#its just the double standards here drive me INSANE.

[scattered-winter]

they should invent a family that is willing to give me full agency as an adult :|

[familyagrestefanblog]

The importance of Marinette complimenting Mister Bug's eyes in "Passion", and regarding Marinette's love for Chat Noir from 5x07 to 5x12

I honestly have to say I genuinely, truly dislike how this moment is perceived as "Lady Noire hilariously catcalling Mister Bug because Marinette is so insanely thirsty for him" by the majority of the Fandom. That is the furthest thing from what I see in Marinette’s intentions here.

I personally view this as Marinette realizing on the rooftop that this is now only the SECOND time that she's able to possibly see what Chat Noir's actual eyes look like and therefore she took the chance to comment on that, which merely came out as too directly and that made it awkward.

The following is not really what the rest of the post will be about underneath "Read more", but I just need to talk about this detail and it's implications because it's driving me crazy. It is part of the main points and the overal post's theme of Marinette's love though and will lead right into it while providing more context for it, so don't worry. Also, head-up, I had to get creative here and there to work around the 30 images limitation. I did not think that would get so complicated at times lol So, long post ahead x3

Unfortunately, the way this moment is shot in the end leaves out a crucial aspect of it and I don't understand WHY they did that:

When you watch this moment in normal speed and without being able to pause it then it looks like Adrien is reacting so uncomfortably/ irritated either only because Lady Noire is not moving and keeps looking at him OR because she IS doing something (negatively) he's uncomfortable with/ irritated by and we merely don't get to see it.

Also Adrien's head being placed in the upper right corner when he's alone on screen basically forces you to look at him next when the camera pans out, which means you are absolutely gonna miss where Lady Noire was before she quickly stands up.

And that's the thing:

THIS is what Adrien was reacting to. Instead of standing up to go into battle with him Lady Noire dreamily leaned forwards a solid bit to look at him more. But most importantly, especially regarding the "catcalling" line, Marinette is leaning forwards to see Mister Bug's FACE. His REAL eyes. You know, the part of his appearance she just complimented him for.

Looking into someone's eyes is the LEAST objectifying thing you could possibly do. In fact, other pieces of media deliberately utilize this method in scenes where a woman purposefully sexualizes herself and flirts with a man (for one reason or another, y'all know the trope) so the show/movie etc can showcase that the man is "not like the other men" and doesn't see her merely for her physical beauty by having him only look into her eyes.

It is BAFFLING to me that the show went out of its way to HIDE the actual reason for why Adrien is reacting like he does because by never letting us see that Marinette only leaned forwards because she wanted to she Chat Noir's real eyes and then got distracted by them and him, it really does Marinette no favor at all.

What she did in this moment was incredibly cute and wholesome and it's a shame the episode didn't used the wide shot earlier so the audience can properly put into perspective that, while Adrien's discomfort/irritation is valid because he is not at all used to Ladybug behaving like this towards him and doesn't know what to make of it or how to read it, WE at the very least would immediately know that Marinette did NOT just do something bad here that truly deserved such a reaction. But the way the episode basically hides that Marinette moved at all and HOW is giving room for understandable bad readings which in turn can be twisted into sexist double standards in both directions.

And I don't like that. I don't like it at all.

Because when you look at the overall situation and how Marinette now sees Chat Noir and so many things about him by the time of season 5, there are so MANY reasons for why her pointing out his eyes not only is incredibly wholesome, it also makes perfect sense WHY it's his eyes she points out and WHY this little compliment is actually very VERY meaningful in the wider context of how Marinette's love for Chat Noir develops in season 5:

With one exception, she has up until now only ever seen her partner as Chat Noir or in a miraculous unification that included the Black Cat miraculous, so he was never without the Green Cat eyes she knows him with. Never except for the one time in "Reflectdoll" where she didn't took notice of it and then it didn't happen again.

That one time she let go by without appreciating it because she probably didn't even pick up that there was something special she missed because for all it is nothing too much changed. Adrien still has green eyes and his regular blond Chat hair as Mister Bug.

But that is actually the point, in that her point of view changed.

By the time "Passion" comes around in season 5 Marinette let's herself embrace her feelings for Chat Noir and REALLY regrets having pushed him so far away until the end of s4, and yet she still has not a single clue if even any of the physical features she normally associates him with truly reflect his civilian apparence. She knows NOTHING.

