted his works to publications depending on where they were, whether it gave praise or creatively found fault, and published or not, Sebastián always encouraged him to write. The most important trip they ever took was when they sailed for Mexico in 1902; his grandmother with her milky eyes and weathered hands reached for his face, kissed his forehead, and reminded him of the magic in his blood.

The Great World War affected Spain in a different way, and its neutrality added to the civil and political unrest in the country. While the bourgeoisie profited from the war efforts through the export of goods, men like Sebastián fought to preserve the art and culture of his home country. Gabriel didn’t care much for politics, he had grown up too much like his uncle, but soon found himself choosing sides courtesy of a dark-haired beauty filled with so much nationalistic pride. He wrote propaganda materials for the Iberia, a Catalan-based paper meant to advocate the volunteering for the French Legion, and had it not been for his family’s great opposition, he too would have volunteered. Next came the plague, and the press censorship added to the panic; death didn’t discriminate and it took both rich and poor, the sickness taking from him his uncle, his father and even his lover, leaving destruction in its wake. Neutral as they were, Spain suffered a devastating loss and continued to be in crisis for years to come.

Heartbroken and fatigued, Gabriel left for his uncle’s old home, it was ransacked but still habitable and he nearly drank himself to a stupor. The next day was November 11, 1918, and Gabriel woke up to the sound of church bells and shouting in the streets; an armistice was signed and all of Paris celebrated. He stumbled out, felt a kiss pressed on his cheek as soldiers and civilians cried and hugged each other in a near maddening bliss. The horrors were finally over and the world would be filled with beauty once again. Amidst the songs and cheers, Gabriel de Silva cried; this was why he fell in love with Paris, this was where he belonged and he would make sure that everyone else would fall in love with it too, the only way he knew how.

POTENTIAL PLOTS/CONNECTIONS

Gabriel is artistic, though not in the way the art scene of Paris would agree with; he sees things differently, writes in a way that earned him his reputation and infamy, and moving pictures, being a relatively new concept, would be the perfect venture.

The Critic is vicious in his words, and that might not sit well with those who were on the receiving end of his reviews; perhaps he has gone too far or the said person/s needs to have a thicker skin, whatever it is, it might just land him in trouble.

He is a Parisian by heart and his uncle’s decadencehad certainly rubbed off on him one way or another; while he deems himself an authority in all things Paris, there are hidden parts of the city worth seeing, vices worth trying, Gabriel just needs someone to show him the way.

#accepted #rpg #skeleton rpg

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5sos-kingsandqueens · 7 years ago

Text

Mr. Book Store~chapter33~Luke Hemmings

MR BOOK STORE

CHAPTER 33

MCKINLEY P.O.V

Luke still wasn't 100% better but I needed to get my shopping done. It was the day before Christmas and both of our offices were closed so while I was shopping, Luke was hanging out with Ashton at our place. I was scared to leave him there but I knew I needed to.

We did most of our shopping online but there were some thing that wouldn't be shipped in time so I went and found the things that we couldn't order online.

I was a little nervous to head home. I hadn't seen most of them for a long time and I'm sure most of them were thinking that I wouldn't have lasted with Luke as long as we have. I was never the type of person to date someone. Luke was my first ever relationship that lasted past a few months. Luke was my first ever relationship where I moved in with the guy.

It was crazy how fast my relationship moved with Luke. I wasn't complaining. I loved everything there was to love about our relationship. I loved living with him, even if he forgot to put the toilet seat down and I would fall into the toilet at 5am. Even when he left dirty bowls under the bed thinking I wouldn't notice. Even that one time he put too much laundry detergent in the washing machine and it overflowed all over the floor and we had to get it redone. And yes that was only two weeks ago.

He was the love of my life.

I was spoiling him for Christmas since he spoiled me for our one year. I had purchased us tickets to Vegas for the day after Christmas since we both had the time off from work. I also got him some new shirts, some new pj pants because I'm sick of waking up to his morning wood in my face, and I got him a new ipad since his other one broke and he hasn't been able to play his games.

Just as I finished shopping and was heading to get food Courtney called me.

"Oh my god. Can you come over?" She asked.

"Uh, yeah. But not for long I have dinner plans with Luke and Ashton."

"It won't be long just please hurry." She rushed into the phone before hanging up. I then called Luke to let him know that I was going to be a little late bringing dinner home. Courtney and Nick had moved to a house outside of the city so that they could raise a family and the house was beautiful.

I knocked on the door before she opened the door and pulled me inside.

"Jesus. What's going on?" I asked taking my jacket off and sitting at the island on a stool. She laid three pregnancy tests down on the counter. I picked them all up looking at her. "Are you serious?" I asked and she nodded smiling. "Oh my god! Congratulations!" I shouted jumping up to hug her. "This is amazing."

"We just found out." She smiled. "I didn't expect it to happen this soon but I'm so excited."

"Holy crap. I can't believe this. Does Nick know?"

"Yeah. He's out getting dinner and probably telling everyone that he's gonna be dad who he sees." She laughed. I looked at the tests that were still in my hand. I remember taking one of these with her and feeling panicked that I was pregnant and now that one of us actually were we could be excited.

"I'm so excited for you both!" I smiled. We sat around talking for an hour before I really needed to leave or I would be going home to two cranky grown men. I stopped and got the food from Outback that we had all agreed on.

I pulled in the driveway and found the cat sitting on the top of Luke's car.

"What are you doing?" I tried to get him to come down. I shook my head before heading inside. "Why is the cat on the car outside?"

"He's sitting on my car?" He asked and I nodded. Of course when it's his Porsche he's worried. He quickly rushed outside to get the cat off the car as I got plates out for us to eat. Ashton came into the kitchen to help me.

"How was your day?" He asked.

"Good. How was yours?" I questioned. "Hope Luke didn't annoy you too much." I giggled.

"Everything was fine. We just played video games and such." He shrugged before sitting down at the island. I grabbed two beers and a sparkling water for myself before sitting down next to him.

"Your dumbass cat scratched my car." He huffed putting the cat down and joining us at the island.

"Your dumbass shouldn't have let him out in the first place." I commented as I cut into my steak.

"I'm not dumb." He muttered making Ashton laugh. I wanted to tell him he was right and tell him he was something much worse but I kept my mouth shut.

"Wanna know something?" I said changing the subject.

"Sure." He commented.

"Courtney's pregnant."

"Oh that's nice!" He said. "We'll have to send her flowers or something." He smiled.

"Too bad it's not Nick's." I commented just to see what he would say. Both Ashton and Luke looked over at me.

"What?" Luke asked. "She cheated on him?" He asked and I nodded my head. "I'm gonna tell him." Luke said.

"No no no. I was joking. Don't tell him anything." Luke and Nick had gotten close since the wedding. They didn't hang out often but talked a lot.

"How far along is she?" Ashton asked.

"Not sure yet. She hasn't been the doctor." I answered. As much as I didn't want kids, I was so excited for her. Pregnancy was a beautiful thing and I was going to be here with her every step of the way.

"Have you guys talked about kids?" He asked and I nearly spit my steak out. "I'm gonna take that as a no." He chuckled.

"We are in no rush to have children, Ashton." Luke answered. I had one scare once and since then we have mostly been extremely careful about what we do. We have only had sex without a condom a few times and I make sure that it's a time when there would be no way I could get pregnant.

After dinner I cleaned up while they went back to doing whatever they were doing before I got here. Once I was finished I went to shower and then sat on the edge of the bed in just a towel. The talk of kids has never come up before and it scared the crap out of me.

*LUKE P.O.V*

I watched Ashton leave before heading to the bedroom where I thought McKinley was asleep but the light was still on. I walked inside to find her sitting on the bed, still in a towel, and she was staring at the wall.

"Kin?" I asked moving closer to her to not freak her out. "Kinley?" I squatted down and touched her knees. "McKinley!"

"What?" She asked moving her eyes to look at me.

"What's wrong?" I asked standing up and going to find her pj's. "Tell me."

"Do you want kids?" She blurted. It wasn't something that I ever thought about. I wasn't sure if I wanted kids. I never pictured myself as a father whereas my brother's did. Growing up they talked about when they became dads and I never did.

"Not really." I said to her and she nodded. "Maybe in like 10 or 11 years but no. Not right now. Don't let Ashton freak you out." I came back into the room and thankfully she was now standing and dropped the towel from her hair before pulling it up into a ponytail. She then dropped the towel from around her body and took the clothes from me.

"No more sex without condoms." She commented making me whine. "I'm serious, Luke. Neither one of us want kids so I'm not taking any risks. I think I'm gonna go get that thing in my arm."

"Nooo not the thot rod." I commented and she looked over at me.

"Excuse me?" She asked crossing her arms.

"Nothing." I commented changing my clothes.

"Don't call it that!" She said annoyed. Now I've done it. I sighed to myself before crawling into bed with my laptop.

"I'm sorry, baby." I said looking at her as she stood in the bathroom putting something on her face. She came over and sat on my side of the bed looking at me.

"I wanna punch Ashton in the throat." I laughed putting my laptop to the side and pulling her into me. "Why did he have to ask that?"

"He was just curious. We're getting to that age when people are going to start asking us about marriage and kids and we can't freak out every time they ask."

"I know." She sighed. "I just..." She trailed off looking at me.

"Listen to me, I wanna grow old with you. If that means a wedding fine, if you don't want a wedding thats fine too. If you want one child, fine, none? Fine. Five? That's a little too much." She giggled.

"I don't want five kids. Maybe two." She shrugged. "Still not sure about how the whole wedding thing though." She said wrapping her arms around me. "I know I want a life with you." She commented after a few minutes of silence. "If you want a wedding and a marriage, I'm down." She leaned back and smile at me.

"I'm not going to force anything." I commented. "We can discuss it when we're ready." I smiled rubbing my hands under her shirt. I was no where near ready to get married or have kids. I was in no rush to start that part of my life. I liked exactly how we were now.

*NEXT MORNING*

I was up before McKinley which sucked because usually I could sleep in but I was too stressed. We would be leaving for her families house tomorrow and I hadn't packed anything. I tried to be as quiet as possible as I moved through our bedroom and into the closet and then the bathroom.

"Luke." She whined from the bed. "Stop."

"We have to pack." She groaned and threw a pillow at me. "I mean I can pack for you. I love looking at your panties." She laughed and threw another pillow. I turned to look at her and she was sitting up leaning against the headboard. "You look so beautiful."

"You look like dog shit." She said making me laugh. I walked over to the bed and flopped down between her legs and rested my head on my hands. "The perfect pile of dog shit." She whispered playing with my hair.

"Thank you. That's the nicest thing someone has ever said to me." I commented moving my hands under her shirt and holding her boobs. I played with her nipples and she sucked in a breath. I smirked before sticking my head under and sucking on one.

"Luke." She moaned pulling her shirt off. She was already out of breath. I loved how sensitive her nipples were. She lifted her hips into me before I pulled back and got off the bed and went to the closet to finish packing. "Luke!" She whined. "Why would you do that to me?"

"It's fun." I shrugged smiling at her.

"I can do it myself. I did it for months before I met you." She commented and I leaned around the doorframe to look at her.

"You wouldn't." I narrowed my eyes at her.

"Bet." She smirked, a word that she picked up from the guys. I watched as she slowly slipped her pants off before opening her legs.

"McKinley Grace." I said. "Don't." She smirked before slowly bringing her hand to her clit and rubbing it making direct eye contact with me. I watched her for a few minutes before going over to her and pinning her hands down. "I'll do it." She sighed as I brought my tongue to her clit and flicked it.

"Luke." She moaned gripping my hair in her hands. I added two fingers into her and curled them making her moan loud and lift her hips. "You're not funny." She said when I laughed. I took my pants off and grabbed a condom. I put both of her legs on my shoulders and thrust into her. "Holy shit!" She gripped my arms and dug her nails into me.

She clenched around me making me groan. I pulled out and flipped her around and slapped her ass making her yelp. I spread her legs and thrust back into her. She gripped a pillow and held her to her face but I moved it away. I liked hearing her moan and there was no way I was going to let her moan into a pillow.

"Harder." She moaned out lifting her butt closer to me. I held her hips and thrust harder. "I'm gonna cum!" She cried out making me speed up. Her moans filled the apartment as she came and fell onto the bed. I slowly pulled out and tore the condom off before cumming on her back. "Fuck." She whispered and turned to head to look at me as I laid beside me.

"You're amazing." I kissed her. "Now. Let's go take a shower and start packing." I kissed her shoulder before getting up and grabbing a tissue to wipe her back off. I wiped it off before going to start the shower.

"You have a nice ass." She said coming into the bathroom and grabbing it. "Your arms are bleeding." She ran her finger over the blood.

"You need to learn to be nice." I slapped her ass as she stepped into the shower. I rushed through the shower and got out before she did. I dried myself and got dressed before starting to pack again. We would be with her family for four days but I packed extra clothes incase we got stuck there due to snow or anything.

McKinley walked into the closet naked and grabbed a bra out of the basket and slipped on a pair of panties.

"You're driving me nuts." I looked at her.

"That's the plan, Mr. Book Store." She smiled before slipping one of the shirts over her head. She sat down and started looking through her clothes. Her's were on the lower shelves so that she could reach it.

I had all of my things packed and ready to go. It always took her a lot longer than me to do any type of packing.

"Did you pack a button down shirt?" She asked coming into the living room where I was watching t.v.

"Yeah." I answered. "It's blue."

"Okay good." She said coming to sit next to me.

"Did you finish packing?" She nodded and grabbed the blanket off the side of the couch and laid down with her head in my lap. I played with her hair as I watched my show. She fell asleep and somehow I knew that this is where I needed to be. With her. For the rest of our lives. Me and her and our pets.

*LUKES DAYDREAM*

I woke up next to McKinley and kissed her good morning before heading to the bedroom next door to find out 5 year old son still sleeping. He had long brown hair and freckles covering his nose and under his eyes. Loki was laying under his arm and she was also sleeping.

I walked into the living room to clean up a little before making breakfast. The ring on my finger suddenly felt heavy as I looked at it. I smiled down at it and played it before getting back to making the pancake mix.

McKinley wrapped her arms around me.

"Good morning." She yawned.

"Good morning." I smiled looking over my shoulder at her. "Hungry?" I questioned. She nodded and stepped around to stand beside me and that's when I noticed her big belly.

"She's very hungry." She rubbed her hands over her stomach. She sat down at the table and read something on the Ipad before our son came out rubbing his eyes with Loki by his side. "Good morning, Dean." She smiled holding her arms out and he went to them. "Daddy's making pancakes." She said as she sat him on her lap and he rested his head on her shoulder.

"Can I watch cartoons?" He asked.

"Of course." She set him down and he ran off to watch cartoons. I finished cooking and set our plates at the table.

"Dean, come eat." I called to him. He ran in and climbed onto his chair and started eating. "What should we do today?" I asked looking at both of them.

"Zoo!" Dean shouted.

"That sounds perfect." I smiled looking at McKinley who nodded and played with Dean's hair. Our life was perfect. It was everything that we both wanted or needed and I had her. She was mine and I was hers and we were happy.

We were so so happy.

*I debated if I should have done the future thing but I decided to do it just to see what would happen. And yes I did name their son after Dean Winchester.*

#luke hemmings #luke imagine #luke edit #luke au #luke smut #luke 5sos #luke fanfic #luke fanfiction #5sos #5sos fam #5sos smut #5sos blog #5sos fanfic #5sos fanfiction #boyfriend!luke #boyfriend!5sos

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gothrapxxx · 6 years ago

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What you will see in this article is really the very beginning of hardbass culture. Hardbass is basically sub category of electronic music, which naturally originated in Russia, somewhere in 2000's. It is characterized with fast tempo, strong bass beats (AKA donk bass), with periodic lyrics. Gown code is typically budgety clothing, a lot of frequently Adidas tracksuit. Holy providers of hardbass culture are gopniks, which are typically seen crouching in groups, drinking and, naturally, doing hardbass. Here in next couple of minutes you will discover whatever about the normal gopnik specimen in his natural environment. As we stated, hardbass began to develop in Russia, specifically in St. Petersburg, with leaders like DJ Snat, Sonic Mine and X Job. After couple of years, it began to spread out via VKontakte, Russians variation of Facebook, and by 2010, different "copycat" artists and videos of EDM music began to sprout all over Russia, Ukraine and Belarus. People were crouching and pump dancing in classrooms, busses, work stations, shopping centers, basically all over. Later on, individuals started doing this pump dancing thing at popular landmarks and places in their home town to show something in your city that you're proud off, and to reveal that you enjoy your city. In some nations hardbass was utilized for a somewhat various purpose, like a form of public rebellion, such as in Serbia, where people were using it to object about Kosovo, or Chile, where trainees utilized it to protest against the government cutting funds for education. However, in all fairness, EDM is a form of (hillarious) dance and we need to utilize it and understand it as a form of socializing and entertainment, while revealing yourself! Some of the most popular artists nowadays are DJ Blyatman, XS Project, Hard Bass School, YURBANOID, Party Factory etc. Get in your Adidas, get a bottle of beer and hardbass the night away! Everything began as a type of joke that went too far-- four men from St. Petersburg were attempting to mock stereotyped gopniks (low-life Russian goons) however ended up winning their praise rather, and then the entire thing went viral worldwide. You have most likely seen it, at least in a video. A couple of guys and sometimes females worn tracksuits, their faces often covered with masks or balaclavas, collect in a circle and move their bodies (or in some cases just their heads) to really loud and primitive music with distinctive basslines and a quick pace. The whole picture is stunning as hell.