Which while it absolutely does NOT in any way excuse her almost turning into his enemy in "Elation" to demask him as akuma bc he didn't wanted to be with her as Marinette anymore or her being.. VERY hypocritically upset about him "keeping secrets":

It does in my opinion at least give a very understandable reason for why Marinette spiraled down so hard as she did until it all escalated in "Elation" and blew up; and why she then snapped back to put full effort into platonic love with Chat Noir in "Perfection":

Her ending up in a massive emotional extreme in "Elation" where by the time the date happens she.. well, basically completely stops acting in anyway in Chat's interest too so he isn't hurt or forced into something he doesn't want (her knowing he has no idea that she's Ladybug), her then giving up her earrings in "Kwamis Choice" and from then on not acting on her previous crush on him anymore, does come across as rough and kinda as her merely rebounding on him, but frankly, no, it is NOT at all "proof" that Marinette's love for her partner is not and was never genuine.

in "Passion" her love for him really is still pure but by "Elation" Marinette had to accept that 1) Chat Noir doesn't want to love her anymore, and 2) she isn't what he needs. He needs a (romantic) partner who is with him as civilian because it MATTERS absolutely who is underneath the mask MARINETTE:

The way the show handles Marinette's crush on Chat Noir in how "Elation" turns out in near the end through the emotional extremes, and all of that then leading into "Kwamis Choice" is.. we all know that it wasn't good for both parties, so I'll leave it at that.

"Elation" leads into one serious low for Marinette and in it comes Adrien to help her, which from then onwards has Marinette find the love and happiness she was really looking for. But the fact that Marinette then found her happiness and love with "someone else" and not Chat doesn't mean that her feelings for him were never real and that she in all of this never truly hoped for him to find his love and happiness too:

And that is were we go on from "Perfection" onwards. Marinette's love isn't meaningless rebounding and we didn't get here for no reason. Marinette's emotional extreme that escalated so hard was neither irrational selfishness nor was it justified blamelessness.

It was rooted in her genuine feelings for her partner, her fear of hurting him further, loosing him and her wanting the both of them to get closer, be bigger parts of each others lives after everything that happened in s4 and just be happy.

You know, the happiness that Adrien as Chat explicitly named towards Ladybug in "Passion" when they exchanged their miraculous' and he very openly asked her why they cant make a wish themselves to finally put the fighting behind them. And Marinette in turn treated her partner's feelings and ask for help with all the seriousness and care he deserved.

Marinette too wanted this for the BOTH OF THEM. And what set this off so badly by this point no doubt was her trauma copying mechanism of having to know everything about the person she loves to keep herself save, cause that clashes BADLY and in several ways with her realizing for good that she knows very little about Chate for sure. Not even how he actually looks like.

As if Marinette by now doesn't know exactly that a miraculous transformation can changed most of a person's appearance. She knows who every Miraculous holder in her team is and where this already occurs - most importantly Alya as Rena Furtive-

but of course we also have the obvious cases of Hawkmoth, Mayura and now Argos too where it's to be expected that they massively changed their appearance to hide their identities.

Plus, Marinette's own eyes and even CatWalker's that one time are the same as Chat Noir's (which are by default actually Plagg's eyes) and Zoe having the Tiger eyes (for some reason?) as Kitty Noire really would put it into perspective for Marinette that she actually doesn't know anything about her partner's appearance for sure.

Cause apparently the Black Cat miraculous automatically gives you Plagg's green cat eyes or let's you take on Roaar's Tiger eyes if you wanna spice it up.

And let's add the fact that Chat Noir has blond hair, CatWalker's were green and now Marinette saw that Kitty Noire had blonde hair with green highlights; while Kitty and herself as Lady Noire also have a leather outfit and CatWalker shared Chat Noir's chivalry tendencies and turned them up to an eleven & every single Black Cat miraculous holder (including Marinette herself now) has depicted the same flirty and or romantic tendencies for the Ladybug miraculous holder.

Man, at this point I would not at all doubt it if Marinette were to genuinely question if the things she always thought she knew about Chat Noir are actually truly like him as civilian at all. She has no real reverence to ANYTHING. The only Black Cat miraculous holder Marinette knows the identity of is herself but even she is very well aware that she is acting even more "unhinged" as she already did.

So yeah, tell me what is there NOT to appreciate for Marinette in "Passion" about seeing Mister Bug again?

In "Reflectdoll" she most likely didn't even notice that she just received confirmations about a few things she already assumed about Chat's appearance and therefore took it there for granted. But now in s5 it turned into a case of "Phew, I DO actually know the most BASIC things about Chat Noir. I'm so GLAD!"

The Ladybug miraculous on itself up til now (Monarque Bug doesn't count that's a unification) has always keep the holders normal eye color and even if Alya as Scarabella changed her hair style, her hair color stayed the same. If anything it merely got a bit more vibrant.