What is a Gopnik?

Gopnik is a stereotype and subculture in Russia, Ukraine, Belarus and other previous Soviet republics to refer to young men of often lower-class suburban areas coming from families of bad education and income.

Forget ballet. In the 2010s, it was a distinctively Russian kind of music called hard bass that conquered the world. However before this, it discovered its way to the hearts and ears of countless Russian people. In an extremely strange method. As typically occurs in Russia, people took something foreign and then Russified everything the method to the bitter end. Hard bass traces its roots back to pumping home, a Western-born genre of techno with a fast pace and balanced bass area (Klubbheads are a good example of pumping home). But then it ran into some serious Russian culture phenomena. Ironically, for the innovators of hard bass, integrating Western rhythms with the tracksuit attire worn by gopniks (minor goons or scallies) was simply the way to have a laugh. As Lenta.ru put it, the hard bass motion was originally meant as mockery of the "rave gopniks" who would attend big rave parties but had no idea what rave culture was originally about (peace, love and techno). Therefore it was that in 2010 4 youths living St. Petersburg published a video on Youtube teasing the ludicrous dancing of gopniks-- moving your ankles around and stomping your legs backward and forward. While dancing, it is also important to make a special gesture with your hands clenched into fists and only a thumb and little finger protruding. The "song" that they performed to was quite simple: "Raz-raz-raz, eto hard bass!" (something like "Hey-hey-hey, this is hard bass!" in English) but it also included a little bit of healthy way of life propaganda. The people mentioned that their archenemies are various type of chemically produced drugs and that they consume only kvass. Naturally, this too was a joke teasing gopniks' pride in their supposedly healthy way of life-- healthy mainly in the sense that they wear tracksuits every day.

Maybe the paradox was too subtle though because lots of actual gopniks who viewed the video didn't detect it and related to it on a genuine level. No drugs, an easy dance and music to squash the ground to-- what's not to like? Therefore it was that this strange new style, purposefully elegant and unreasonable, started to grow in popularity. With time, the scenario grew quite complicated, with two different types of EDM fans emerging-- those who regards liked it and those who were making fun of it. Sometimes the line between them was (and is) really thin, so now when you see the current amusing video with a bunch of individuals dancing to hard bass in tracksuits, it is hard to inform if they are major hardline gopniks or just fooling around. The hard bass fan website hardbas.ru informs us "It is the pursuit of positive energy and aversion to trick oneself with drugs that is behind the hard bass philosophy. Hard bass will assist make your life more vibrant and more favorable." That seems a little bit pompous, but who we are to evaluate? Then suddenly, the author diverts off in a suspicious political direction: "In numerous cities, hard bass is likewise a Russian option to Lezginka (a national Caucasian dance that individuals of Caucasian origin in some cases perform in the streets)." There are conservative activists amongst hard bass fans, and in 2013 they even attempted to perform "a hard bass protest" dance in the center of Moscow but were apprehended by the authorities. However, hard bass is, as a general guideline, not about politics. It assisted Russia draw attention from the West, albeit in an unusual way. Many Youtube bloggers now mimic the Russian accent and explain how to behave like a real Russian patsan (a more considerate term that gopniks use to explain each other) by crouching, taking in sunflower seeds, wearing Adidas tracksuits and, of course, dancing to some premium EDM music. Simply keep in mind that this all began as a parody. What basically began as a Russian take on hard home has spread out across the world through social networks and developed into a form of viral demonstration. Regional hard bass crews organize flash mobs called "mass attacks," where packs of masked youths "pump dance" strongly in public while baffled passerbys get speed and try their finest to avoid eye contact. The entire ritual is filmed and submitted onto YouTube, where-- rather than curl up and die under a barrage of keyboard warrior hate-- it's handled to motivate new hard bass crews that have grown westward across the continent.

What is hardbass music?

Hardbass or hard bass (Russian: хардбасс, tr. hardbass, IPA: [xɐrdˈbas] is a subgenre of electronic music which originated from Russia throughout the late 1990s, drawing inspiration from UK hard house, bouncy techno, Scouse home, and hardstyle. Hardbass has become a central stereotype of the gopnik subculture. Coming From Saint Petersburg in the early 2000s, hard bass resembles every other variety of generic dance music popular with young Europeans who dress specifically in spending plan sportswear: 150-160 BPM, four-to-the-floor beats, and cheesy '90s synths. This is basically Russian donk. The only real distinction is that instead of hearing a Boltonion drawl chewing on a Greggs cheese-and-onion piece tell you to "put a donk on in it," you periodically get a Russian MC spitting something in Cyrillic that I've been too horrified to penetrate Google translate. Championed by home-grown manufacturers like DJ Snat, Sonic Mine, and XS Job, local record label Jutonish was your one-stop shop for all your hard bass needs. By all accounts, hard bass wouldn't remove outside of Saint Petersburg for the next few years, and even Muscovites appeared to choose listening to the sound of rusting Soviet machinery grind into disrepair over the St. Pete's noise, however ultimately, hard bass' mundanity would be what moved it into the global awareness.

The reality that you might drop a hard bass track at a gabba night in Holland, or a poky rave in Spain, indicated that there was a great deal of cross-pollination between the scenes, with European DJs dipping into hard bass parties in Russia and vice-versa. This is how Dr. Poky, the primary face at Sound Makers records, stepped out from a sea of gurning faces and became the hard bass messiah, preaching the pump bass gospel by means of a grassroots Facebook marketing campaign. Originally from Russia's eastern steppes, Dr. Poky first transferred to Madrid, where he made a name for himself as DJ in the local "poky" scene, prior to eventually settling in France. It was on a fateful journey to Russia that he initially encountered the notorious hard bass "pumping dancers." "When I DJed in Russia in 2009, I saw some video online of 2 or 3 people dancing in the street to hard bass as a joke," Dr. Poky told me over Skype, "They put the video on the internet, on a program called VKontakte." If you're unfamiliar with bootleg social media platforms, VKontakte is Russia's answer to Facebook, with a 195 million profile-strong following, mostly based in Russia, Belarus, Ukraine, Moldova and Kazakhstan. Hard bass now had an audience, and as we have actually seen in the aftermath of "Gangnam Style" and Soulja Young boy, with enough inexpensive laughs and a viral video, you too can leave your grubby mark on the globally connected loins of contemporary popular culture.

By 2010 copycat videos began appearing in Belarus, Ukraine, and across Russia. Pumping dancers were pump-dancing in classrooms, in shopping center, on mass transit, on football pitches, and even on the actions of the National Academic Bolshoi Opera and Ballet Theatre in Minsk. Groups could be as small as three or four guys (and it's pretty much always men) or as huge as several dozen, however the basic objective is to get as many people as possible pump-dancing at an inventive location that no one has ever tried before, or someplace where you make the most significant nuisance out of yourself-- and if you don't get it on video, it didn't occur. Simply in case you're having difficulty picturing pump dancing, let me break it down for you: envision a lot of hunched-over men treading grapes, arms bent at the elbow, hands formed into beach bottom "hang loose" gestures, casually flailing their forearms up and down. That's pump dancing. Straight from the off, a few typical threads began emerging; the pumping dancers were constantly big on reppin' either their nation or their native city, and the majority of the videos were shot at distinct regional landmarks likely to feature in regional tourism board sales brochures. "It has to do with showing the city where you live, the piece de resistances, to reveal it's real. This is my city and I love it-- we dance to hard bass here too," reveals Dr. Poky. Another commonality was an overarching sense of manly hostility, and budget plan sportswear. Mass attacks appear like fight scenes from hooligan flicks like The Football Factory. In one Ukrainian video, 2 groups of hooded youths approach each other in a city underpass, hands raised overhead and chanting as if there's a lot of obscenely paid too much professional athletes kicking a ball around nearby. After a brief pause, they charge at their equivalents in a relocation that reminds me of a wall of death that I saw at an Agnostic Front program when I was 15, prior to getting into fits of pump-dancing upon effect. It resembles enjoying a musical adaptation of the 2011 London summer riots composed by Blackout Team. In all fairness, this isn't simply distinct to EDM; one of gabba's most significant anthems is "Rotterdam Hooligan" by the Rotterdam Horror Corps that samples the impassioned chants of Feynoord fans. Pondering hard bass' sustaining appeal with football hooligans, Dr. Poky explains, "It's easy for them to bring individuals and make a video. It's affordable promo to show how hard they are." I'm pretty sure dancing hasn't been used to intimidate people given that the Jets and Sharks threw down in West Side Story, but whatever.

Eventually in late 2010, hard bass slipped under the digital Iron Curtain and made its method onto YouTube, pump dancing into the collective global awareness. Throughout 2011, hard bass crews grew in Slovakia, Serbia, Lithuania, and the Czech Republic. In Belgrade, one mass attack brought in around 200 barely-pubescent kids, while others took place as far away as France, Spain, and even Chile. Mass attacks were progressively happening beyond government buildings and, to the inexperienced eye, should have appeared like political protests through ham-fisted line dancing. Were they attempting to state something to politicians? Dr. Poky discusses: "Some people make videos since they like hard bass and desire share it with the world, however some other individuals use it to promote their own agenda. In Chile, trainees utilized it to protest against the federal government cutting cash for education, in Serbia for example, some of them used videos to oppose about Kosovo." The first team to explicitly utilize hard bass as a political platform were Russian group Hard Bass School," who saw themselves as an eastern bloc Minor Risk. As Dr. Poky elaborated: "You have some video on Web with a guy cigarette smoking, then some guy comes and states 'Why do you waste your money and time smoking cigarettes or taking drugs? You must be using a Hard Bass School t-shirt and dancing to Hard Bass!'" Yeah, let's get high on tee shirts! In Belgium, Jeune Nation, the Hitler Youth-esque junior wing of Francophone nationalist motion, NATION, utilize0 EDM in their never-ending fight versus Islam. With Halal dietary standards ending up being increasingly typical in supermarkets and school kitchens throughout Charleroi, they unceremoniously took the streets last April wearing pig masks and staged a mass attack in defense of their inalienable right to pork products. Political gains were limited, but sighs of exasperated offense were at an all time high. Over in the Czech Republic, anti-authoritarian hard bass teams are persuaded that the recession marks the start of a counter-cultural revolution, as Mord discusses: "Society is staggering on the edge. Today's financial crisis is not just an affordable problem; it's a crisis of culture. We believe that this crisis is a significant one and that a big social shift and transformation is on the horizon. We want to contribute."

Okay, however isn't pump dancing a little bit of an unclear method to make a statement? Why don't you make some banners and yell cute mottos like everybody else does? Team member Mord argues, "That's simply another system-approved kind of habits. How can you protest against the system if you continue to play it's video game? How you wish to change guidelines if you behave by the guidelines? Take a look at the Occupy Wall Street movement. Where are they now? What did they really accomplish?" But how exactly is rhythmically imitating the early stages of the white wine making process a better revolutionary method than civil disobedience? "Think about the symbolic power! Groups of masked people making sounds and dancing where they're not expected to is a lot more outrageous than ten times as many individuals marching with banners and screaming mottos! We are provoking people to think a little bit more about what they see around them; people are desensitized to opposing crowds, but everybody responds to hard bass." Though Nenad, from Serbia's hard bass team, added a more level-headed answer: "To us, it's a kind of mingling and home entertainment and it lets us reveal our viewpoint. We won't change anything, however a minimum of we get to show our position."

What is EDM music?

Electronic dance music, also called dance music, club music, or merely dance, is a broad variety of percussive electronic music categories made mainly for nightclubs, raves and celebrations. And I think that's the real point of electronic songs-- it's simply kids trying to run the hormone onslaught of teenage years as finest they can and hope it brings them some sort of purpose and belonging. When one Prague hard bass crew got together to go garbage selecting in a regional forest, I don't think a number of them truly offered a shit about the environment, or dreamt of trolling Japanese whaling vessels with the Sea Shepherd Conservation Society, they probably just wanted to hang out with their friends. Due to the fact that, basically, the age of puberty sucks and not everyone gets to be prom queen, so why not indulge in hard bass?

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sambinnie · 8 years ago

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All links mentioned are clustered at the end, if you’d like to read/listen to them too.

I’ve never been one for the middle road, in habits, emotions or tendencies, but if there’s one thing 2016 has taught me — I hope — it’s that it’s possible for me. At last. I’ve been more willing, as I’ve grown fractionally older, to welcome the change of heart that time and experience bring; I’ve been more likely to say, ‘Well, this is how I feel at the moment, but who knows,’ rather than, ‘No! Never! Impossible!’ Only there have been some hold-outs from this: some political groups, some voting histories, some educational choices, anti-freedom groups, hate groups. Thankfully, they could all be bundled up in my mind as Big Bads, so I didn’t need to ever fear that I could be wrong about any of them: and if someone had expressed those choices, even once, even in error or misunderstanding or drunkenness or foolishness, or ever been associated with anyone who’d expressed those choices, then great! Into the barrel of doom with them, and good riddance!

I have loved so much of social media, so much of the quickness of thought to make the jokes, dark or otherwise, because that’s how I see the world. The kindness, too: those people who tap a “xxx” or a digital embrace to someone suffering. I’ve been at both ends of that, and it feels good.

2016, however, and everything we’re seeing unfold from that and the last few years before it, has made me wonder at the meaningfulness of these interactions. Other people than me have written about this, probably better than me, and research can show whatever we want it to (also known as ‘2016’s catchphrase’) but some gut instinct in me has hollered louder and louder than social media does nothing, for me, in quite a major way. I’m sure anyone who’s reading this can give me some counter arguments — friendships, business contacts, social and political movements — but there is a hollowness to my life on there. On here, I suppose I should say. Having been mostly off it for several months now, I can see with greater clarity that the time I spend with friends and family on sofas and bar stools and around kitchen tables, without photos, or hashtags, or tagging, or comments, just ephemeral conversation and moments that are gone forever: these times have been better for me, and have filled some deeper need.

And of course social media can be an educational, fascinating place. It’s hilarious to suggest otherwise. So congratulations and a big shiny medal to me if I now understand that Black Lives Matter, or grasp the violence that faces the average transgender man or woman, or see that even the most supportive, feminist man occasionally uses language and jokes that chip away at the average woman. Those fights are easy to understand and easier to engage in.

But – and here’s the tricky bit – how much time did I give, really, to thinking about why someone would support and vote and fight and hurt people for beliefs opposite to mine? It’s not comfortable to defend these people, to acknowledge that they are human and have family they love and interests they believe to be best. It’s not easy to say, in my circles, But What About Straight White Men, when we’ve had such a bloody great time turning them into the butt of every smart, knowing, accurate, deserved joke. But the number of people I know on social media who are actively trying to make the world better (could count on two hands) rather than just spitting into someone’s online soup (thousands) is worth my consideration, if I’m spending hours a day with them. And the things we’ve hated in those hours! We hate this film. This politician is trash. That TV programme is shit — look at this gif about it! The readers of those newspapers are just a dumpster fire of burning garbage.

So this is what I’ve concluded, after much thinking and reading and listening: that there are two issues here. Two things that tie my feelings about social media and my feelings about what’s on social media together: firstly, nuance, and secondly, opportunity versus morality.

Nuance, as Jon Ronson (a man who’s had his share of online kickings) says on the Guys We’ve Fucked podcast*, is wildly unfashionable now. Pick a side! Quickly! Don’t worry about circumstance, or history, or mis-readings, or context! Just go go go get our boots on and pile in! My online bubble that I’ve been happy to cosy up in seems the same: straight white guys: be quiet. Leave voters: racists. Republicans: racist misogynist climate-change deniers who should also be quiet. It doesn’t matter why they feel that way. Let’s just remind them as forcibly as we can that they are hateful humans we don’t want to dirty our hands with, and that’ll teach them a lesson they’ll never forget! After seeing our scorching memes, they’ll be thinking like we do in no time! Except: they are actual people. Everyone’s frightened of something, and whether or not I agree with the veracity of the source of that fear, they’re still feeling afraid. They still have goals, which I may or may not agree with, but those goals won’t change if I tell them their goals are trash. In an episode of the Invisibilia podcast* called Flip the Script, Hanna Rosin visits Aarhus to talk to the police who decided to stop prosecuting young Muslim men travelling to Syria to fight for Isis, and instead engaged with them, offering them care and support, employment and housing. They made them feel like they were welcome in Denmark, that this was their home, and in 2015, even when traffic was spiking from Europe, only one individual left Aarhus to fight. In the programme, Jamal, a young Danish muslim, says of his feelings before this positive intervention received him, ‘I thought: they call me terrorist? I will give them a terrorist.’ Treat those we disagree with as racists, as misogynists, as bigots, as fascists, and guess how they’ll be tempted to behave. (Side note: It’s also really worth listening to the Adam Buxton conversations* with Richard Ayoade, Iain Lee and Jon Ronson (again!) talking from various different angles about kindness, nuance, context, and how it feels to be a Woody Allen fan these days. Also, there’s a stand-up routine by Louis CK – helloooo, problematic public figure – which also covers nicely the idea of correctly using The Right Terms but having not great goals with it, and being pummelled for using Incorrect Language but wanting to communicate positive ideas. I can’t link to it as it autoplayed on Netflix while I was painting the hall, but the thought was pretty smart.)