Meaning that Mister Bug IS the only possible reference Marinette has to draw some conclusions on how Chat would actually look like as civilian. And secret identitiy be damned, at this point I would want to have at least SOME clarity too.

Which btw, yes, this means Alya's statement in "Elation" was correct:

Just because Marinette says otherwise doesn't it mean that her behavoir also reflects that all the time, and when it does, it doesn't mean that Marinette is morally anywhere close to RIGHT.

Anyway. She may still not know for sure if Mister Bug's appearance can truly clue her in on how Chat looks like as a civilian but at least through seeing Mister Bug again Marinette had the opportunity to put things into new perspective and narrow down the chances.

Marinette now knows for example that even if Chat Noir's hair doesn't exactly look like this civilian hair style-wise, his blond hair does have to be/ most likely is an accurate reflection of his real hair.

Plus, another VERY nice detail in my opinion: Marinette may know through especially Alya as Scarabella (but also through alot of other miraculous transformations) that the hair styles can differ from their civilian counterpart, but the fact that the boy behind the mask chose the same hair style as he always wears as Chat Noir does tell Marinette that the hair she associates him with is the hair style he personally prefers the most because he always comes back to it over and over again without fail.

That IS information about him (as it also provides information for us the viewers that unlike Félix for example, Adrien genuinely LIKES to have his civilian hair more messy and would probably prefer to go even a bit further but knows better and remains in the middle about it) and in my opinion, it's very wholesome that Marinette now got a confirmation that she knows how her partner prefers to do his hair. Idk, I find that cute <3

And of course the aspect Marinette herself puts the most emphasis on because, duh, eyes are the doors to a person's soul:

I don't know about you, but I personally cannot see any thirsty "catcalling" intentions in Lady Noirs compliment. Even if she voiced it too bluntly and it therefore got a bit awkward.

Wouldn't YOU be happy to finally get as close to a non-verbal and non-reveal confirmation as possible that you indeed were always right about what you assumed your dear friend's (for whom you also have feelings for) EYES look like?

Isn't it rather SAD that this is something Marinette felt the need to point out and compliment him for, one year into their partnership?

Cause can you imagine how much it would have hit Marinette in the face if suddenly Mister Bug showed up the second time and out of nowhere he had brown eyes? Sure, it probably would have stung too if he suddenly had brown hair, but especially with a miraculous transformation that is a secondary priority.

Why WOULDN'T Marinette be gleaming and starring happily while commenting how the red outfit makes his eyes stand out? Thats literally the truth! The Mister Bug suit is the only one she has ever seen her partner wear that make his eyes stand out FOR HER. Chat Noir's regular transformation magic Cat eyes are just that for her, the regular Transformation Cat eyes she associates with him. Adrien's real eyes are the RARITY here.

And seemingly, Marinette realized this by the time they reached the rooftop and this second chance to make up for her obliviousness in "Reflectdoll" very clearly meant alot to her because if there is one thing I learned about Marinette's body language it's that if she can't or has trouble looking a person (especially Chat Noir and Adrien) into their eyes she either feels bad about something or for what she is currently doing.

Marinette's eyes give her feelings away more often than not, even if she isn't ready to voice them out loud or face her mistake:

(I still find it remarkable how people are seemingly not picking up on how hard Marinette is projecting her guilt towards Chat Noir onto Kagami where most of it is badly missplaced and therefore caused the same problems as in the Ladynoir conflict [same with Luka in "Migration" but elaborating on that would implode this post that already starts lagging while writing and editing lol Kagami and "Perfection" are much more important imo]. So Marinette's/ Ladybug's dialogue that episode, especially around Chat Noir, more often than not very clearly doubles to appliy to both Kagami AND Chat. How else was especially the way Ladybug just pours her heart out about and TOWARDS Kagami/ Kagami's akuma form - who can't hear her ANYWAY - supposed to check out secret identity wise if the episode wasn't written in a way where Adrien understands that Ladybug is opening up about her s4 guilt towards him after they both left in "Kwamis Choice"? Like, the episode and Marinette's behavior, words and fears around Kagami don't make alot of sense in the intensity Marinette is displaying if you don't apply Ladynoir to it:

Sure, there is the obvious Chloè influence here, but Marinette's fear of her dear - but very blunt - friend she treated badly in the past calling her out and mocking her for not being able to face her love for Adrien and TALK when she basically got it served to her on a silver platter? [notice how without a pronoun you don't even know for sure if I just talked about Kagami or Chat. Hint: it's both.] And Marinette feeling extremely guilty about what Kagami had to put up with at the ugly end of her and Adrien’s love after Marinette treated her not exactly kindly until "Ikari Gozen" so she doesn't want to talk to Kagami at all until Marinette figures everything out?