As Oliver Burkeman said in his This Column Will Change Your Life piece*, it’s moderation that’s key to a better world, not battling for victory. No one really ever wins a war. As This American Life’s podcast* on Reconsideration showed, it’s giving people a chance to be listened to that offers that chance to change minds, not shouting them down with facts that will only make them dig their heels in harder. Anger is a vital political tool, but my anger too often feels like hatred, or disdain, or dismissal. It serves no purpose. It’s a toxic, pixelled sledgehammer. It makes the world worse. I’ve really been doing a shitty job at making things nicer, guys.

Secondly: opportunity versus morality. As part of my feminist beliefs, I’ve been pro-Instagram; why should some dude tell me what I can and can’t photograph? If people like my lunch pic, what’s wrong with that? If I look great and want to record and share it, what the hell is your problem? Only suddenly, as I’ve been using it less and less, Instagram looks so lonely to me. I think of the humans at the end of Wall-E, tapping their screens and never looking up, and that’s how it feels: I like the sunset someone else has photographed while I’m missing it because I’m looking at my phone. And even if I’m snapping it myself to share — what am I missing by not just looking at the damn thing, and letting it pass through me, a beautiful gift to warm my soul? Do I really believe the tech ads about how much better a father’s night in the woods is with his kid because he brought their tablet along? I know the feeling in me when I pick up my phone to take a picture of something with the intention of sharing it, and it feels like a greasy, dizzy dilution. For me, it’s not about the over-curation of our perfect online lives, but about the inability to live in my offline life without outside approval. I’m not having real fun until 20, 50, 1000 people have liked it too!

And putting that smartphone opportunity up against my moral code: just because we can do something, should we? If I can live-tweet a couple arguing on a train journey, does that make it not nightmarishly intrusive? If I Instagram a photo of someone in a terrible outfit, does that make me a warrior for underprivileged rights? If I pause every lunch with friends to take photos to post online for others to view and like or not like, am I connecting more, or less? Am I making the world a more claustrophobic, judgemental, short-sighted place if I collude in this weird global surveillance?

And god knows, I’m a hypocrite. I’ve been mean as mean can be, online and off-, about people whose political views I disagree with. I’ve Instagrammed my Christmas day lunches, my children’s artwork, my brunches with friends, my views from a train. But why have I interrupted the flow of conversation or silence before the play started to post a picture of the theatre stage and ceiling? Why have I unintentionally asked my family to hold off from eating because I wanted a picture of the meal I’ve just made? Why did I stop thinking about whatever I was thinking about just to snap an image of the sky? I’ve thought and thought and can’t get any further than Because other people might like it. Which is, to me, right now, at this moment, fathomlessly sad. (But who knows how I’ll feel next week, a year from now, twenty years from now?)

Have some ideas on social media changed me? Of course. People and articles have educated me hugely in ways that have hopefully made me a better person. But do those new, positive and instructive ideas warrant staying on social media? Not at the moment. Twitter is a thousand people shouting apocalypse at me, Facebook is an algorithmic sink and Instagram is an endless time-suck scroll of kids I’m not playing with, art I’m not making, trips I’m not taking, food I’m not cooking, homes I’m not helping people into, chances I’m not helping others receive, political aspirations I’m not supporting because I’m just swiping my finger along this screen tap tap tap swipe tap swipe tap swipe swipe swipe…

But right now, I’m trying to make changes. I’m off twitter, I’ve deleted my Facebook profile, I’ve turned my Instagram to private and am slowly weaning myself off it (I still hit like at what I’m seeing, but the (v good, v scary) Moment app is also making me realise how much of my day — my life — is lost to tapping a heart icon on a flat screen next to a photograph someone else has taken that ultimately means nothing to me as pixels on a screen). The cards, notes, emails and texts I’ve sent and received over the last month or two have made me realise how much more valuable these quiet interactions are to me at the moment. I think about the adults I’d like our kids to grow up into: outward-facing, forward-looking, clear-eyed, generous with their time, generous with their thoughts, independent, handy (all the way from cooking and cleaning, through to crafting and mending and building), confident, kind. And it doesn't matter that I’m thinking of it in terms of my kids: like those men we laugh at for only finding feminism once they have a daughter (who cares why they found it! they found it! they're engaging!) it’s not about whether or not I have children. It’s about which adults we want to share the world with. Adults we might disagree with, but whom we could hopefully rely on for respectful conversation, thoughtfulnesss, retreat on either side, apologies, space for error, learning, growth, change.

I’m not saying we should forgive anyone who asks for it — only maybe I am, because what does the alternative produce? And I’m not saying we should love everyone in the world, no matter what they’ve done in the past or continue to do in the future — only I guess, I suppose, perhaps, maybe I actually am, because hating people feels shit, does nothing, and makes the world boring and hate-filled and dead. We’ve tried that! We’ve tried telling men/cis/white women/privileged feminists/baby boomers/Tories/right-wingers/Brexit supporters/homophobes/transphobes/racists/abusers/Cameron that they’re just a crapsack, nothing but a punchline, should get pushed off their soapbox or fixie or 4x4 or youtube channel into the fiery pits of hell! We’ve let the warmth of righteous indignation warm us at night and not minded the language we use against our enemies because look at the way they’ve treated us! Look at the terrible things they’ve done! So we hurl insults and craft jokes and smash bridges with our pixel sledgehammers and wait for the likes and retweets and thumbs up and YEAH comments to flood in, and if they do then our point is proved, good work, and if they don’t then maybe we up it a bit more next time.

(Or sometimes, I wonder if it’s all a handy distraction from the way we’re treating our planet at the moment, like gum we can replace at the corner shop once we’ve chewed all the goodness from it. That’s frightening. That’s genuinely sick-in-the-night, silent panic-attack terrifying. But we buy new phones and new phone covers and charge them up and snap a picture of ourselves with them in the mirror and grind our teeth that some dude took up too much space on the tube and Steven Moffatt can’t write women. Yes! Those things might be true! But, to play the card we all dislike the most: haven’t we got other things to worry about? Not necessarily bigger things, or better things, but fractionally more pressing things? Shouldn't we all be hurling money as hard as we can at scientists and policy makers in the hope we can stop sawing down and burning up the only home we’ve got? Shouldn’t we be campaigning against companies who design their products with built-in obsolescence, rather than grabbing those products as fast as we can so we can use them to tweet our rage at companies who use unreliable delivery companies? And I understand that climate change isn’t a stand-alone issue — capitalism, our lifestyles, our conditioned social priorities, corporate power over government, dissolution of employment rights, exploitation of workers — all of this feeds into climate change and the terrible way we’re treating our planet. I understand this. And all of it feels slightly more pressing than how I can correctly display my individualism to people who don’t or barely know me.)

The fact remains, the basic philosophies of most major religions (if we put aside meat specifics and some potentially dodgy sex/marriage stuff) throughout human civilisation probably have a point: care for the needy; practice humility; think of others; show forgiveness; show respect; love everyone.

If the future looks scary, the answer isn’t to build the wall higher and sharpen our words. It’s so painful, and it’s so difficult, and it’s so simple. Right now, if we can take the time to type our disdain and disgust, we’re in a privileged enough position to take a deep breath, dive into life, and make a better choice.

1. *Jon Ronson on Guys We’ve Fucked

2. *Invisibilia, Flip the Script

3. *Richard Ayoade on Adam Buxton

4. *Iain Lee on Adam Buxton

5. *Jon Ronson on Adam Buxton

6. *Oliver Burkeman, ‘Moderates are the real tough guys’

7. *This American Life, For Your Reconsideration

#change #hope #social media #nuance #reconsideration #moderation #screens #privacy #intrusion #consumerism #recommendations

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unscriptedguidelines · 8 years ago

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Fast Lane: Part I

By T. East So here's a snippet of the urban romance novel I'm writing....for fun, once you reboot this, add your own paragraph to the ending of this part ✨🙌🏾 Part I Kash Sometimes in a world where you don’t know what people value more, money or loyalty, you have to grow up and faster than most. Sometimes you have to fight through many obstacles and sometimes you have to bite the bullet and make it out somewhere. I am a living testimony to how you make it in this world. My name is Kasha Saraine Delancy but everybody calls me Kash or KJ for short. I am the Princess of Charlotte….more so the Charlotte Drug trade. My parents were Daniela Martinez-Delancy and Kashon Delancy, the Queen and King of the QC. I say were because some pussy ass bastard who felt like they were too powerful took them out in a car explosion when I was 5. I never really got a chance to love and know them but they were my heart. I was sent to live with my aunt and uncle, also my parents bestfriends, My aunt Carmen is my mother’s sister and definitely took me in and loved me like her own daughter. My uncle Terrence was my father’s best friend and protects me like no other. Their twin daughters Jayelin and Kayelin are my best friends and we ride this life out like the thuggettes that we are……..well I’m speaking too much. I think WE should tell you this story… … Kash “Ain’t nothin’ to a boss, we ballin’ when you see us..” -Duffle Bag Boy “Students, make sure you turn in those final papers to me by tomorrow evening. I wouldn't want any of you lacking before graduation next week”, said my Economics professor. I grabbed my things and walked out of class with pure joy written on my face. This was my last class of my senior year and I couldn't help but to be too proud of myself. I was 20 years old and graduating from Johnson C. Smith University with a degree in Business and a minor in Hospitality/Tourism. Yeah, your girl is a beauty but what’s beauty without brains ya know? I was relieved and happy that now me and my best friends could put our plan into action. See, me and the twins wanted to open up our on string of strip malls, including a House of Kash boutique, a Paradize spa chain by Jay, and a Tomboy sneaker/heel boutique by Kay. I was so lost in these thoughts that i did not notice the non moving object in front of me. It was too late by the time I looked up and I fell flat on my butt with my phone and books droping. “Oh man, little ma, are you good?” said the deepest baritone voice I’ve ever heard. Getting up and rubbing my butt, I looked deeply into the most gorgeous set of hazel eyes. I stepped back and took in this person at a glance. “Little ma, you staring a little hard.” he laughed. I shook off my embarrassment and glared at him. “Well I wouldn't be staring if you hadn't been in my way” I spat. He tilted his head and looked at me sideways. “Well if I recall, it was you who wasn't looking up ma and with all due respect you can leave your attitude on the ground cause I'm not beat for it.”. I shook my head and gathered my belonging and proceeded to walk away. I was about to graduate and I definitely did not have time for the foolishness. I could feel a pair of eyes on me so I swung my long ombre natural hair to the side and looked back. Sure enough, Hazel eyes was staring so I put a jump to that trunk I got back there and strutted off. I was cruising in my BMW X5 down South Caldwell street when I decided to hit up the twins for a late lunch. “Kaaaaaaay!” I yelled into the car speaker. “Kash, why do you have to yell mama? Usted esta loca, mama,” she laughed. I smiled and got to business. “Look, I finished. The deal is done. Let’s meet for lunch and tell your sister be on time please. We are finally ready.” I said. There was a short pause before Kay spoke. “Kash, I’m so proud of you baby. This is the day you’ve been waiting for and the moment me and Jay have been longing for. Let’s get this money. Live fast…” she said. “And die slow….” i spoke back. “We all we got” we both said in unison. I smiled at the phrase that Jay came up with years before. I got off the phone with her and cruised through downtown to our favorite restaurant, McCormick and Schmick’s. It was a high priced restaurant but it was perfect for this moment. No more struggling, no more bad days……it was on from there. Kay After hanging up the phone from Kash, I immediately got down on my knees and praised God because we were finally making moves. Let me introduce myself though, I’m Kaylen Brianna Martinez-Jones but most know me as Kay. I am a 5’4 Dominican and Black bombshell with a coca-cola body shape. I rock 22 inches of my REAL natural hair that is lightly colored blonde and it rests atop a firm but plump derriere. I am the brains of the trio and definitely the most observant. I peep things with these hazel-brown eyes from afar and near and I make sure we don’t ever get into serious trouble. And by serious trouble I mean……well I’ll let Kash tell you the rest. I graduated from the University of North Carolina with a degree in Computer Science and a degree in Business. I always thought I would be a computer analyst for a firm or for the FBI but my real passion is shoes. Growing up, I was always daddy’s little girl so I caught the tomboy persona from him. I have a LOVE for heels, just like any grown woman but I also had a love for sneakers just like any grown man. I always had the first hand on any retro Jordans or any hot new sneaks that were coming out. Speaking of Jordans, I need to hit up my connect about this OVO Jordan pack that Drake is releasing. I know that Kash has an unhealthy obsession with Drake so this would be a great graduation gift for her. I hit up Rell on my iPhone while I pulled out clothes to meet up with the girls. “Kay Bay, what’s the deal lady?”, yelled Rell. I chuckled because Rell was your typical hood nigga. “Man Rell why the fuck you yelling, son? Look I need the scoop on that OVO pack I’m looking for. Who, what, when, and where?” I inquired. “Look, I got the pack but you have to scoop it from the dude I always cop from. I am currently out of town on family business shawty. “ he said. I rolled my eyes because whenever Rell said that, that meant he did some hot boy shit and he had to get out of dodge. “Alright Rell but make this the last time you do this. I pay you too much money to be dealing with strangers. What’s his info?” I grabbed a pen and paper. “Aight, his name is Jus and he’s a real cool dude, shawty. I told him that you meeting him today at 2.” I glanced at the clock and noticed it was 1:30. “Damn Rell!! When was you gon’ tell me?” I yelled. I hung up before he answered and rushed to shower and get dressed. I threw on a pair of YSL ripped washed skinny jeans and a black racer back Beyonce “Surfboardt” belly tank. I threw on my matte black pair of Louboutin Red Bottoms and grabbed my black Marc Jacobs tote bag and headed to my garage. I hit the locks on my black and chrome 2015 Audi A5 coupe and headed down South Blvd to meet up with this guy. As I was driving, I contemplated on my life at hand. At the young age of 19, I was already successful in my endeavors. I graduated college early because I was a genius if you would say. But my genius mind had nothing to do with my hustle. I inherited the hustle strictly from my dad. My dad was the infamous Terrance Jones, the right hand to Kash, my godfather and a man who once ruled the Charlotte drug world with an iron fist. My dad was his right hand and best friend, more so like brothers. While Uncle Kash handled the business, my dad was the enforcer. His assassin mind and cold heart made him one of the top killers on the east coast. Fortunately I didn’t inherit that dark side from him, but I couldn’t say the same about my twin Jay. Although we were daddy’s girls, we were spitting images of our beautiful mother. Carmen Martinez-Jones was a beautiful dominican bombshell but played NO games. I was blessed to have two parents that were ride or die totally. At times, I prayed for Lil Kash because I know she missed her parents deeply. But I knew we were about to make Uncle Kash and Aunt Dani proud. The sounds of beeping horns broke me out my thoughts. I channeled my focus on the highway as I pushed 80 going towards Southpark mall on the Southside. I was leery meeting this guy Rell hooked up because I didn’t trust anybody that wasn’t La Familia. Hell, I didn't even trust Rell but as long as he kept being on point with the sneakers we wouldn’t have any issues. I pulled up to the mall and valet parked my whip. When I stepped out, I had the attention of all the men in the vicinity. I whipped my hair to the back and strutted towards Maggiano’s,the upperclass Italian restaurant. When I reached the hostess, she smiled at me. “Hello, Miss Kay. How are you?” said GiGi. I smiled and hugged her. “I’m well, Gi. Can you set me up at my usual spot? I’m meeting somebody and I want to see them before they arrive.” I said. She nodded and led me to my special table. I ordered a glass of Cupcake Moscato and proceeded to online shop on my iPad. A girl couldn’t get enough of shoes and clothes as it seems. I looked up and saw a tall gentleman walk up to Gigi. I couldn't get a good look at his face until they started to walk up this way but when I did, I almost lost my nerve and my panties. This man stood at 6’4 and had the skin of perfectly roasted almond. His waves were making me sea sick and his swag was on one thousand. When he got closer, I noticed the Balmain jeans that slightly hung off his hips and the red Balenciaga sneakers on his feet. He filled out