Yeah, nah, this is clear-cut Marinette projecting her insecurities regarding Chat Noir onto Kagami. Kagami’s bluntness is what she fears from her and also from Chat - because she's doing the same hurtful communication inablility again with Adrien (or the boy she told Chat about in season 2, who she is in love with. Hence why the rebounding is hurtful bc Adrien knows that Ladybug loves someone else but is BAD at facing her feelings, so he's aware that she redirected her love to HIM as Chat because that's easier. Sorry, but that's what happened.) when it's very important, but she doesn't want Chat to know that [he knows though lol]- and combined with the similarities between Kagami and Chat Noir for Marinette in their history with her regarding treatment, love life [and an abusive/ bad home, which Marinette absolutely picked up on by now regarding Chat Noir, which is yet another thing “Passion” silently showcased aplenty, but that’s a topic for another post] yeah, Kagami ended up being the prime ‘target’ of having Marinette project all her CN insecurities on, which then escalated the situation in the Kagaminette friendship in a similar way Ladynoir did in s4.

That's straight up almost the entire episode.

You can't just say "That's Marinette's trauma talking" about everything and leave it at that. Trauma isn't irrational. If a traumatized person "overreacts" to something and it genuinely doesn't fit well at all to the situation at hand [like with Kagami] than that's because your emotional trauma is hooking itself onto a dynamic/ person similar enough as an outlet to deal with said emotions when you can't or don't want to channel your emotions at the person it is rooted in [for good or bad reasons]. Trauma on it's own is NEVER irrational and when it comes across that way that means the other person either IS doing something bad to you [intentionally or not] which merely doesnt look like that to other people from the outside, or your own trauma is misdireting itself to something/ someone else that shows a similar pattern that make your alarm bells go off)

So if Marinette struggling to look someone she hold dear in the eyes means she has hidden guilt, then the opposite applies for when she looks them (but particularly Chat Noir after season 4) deep into their eyes and holds the eye contact:

The key to Marinette's guilt and genuineness concerning vunerable topics is hidden in her eyes, if she dares to look and if yes, then how deeply, how long and how open to said vunerablity is she? Cause Marinette can, will and absolutely HAS dealt with emotionally important and vunerable topics while she herself didnt actually let it reach her own vunerable core and remained on defense.

So explain to me again what exactly was shallow and inconcidered catcalling about this moment:

Yeah, that's what I thought.

---

Oh. And do me a favor, will you?

Everything I just said, that it is understandable for Marinette to feel desperate at this point to know.. well, ANYTHING about Chat Noir as civilian because she loves him so much and he means so much to her - and especially her who has sworn in the past to know absolutely EVERYTHING about the person she loves to feel save falling in love - and at this point so many informations around them clash with each other that it would take away any certainty Marinette has about what she always thought she knew and liked about Chat Noir?

All of that and so much more I mentioned? Yeah, let's stop cherry-picking through double standards for a second and apply all of that good-will and understanding for Marinette literally even going so far and being willing to turn into Chat's ENEMY to demask him, get to know him and get his love and apply just HALF of that to Adrien.

And I'm not asking you to do that for no reason. Cause if you do that then

Voilà:

You also get your actual reason for why Marinette said this at the end of "Passion".

Cause this isn't just Marinette romanticizing Chat Noir seemingly being able to flawlessly do for her now what she herself has unsuccessfully tried putting her self through with Adrien two times already - entirely stop acting like she loves him to the point where Adrien or anyone else wouldnt pick up on any absolutely still existing feeling in her anymore. All so she isnt distracted or tempted anymore to do any kind of bad choices for romantical or emotional reasons -,

Nope

Cause this questionable moment at the end of "Passion" IS Marinette massively appreciating how strong her partner is. Even if she isn't properly there yet morally-wise.

Marinette's crush on Chat Noir is on full display from episode 6 til 9 and in these 4 episodes she is literally going further and spiraling down harder than Adrien ever did for Ladybug in 4 seasons. This questionable moment is later payed off by THIS in "Perfection":

At the end of "Passion" that was Marinette gushing over how Chat Noir is emotionally strong enough to not only pull something off she herself knows she could never do - fully stop acting like she love Adrien for the greater good - it's also her gushing over him BECAUSE she knows exactly that by the end of season 4 Marinette as Ladybug pretty much reduced the Ladynoir partnership and friendship down to "Chat Noir I want you around but don't ask anything of me, don't expect me to tell you anything or that you have any voice or status in my team besides being my favorite minion and MY emotional support."