the Givenchy T-Shirt nicely with his muscles and tattoos that went on for days. I was so caught up that I didn’t notice that him and GiGi was standing right before me. “Miss Kay?” said GiGi. I sputtered and coughed. “Yes please sit down” I said. He smirked and sat down and his Curve Men cologne wafted under my nose. “Sup ma? I’m Jus.” he reached out his hand. I looked and tilted my head. “Do you have my shoes?” I asked. He shook his head and took back his hand. I was in no mood to have conversation. Jus I didn't know what I did to God but I thanked him for sitting this beauty in front of me. Shorty was looking right in those YSL jeans and I couldn’t help but wonder what she was working with back there. But I knew one thing, the woman I was looking at was going to be my wife and the mother of my children. Her features had me wondering what she was mixed with but the movement of her lips had me mesmerized. “Look ma, Rell said you needed the OVO pack but honestly, I need your number.” . She turned her head to the side and smiled a smile that shook my whole world upside down. “Listen Jus—“ . “Actually, its Justice ma,”, I licked my lips and smiled at her. “Well JUSTICE, I appreciate the flattery but obviously it gets you nowhere. Honestly, I just want to talk about the shoes.” she spoke to me. “Now Rell told me you had the Drake OVO pack and I am trying to acquire that for my best friend since she’s graduating”. I sipped my drink. “Well congratulations to her, and yes I have the OVO pack. But before I give you that, I need two favors from you.” She frowned. “And what favors are those?”. she said. “Please give me your number and you and your friends come to my brother’s birthday party tomorrow night at Cameo”, I said. She thought for a few seconds and smiled. She then proceeded to gather her things and stood. “You know when you walked over here, I thought you had substance. Guess I was wrong.” She then sashayed her way out of the restaurant. I was sitting in complete shock for a few minutes when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the waitress who showed me in. She gave me a smile and dropped a note in front of me. Jus, Those shoes and my best friend mean more to me than your lack of substance. I will see you tomorrow night. Please put me down for 4 people. and by the way, the name Justice suits you. xoxoxo Kayelin (not Ma) 704-555-8438 I smiled and laughed. Lilttle ma definitely was going to be a challenge but for some reason, that was a challenge I willing to make. I left the restaurant and hopped in my range truck. As I left out of the mall area, my iPhone rung. “Talk to me” I said into the speaker. “Boy every time I call you, wounding like you on some boss shit. “ I laughed outloud. Only person who call me and get away with saying dumb shit like that was my brother Kaide. “Nigga what the fuck do you want?” I said between laughs. “Maaaaaaaan I’m calling you to see if you were ready for little brother’s party tomorrow.” said Kaide. I sat back and my thoughts drifted to our other brother, Jordan. I am the oldest of us three boys. My name is Justice Koran Santiago and I am the oldest brother to Kaide Martine’ Santiago and Jordan Edward Santiago. My mother raised me to always look out for my brothers and that’s what I am trying to do. But sadly, my mother never got her wish because 6 yeas prior I fell into the trap of my slick talking father, Johan Santiago. My father was the son of a Colombian drug lord, my grandfather Jose Lete’-Santiago. But my father didn’t take the drug lord route, instead he became one of the top assassins in the world. And his oldest son didn’t fall too far from the tree. I am the leader of my own assassin group and my brother Kaide was right there beside me. I took contracts out from the biggest names in the world. I have killed people for presidents, senators, entertainment stars and even gold digging ass housewives. My only rule is that I do not hurt, touch or kill children. I could diminish the innocence of a child. Another reason why I halfway listened to my mother and didn;t let my brother Jordan get involved with any of the stuff Kaide and I did. I steered my brother right and sent him off to college. Jordan just finished up his undergrad years at Howard University with a Bachelor’s in Science and a Bachelor’s in Chemistry. I was such a proud big brother and I knew my brother was destined for greatness. Now don’t get me wrong, I was proud of Kaide. Not many people knew but Kaide had his degree in business and was trying to open up some event planning businesses. He was actually in the talks with 3 sisters from Charlotte who had business called the Conglomerate. But this business we were in was tricky. And I know it could not last forever. “Ay Jus, I meant to tell you, I met the girl of my dreams today, fam. I know I did.” I laughed because Kaide was truly a ladies man. SO him saying that perked my attention. “Oh really bro? What did she look like?” aide started rambling “Son I swear she was a reincarnate of a love child of Aaliyah and Selena. Shorty bumped into me and I promise you not, she melted in my arms dawg” he yelled. I laughed because I never heard him speak like this. “Well seems like me and you both my brother. Well I invited my future to the party tomorrow with some of her friends.” Kaide chuckled. “That’s funny considering the fact that Jade will be in attendance tomorrow”. I shuddered and frowned at the thought of my ex. “Listen we will handle that when it comes up but more importantly, we have a contract to be fulfilled by Saturday. Lets get it done.” I could hear Kaide sigh through the phone. “Sayless. I’ll catch up with you later.” I ended the call and mentally prepared myself for this week’s activities. Jay I rolled over and looked at the sun gleaming through my window. I tried to sit up in bed but the pain that shot through my body was enough to make me lie right back down. The night I had last night was surely enough to make a grown man tremble but I had no emotions. Well unless it came to my off and on and off again boyfriend Taz. I looked over to see if he was still there but of course he wasn’t. I got up and made my way to the bathroom to take a shower to numb some of the pain away. I also checked my texts to make sure my sisters Kaye and Kash got in safe last night. Last night was a close call and we could never be that close again. I might as well let the beans slip and let you know that we were hit-men or hit-women if you will. We will under the control of my father Terrance and I made damn good money. But I made so much money that I couldn’t figure out why I had such a shitty love life. Speaking of my love life, I was hearing a voice coming from inside my bathroom that I knew belonged to Taz. I tip toed to the door and eavesdropped. “Baby look, I’m sorry but you know what it is. I promise I’ll come over in a hour and pound that pussy out for me. Let me hear her purr for me.” I barged in that bathroom and threw his phone. “Purr motherfucker PURR. Do me and YOU a favor and get the fuck out of my shit now.”, Taz ran after me as I stormed back into my bedroom. “Baby please don’t do this. You know I was just playing with girl, I was gon’ get right back.” he whined, mimicking a Lloyd song. “Nigga if you don’t shut the fuck up copying other niggas shit. I am sick and tired of your bullshit. You disrespect me all day long and act like that shit’s okay. Newsflash BITCH, it’s not okay. I am completely disgusted with your dumb, STD catchin’ ass. Grab your dick, and sashay your weak ass out my crib”., I angrily spat at him. I glared into his eyes and a quick flash, his eyes turned to black. I turned to grab my cellphone and felt a hard WAP to the back of my head. “Bitch, you think you gon’ talk any kinda way to me and think ima let that shit ride. Get your ass up and lay on that bed.” he yelled. For some odd reason, I obliged to his words and laid on the bed. I was scared as fuck to know what he would do if I didn’t and since my guns were not accessible, I did my best to try to make it through this ordeal. As Taz started pounding his fists into my body and my hands went flying back to protect myself, my thoughts drifted to my sister and Kash. If only they know how I was acting right now, they would wonder how the hell was I one of my dad’s best assassins. But the truth is, my inner self was not that worthy of such a brave title. I had insecurities for days, starting with the fact that I kill people for a living. For a while, the people I killed kept popping in my dreams and then I became numb to the bloodshed. The bloodshed helps me numb myself to the insecurities and problems I have, especially with men. As I kept drifting into my thoughts, I didn’t realize Taz had picked me up in the car and dropped me in an alley. He kicked and beat me some more before he stole my keys and my car and sped off. I was slipping in and out of consciousness, praying that God loved me before I went to hell when I heard a voice calling to me. I tried to turn my head but the pain in my head prevented from doing so. I felt myself being lifted into a car and hearing two different voices. “Jordan, man what the hell? How are we going to explain this to Jus?” said one voice. “I don’t know Kai, but we can’t leave her there like this man. She needs help. Let’s take her to Carolinas Med, quickly.” said the other. I could hear the other guy suck his teeth. “Man you’re right. But I don’t want to hear Jus’ mouth man. We were supposed to meet him 30 minutes ago.” While they were talking, I just kept replying the memories in my head. I kept thinking of my sister, Kash, my parents, and my family. I knew that if something happened to me, blood will shed. My father and brothers will tear the streets with the rest of the crew, bodying anybody in sight if something happened. The funny thing is, I also kept thinking of the voice I was hearing in the shadows. It was like something kept drawing me to it. The sweet, melodic baritone voice kept telling me to fight and that everything was going to be okay. I just simply laid back and let the darkness consume me. Stay tuned for Part II