Cool that YOU don't agree that that's bad, but Marinette herself is literally gushing and squealing in "Passion" while being in hard-core denial that her partner has actually already moved on from her (as she said he has to do) because she doesn't want to face the reality that it wasn't only bad, it was BAD and now Chat is trying to protect his heart while still wanting to be with her as friends but she was making that..really difficult for him:

It was a necessary development from episode 6 til 9 that Adrien as Chat Noir learned to assert himself against Marinette / Ladybug and reject her too and actually have it stick even if she is sad, because Marinette herself is indeed aware now how MUCH she asked of her partner to put up with, go through for her and to what little amount of certainty about anything around them and her - whom he loves/loved dearly and with all his heart - he had to settle and adjust to with no choice in the matter bc she didn't let him have any choices

(I swear, if you make all of the season 4 Ladynoir conflict out to be "just" about Adrien's LOVE for Ladybug and completely ignore how much her friendship and companionship means to Adrien I will break into your house at night time and eat your broomstick right in front of you while keeping eye contact. And I promise you, we are both not gonna get out of that one without receiving psychological damage)

Minimize and disregard it however you want. MARINETTE is at least emotionally fully aware of what she did and knows she - who has/ had to know everything about her crush and control as much as possible with barely any compromises - could not have gone through what she asked of Chat Noir while also leaving him all isolated. Which, again, is something she knows she couldn't do because she literally brought Alya/ Rena in fully on his expense while keeping it a secret (and 14 other team mates, bc that was oh so vitally necessary).

The difference between the end moment of "Passion" and the beginning of "Perfection" is that in the later Marinette is past her denial that her asking so much of him she couldn't go through herself actually caused him pain and that is costed him so much emotionally that it did leave him wanting to protect his heart from Ladybug romance-wise and look for his own happiness and love somewhere else for his own sake.

And for the record since I mentioned it earlier: Yes, Adrien noticed the entire time that Ladybug flirted with him ever since "Determination", how is this still a hot take? The development hardly makes any sense if he was just too oblivious to breath. Besides, the entire time Ladybug making a move on Chat Noir always resulted in him running and pulling away from her and Adrien making himself take the next steps in facing his love for Marinette and persue her. No, that wasn't a mere coincidence for like 7 episodes in a row. Gosh...

All of this is literally pay-off for season 4. Marinette's love for Chat Noir coming to light and compensating for her regrets for their partnership, friendship and especially romance-wise; him rejecting her too and persuing civilian Marinette as Adrien and Adrinette finding a healthy love while Ladynoir gets comfortable around each other again.

What have y'all been watching?

[tigercallalily]

so i’ve been listening to the audiobook of britney spears’ memoir the woman in me and rather than rant at one person with massively long texts or at my parents i just gotta throw everything out incoherently, even tho i’m not quite finished yet

so like, first things first, the writing is not stellar. honestly about what you would expect and it fits if it is a bit slow in the beginning. i saw a review that it reads like a high school girl’s diary which i’d say is pretty accurate for the beginning but less noticeable the farther along

next, we hate justin timberlake and kevin federline. when i was talking to my parents about the book and her relationships, they both said that they already didn’t like jt bc of someone else he cheated on i think and then federline bc he’s a scumbag. they both suck and also the blatant double standard for men and women specifically in hollywood/fame but also just every where. which she points out several times

next, its sexist as fuck and also a problem, but in child custody, if both parents want custody, it’s usually ruled more favorably for the mother. but federline smeared britney’s reputation so fucking well that they gave him more custody of their two sons under the age of 5. like tabloids did such a number on her entire reputation and seems like absolutely no critical thinking was entertained by anyone that hey maybe some of this other shit we’re doing is causing these problems and she can’t get away from any of it

so i was 10 when she walked into that hair salon. i knew approximately zero things except that i was being told that she was going to rehab for drug abuse i think. and i don’t know what was known then but she talks about being swarmed by paparazzi and taking care of two babies by herself and her husband being closed off from her and like??? then she gets her reputation smeared in their custody battle and it’s all very public and i’m sitting here like “yeah, no shit she snapped. that’s a fucking lot to deal with”

finally, holy shit there had to have been some sort of bias, if not corruption, in the courts for her custody and her conservatorship. or potentially the courts were overrun (which is likely) and britney’s case is the one that got the least effort. i don’t know if it’s what i’ve been told or the actual general public opinion, but there was always the dumb blonde, ditz, butt of the joke directed at britney. it always came across as she was stupid. she made some stupid mistakes, which she admitted, but she wasn’t stupid. specifically about the conservatorship, she was lied to by plenty of people and didn’t know who to trust that would tell her the truth or if they would lie for her parents because they were paid by them. sidenote but law is confusing and pretty much everyone is stupid about one part or another which is why laypeople shouldn’t represent themselves. anyway, she knew the conservatorship was fucked up from the beginning but when she said she went along with it because it let her see her sons, it was a lightbulb for me.

again, the writing isn’t stellar but then we get bangers like “At what point did I promise to stay 17 for the rest of my life?” and “My freedom in exchange for naps with my children — it was a trade I was willing to make” britney you can’t make me emo about these things while i’m driving. looking back on my vague memories, it feels insane that the tabloids picked her to completely ruin. bc it doesn’t seem like there was anyone else who ever got focused on quite so harshly.

[letterboxd]

Savage Cinema.

From anarchists and adultery to milk baths and massacres, Matthew Turner shares five of the weirdest and wildest highlights of Hollywood’s pre-Code era, as #PreCodeApril comes to a close.

Pre-Code April was directly inspired by Noirvember, a month-long celebration of noir cinema instigated by Marya Gates (Oldfilmsflicker). I did Noirvember for the first time in November 2019, really enjoyed it, and thought it would be great to do the same thing for pre-Code movies. Although I’ve watched most of the classic 1930s films, I realised there were a huge number of pre-Code films I’d never seen (of my Letterboxd list of over 900 Pre-Code films, I have only seen 200).

As a sucker for a bit of wordplay, no matter how tenuous, I picked April partly because it’s six months away from Noirvember and partly because of the shared “pr” sound in April and Pre-Code. I’ve been absolutely delighted by the response—the #PreCodeApril hashtag on Twitter is a daily treasure trove of pre-Code-related joy, but I was genuinely thrilled to see the response on Letterboxd (here is my watchlist for the month). It’s been a real pleasure to see pre-Code movies constantly popping up in my ‘new from friends’ feed. My hope is that it’ll be even bigger next year—and that maybe TCM will want to get involved, the way they do with Noirvember.

Produced between 1929 and 1934, pre-Code cinema refers to films made in a brief period between the silent era, and Hollywood beginning to enforce the Motion Picture Production Code censorship guidelines (mandatory enforcement came in from July 1934). The “Code” in question was popularly known as the Hays Code, after then MPPDA president Will H. Hays. As the depression set in and box office declined, theater owners needed fare that would drive cinema-goers to the movies. It was a wild time to be a scriptwriter; they threw everything at the page, designers added even more, and actors played out the kinds of scenes, from the suggestive to the overt, that would otherwise be banned for decades to come.

The following five films demonstrate some of Hollywood’s craziest pre-Code excesses. They’re still jaw-dropping, even by today’s standards, and notably give female characters an agency that would be later denied as the Christian morals of the Code overruled writers’ kinks.

Madam Satan (1930) Directed by Cecil B. DeMille, written by Elsie Janis, Jeanie Macpherson and Gladys Unger

A critical and commercial flop in 1930, Cecil B. DeMille’s utterly insane musical comedy stars Kay Johnson as a straight-laced wife who plots to win back her unfaithful husband (Reginald Denny) by seducing him at a costume party, disguised as a mysterious devil woman. The location of this party? Oh, nothing too fancy, just on board a giant zeppelin. (“Madam Satan or: How the Film gets Fucking Crazy on the Blimp,” as Ryan reviewed it.)

Madam Satan is not by any stretch of the imagination a good movie (the editing alone is laughably bad), but as a piece of pre-Code craziness, it really has to be seen to be believed. Co-written by a trio of women and set in just three locations, it goes from racy bedroom farce to avant-garde musical to full-on disaster movie after a bolt of lightning hits the blimp.

The film is justly celebrated (in camp classic circles, at least) for the wildly over-the-top costumes paraded in the masquerade ball sequence, but there’s weird outfit joy everywhere you look. Keep an eye out for an enterprising extra who’s come dressed as a set of triplets.

Call Her Savage (1932) Directed by John Francis Dillon, written by Tiffany Thayer and Edwin J. Burke

Adapted from a salacious novel by Tiffany Thayer, Call Her Savage was former silent star Clara Bow’s second-to-last film before her retirement at the age of 28. She plays Texas gal Nasa Springer, who’s always had a “savage” temper she can’t explain. In the space of 88 minutes she goes from wild teenager to jilted newlywed to young mother to prostitute to wealthy society girl to alcoholic before finally (it’s implied) settling down with her Native-American friend after discovering that she’s half-Native-American, something the audience has known all along.