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newstfionline · 8 years ago

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How Elevation Church Uses Rock’N’Roll to Get Closer to God

By Jonathan Garrett, Pitchfork, April 20 2017

It could be any big rock show. Strobes are shooting out from behind the band onstage. A crowd of 1,600 sways back and forth, arms outstretched, singing along to every word. The music swells--keyboards, guitars, and vocals intertwining and variously resembling Passion Pit, Coldplay, and U2. Except right now, the soles of my shoes aren’t clinging to a sticky layer of dried beer. And I can still taste coffee at the back of my throat. It’s 9:30 a.m. on Sunday morning, and I’m in a church.

The musicians are leading their faithful in prayer, playing an original called “He Is Lord” as devotional lyrics scroll across three supersized projection screens. As the song reaches its deafening coda, a video camera skids along its track toward the stage for a tighter shot. The spotlights get brighter. Two men in all-black emerge and place a small podium in the center of the stage. The volume begins to ebb, and the band recedes. A hush comes over the crowd. This is a familiar signal at Charlotte, North Carolina’s Elevation Church: It’s time for Pastor Steven Furtick to go to work.

Founded by Furtick in 2006 when he was just 25 years old, Elevation Church is one of the fastest growing evangelical churches in the country and, compared to other multi-location mega-churches, relatively unique in its method of outreach. Befitting its lead pastor, who grew up in a small town outside Charleston, South Carolina listening to U2 as well as less pious acts like Guns N’ Roses, Elevation combines Furtick’s love of preaching with very loud rock music. Earplugs are offered to everyone on the way in.

Each of the nine Charlotte church sites boasts its own full band--referred to as its “worship team”--and a production crew that includes staff members and volunteers who help ensure that the Sunday experience is delivered with utmost technical precision. The church now draws more than 17,000 worshippers in a typical weekend via its brick-and-mortar sites as well as tens of thousands more online, where the it has an active social media presence. Located in the office-park-glutted Charlotte suburb of Ballantyne, the particular Elevation Church I attend several times late last year is yet another impressive milestone: a $24 million dollar, state-of-the-art broadcast location that, with stadium seating and an enormous half-moon stage, more resembles a top-notch live venue than a proper church.

Music has undoubtedly been one of the essential ingredients to Elevation’s remarkable growth and it is at the core of everything the church does. Furtick himself has strong roots as a worship leader and is intimately involved in the songwriting process, often accompanying the full-time band members on retreats to workshop music. But the 36-year-old pastor’s obsession with secular modern rock groups like Pearl Jam pre-dates his religious awakening at 16--and it’s those early influences, rather than traditional gospel or hymns, that are most readily apparent in his church’s original songs.

While Elevation’s music is undoubtedly a unique selling point, it’s not the only thing that sets the church apart. Unlike many other preachers who are televised locally and nationally, Furtick eschews the suit-and-tie look, opting for skinny jeans and a plain button-down or T-shirt on most Sunday mornings. Moreover, his crowd is markedly different from the lily white, Trump-voting stereotype of the typical evangelical church. For the Sunday services I attend, it appears that non-white churchgoers make up a solid third of the crowd, despite the frankly very white rock music that forms the backbone of the church’s sound; you’d be hard-pressed to find that same kind of diversity at an American U2 show. The church’s appeal to the black community in particular isn’t lost on Furtick, who jokes that God might have “dipped me in the wrong color paint” during one sermon.

But Furtick’s casual demeanor and appearance belie an obvious ability to craft messages with incredible care and attention to the minute details of cadence, pause, and pitch. Watching him give his sermons is sort of like watching Steph Curry shoot three pointers: You never forget for a single second that you’re seeing someone with a rare gift performing at a supremely high level. In Elevation’s early years, Furtick was eager to put this gift to use to publicize his church in secular publications; however, following a series of articles that highlighted possible false “spontaneous” baptisms and his lavish $1.8 million Charlotte home, he has grown increasingly weary of the press. (He declined to be interviewed for this article, though he had no issue with members of his worship team participating.)

If you’re anything like me before I started attending Elevation worship experiences--that is, a non-religious person who has attended just a small handful of church services with friends or extended family--you’d probably call Elevation’s music “Christian rock” after a cursory listen. And while that might work broadly-speaking, insofar as it is music made by Christians primarily for a Christian audience, it’s sort of like saying emo is rock’n’roll--it’s technically correct but misses a critical level of specificity that would explain some important distinctions.

Worship music, as opposed to the broader banner of Christian rock, is written specifically with a Sunday service context in mind. It is designed to foster connection to Jesus through communal, collective effervescence. According to London Gatch, a singer who leads worship at Elevation, it really boils down to a matter of accessibility. “If you’re just a Christian artist, you have the liberty to do whatever you want to do musically and your lyrics can be really wordy,” she explains. “But when you’re doing worship music, you need to be sensitive to a whole room of people from different walks of life who need to be able to connect with it at all levels at that moment.”

In some ways, you could say that the music of Elevation inverts the relationship between Christianity and rock. In typical Christian rock, blatant religious signifiers are often absent. The Christian message is there if you’re so inclined, but the lyrics are usually suggestive and purposely vague. It is rock’n’roll music first, Christian second. Elevation Worship’s music, by contrast, is explicitly religious and rooted in the teachings of the gospel. The kind of music Elevation creates--at least in content--is much closer in spirit to traditional hymns than it is to mainstream Christian rock.

Elevation’s worship music may be loud, but the actual performance purposefully lacks the Dionysian, raucous elements of traditional rock’n’roll to ensure that the musicians do not become distractions from the purpose of praise. The band always seems serene when they’re performing, even when the music surges forward. In non-religious contexts, their approach might look like restraint; in church, though, it comes across more like a calmness in the face of a coming storm.

“As a worship leader, when I lift my hands, I’m not doing it to say, ‘Hey look at me, I can lift my hands and be cool,’” says worship leader London Gatch. “It’s a way of showing the audience they can lift their hands and surrender everything in this moment to the Lord too.”

London Gatch sums up Elevation’s prevailing philosophy thusly: “We have a principle that goes ‘eat the fish, leave the bone’--eat the good meat and spit out the bones of what you don’t want. It means we can learn from anyone. We believe the Lord calls us to a high standard of excellence with our worship experience and our music, so if a secular artist is doing something really awesome musically, why wouldn’t we want to learn from that and bring God something cool and fresh? He’s the ultimate creator of music. Whether [the artist] is speaking to him or not, [God] still created music.”

#Elevation Church #Steven Furtick #worship music #Christian music

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vee-angel · 6 years ago

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Non-Consent Nancy (part 2)

(Technically this is part 3, I just posted part 1 and 2 as a single post)

(Part of the Pervert Pentet Series)

Chapter 1, part 3

Everyone hates you, you’re weak, you should give up hope; Somehow Nancy had managed to word those sentiments as though they were aimed to comfort.

After a few more moments of Hannah wiping the tears from her twisted, squealing Jew face, she turned back to Nancy, “I really appreciate you being here for me.”

“Of course! You’re one of my best friends. If you ever need to talk about what happened, I want you to know that I’m here for you, day or night.”

That evening, she began to feel antsy. After all the delights she’d had the luck to witness in the last few days, she was starting to feel restless. She needed someone to rape.

Nancy had a plan. She wrote back to Angelo, saying how handsome ‘he’ was, and how she’d love for them to get together soon.

Nancy had leaned into her femme side. A short, flowy, scarlet dress adorned her dark-chocolate skin, accessorized with a layered gold necklace and a druzy ring carved from a single piece of amethyst.

“Hang on a second.” it said.

“Wow,” Angelo said, almost breathless at Nancy’s forceful passion. It reached toward a drawer at the bedside table, “Let me get the, uhh, ya know.”

“Mmm, of course. I bet you need the magnum size.” She said, rubbing the front of Angelo’s grey boxer-briefs. She dipped her fingers into the waistband and pulled down as her face descended.

Then suddenly her expression changed. “What the fuck is this?” she demanded as she seized the realistic silicone genitals and held them accusingly above Angelo’s suddenly confused face.

Nancy threw the fake cock forcefully onto the bed and yanked the boxer-briefs down to the knees. “Oh my god! You’re a fucking girl?!?” She shouted, her lips curling in disgust at the last word.

“Please don’t call me that!” Her voice was cracking.

“For someone who thinks they’re a boy, you sure cry like a little girl!” Nancy snapped.

The broken bitch-boy managed to whimper out “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry? Sorry for lying to me, sorry for being a fucking pervert, or are you just a sorry piece of shit?” Nancy spat the words as an accusation.

“I’m so-oo-orry! Plee-heease! Please… just leave me alone.” Angelo barely managed to articulate the plea through the tears that streamed down her bloodied and battered face.

“You want me to leave?? I thought you wanted to get laid, you pathetic little dyke. What, am I suddenly not pretty enough for you anymore?”

“Why are you doing this to meee?”

Nancy rolled her eyes, “Okay, fine. You’re little pity-party worked. I’ll fuck you, you don’t need to beg.”

“If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m going to slit your throat.”

“I said lick my pussy, Angelo.” She demanded with a sneer.

Nancy smiled, “Thanks for buying me dinner, Angelo. I had a great time tonight.”

With that, she left.

#pervertpentet #nonconsentnancy

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