Bow’s performance is frankly astonishing, to the point where you simply can’t believe what you’re seeing from one moment to the next. Sample scenes see her savagely whipping both a snake and her Indian friend, smashing a guitar over a musician’s head and violently wrestling her Great Dane… and that’s all in the first five minutes. She’s also frequently in a state of near undress throughout—one funny scene has her maids chasing her with a dressing gown because they’re afraid she’ll run down the street in her négligée.

The rest of the film includes alcohol, adultery, strong violence, attempted rape, murder, syphilis (not named, but heavily implied) and baby death. It’s a veritable smorgasbord of outrageous content and Bow is pure dynamite throughout. The film is also noted for being one of the first on-screen portrayals of homosexuality, when Nasa visits a gay bar in the Village frequented by “wild poets and anarchists”.

Smarty (1934) Directed by Robert Florey, written by Carl Erickson and F. Hugh Herbert

This deeply problematic sex comedy features pre-Code stars Joan Blondell and Warren William (often nicknamed ‘The King of Pre-Code’) at their absolute filthiest. Blondell plays Vicki, a capricious, happily married wife who gets an obvious kick out of taunting her husband, Tony (William). When he cracks and slaps her at a party, she divorces him and marries her lawyer, Vernon (Edward Everett Horton), whom she also goads into slapping her in a deliberate ploy to win back Tony.

Essentially, Smarty hinges on Vicki liking rough sex and it’s completely blatant about it, ending with her sighing “Hit me again” (the film’s UK title!) as they sink into a clinch on a couch, a rapturous expression on her face. It’s a controversial film because on the surface it looks like it’s condoning domestic violence, but it’s very clearly about Vicki’s openly expressed sexual desires—she wants to be punished and dominated, she just has a rather dodgy way of getting what she wants.

It might be unsophisticated, but in some ways Smarty is remarkably ahead of its time and ripe for rediscovery. To that end, it would make a fascinating double bill with Stephen Shainberg’s Secretary (2002). Oh, and it’s also chock-full of lingerie scenes (like most pre-Code films), if you like that sort of thing.

Massacre (1934) Directed by Alan Crosland, written by Sheridan Gibney, Ralph Block and Robert Gessner

Several pre-Code films (notably those made by Warner Bros) took a no-punches-pulled approach to their depiction of social issues, and star Richard Barthelmess actively sought out such projects. Here he plays Joe Thunderhorse, a Native American who’s become famous on the rodeo circuit. When he returns to his tribe to bury his father, he ends up fighting for their rights, taking on corrupt government officials and religious authorities.

Massacre is fascinating because on the one hand it’s wildly insensitive—Barthelmess and co-star Ann Dvorak are both cast as Native Americans—but on the other, it burns with a righteous fury and does more than any other Hollywood film (before or since) to champion the rights and highlight the injustices dealt out to Native Americans. That fury is encapsulated in a horrifying and rightly upsetting rape scene (it happens off-screen, but the cuts leave you in no doubt) that the film handles with surprising sensitivity.

In addition to being a passionate fight against racism and social injustice, the film also has some genuinely shocking sexual content. Most notably, Joe is seen making love to a rich white woman (Claire Dodd, who’s also in Smarty) who has an obvious sexual fetish, flaunting him in front of her friends and making a shrine in her room with Native-American paraphernalia.

The Sign of the Cross (1932) Directed by Cecil B. DeMille, written by Waldemar Young and Sidney Buchman

Yes, this is Cecil B. DeMille again, but no list of weird and wild pre-Code films would be complete without the jaw-dropping ancient Rome epic, The Sign of the Cross. Adapted from an 1895 play by Wilson Barrett, it stars Frederic March as Marcus Superbus (stop sniggering at the back there), who’s torn between his loyalty to Emperor Nero (Charles Laughton) and his love for a Christian woman (Elissa Landi), while also fending off the advances of the Emperor’s wife, Poppaea (Claudette Colbert).

The film is racy enough in its sexual content alone: highlights include the famous scene of Claudette Colbert taking a nude milk bath and an erotic “lesbian” dance sequence, where Joyzelle Joyner’s “most wicked and talented woman in Rome” does ‘The Dance of the Naked Moon’ at Frederic March’s orgy, trying to tempt Landi’s virtuous Christian, to the obvious arousal of the gathered guests.

However, it’s the climactic gladiatorial-arena sequence that will leave your jaw on the floor. Lasting around twelve minutes, it includes: someone getting eaten by a tiger, a tied-up, naked women being approached by hungry crocodiles, pygmies getting chopped up by female barbarians, elephants stomping on heads, a gorilla approaching a naked woman tied to a stake, a man getting gored by a bull, and gladiators fighting to the death, complete with blood and gory injury detail.

The whole thing is genuinely horrifying, even for 2021. Best of all, DeMille pointedly critiques the audience (ourselves included), by showing a series of reaction shots ranging from intense enjoyment to abject seen-it-all-before boredom.

Matthew Turner (FilmFan1971) is a critic, author, podcaster and lifelong film fanatic. His favorite film is ‘Vertigo’. The films in this article are also listed here: Five of the Pre-Code Era’s Most Outrageous Films.

[goodgodbean]

East To West - Calum Hood

Hey guys! I got the cutest anon this past week! It should be on my profile if your curious or linked here! They were saying how they don’t usually read OC and I explained my decision to make an OC vs using Y/N. [Spoiler alert: it was so i could add more description to the character’s likes/dislikes] I also wanted to point out that i’m trying to limit my describing of my OC (Becca) so anybody reading could still imagine whoever they wanted (maybe themselves??). I hope you guys enjoy Part 4!

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Masterlist

Part 1 + Part 2 + Part 3 + Part 5

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Part 4. Saturn

He couldn’t call her. 

Every time he tried, the breath swept out of him. His lungs stilled, desperate for a breath that would never come. His heart would race against the minutes until death, trying to keep him alive. He started referencing her number as The Holy Seven in his brain. The case file detailing his insanity has grown enough to call him a criminal. 

The number is scribbled on almost every stray piece of paper in the house. As if he didn’t memorize it the moment he saw it. 

Calum tries to lean back on his couch, before realizing how uncomfortable it is. It’s a modern style, extra long bottom cushion with a ridiculously low back, the worst design in Calum’s opinion. The decorator chose it to match the modern, white monochrome look to the house. The lack of color drives him crazy, like he’s been only in one room while walking through the whole house. All the furniture was low to the ground and designed so you could see the whole room from any position. The living room they were in had big floor to ceiling windows that had a dark blue tint. When the sun hit it right, it felt like you were sitting at the bottom of the ocean. The walls were mostly bare, spare the odd monochrome painting that probably cost too much in Calum’s opinion. 

Luke looked more than natural in the space, somehow making the awful couches not look so bad. A fleeting thought - maybe Calum should just give the house to him. Luke puffs the weed. His dirty secret only came out at Calum’s house. Luke usually blamed Calum for being the stoner when Layla, Luke’s girl, would ask. Layla quit smoking when her brother was killed in a car accident while under the influence. One of the boundaries Layla set when she and Luke started dating was that Luke quit. Luke agreed, he’s been trying to get into her pants for weeks. It never took Luke so long to win over a girl and the chase was driving Luke insane.

When Luke came back that first night smelling like weed, he had blamed Calum. Calum never corrected him, so the running lie had begun. Calum had smoked a couple of times, but when the thrill of doing something slightly illegal wore off, he realized he didn’t even like how it made him feel. Every time he tried to relax while under the influence, his anxiety sky rocketed. It wasn’t worth it to Calum. 

Luke passes the blunt to Ashton who also inhales some. Unlike Luke, Ashton’s girlfriend is sitting right next to Ashton. Ashton’s arm is around her shoulders as he holds the blunt up for her to take. It wasn’t much of a boy’s night like they said it would be. They convinced Calum to invite them over by saying they were going to have a boys night and bond a little before they go into the studio next week. Calum had blindly believed them, desperately believing that they finally saw how unhappy he was. Next thing Calum knew, the joint was being passed around and nobody noticed that Calum never took a hit. 

The clock was closing in on midnight. Not exactly late by their standards, but enough time had pass to make Calum want to burst. Burst in anger, frustration, or maybe it was just sadness. Calum excuses himself, standing and walking up the stairs to his room. 

It was then that he called the number. There was nobody else to call at that point. 

The phone rang and rang. Calum held his breath for another disappointment. Why would she even pick up? It was during the custom voicemail greeting that someone picked up. Calum hadn’t even realized that was possible.

“Hello?” The voice was like molasses, slow and riddled with sleep. 

“Hey,” Calum brilliantly answered. 

“Benny? Is that you? He didn’t call yet and we do still have a three hour time difference so I’m going back to bed,” Her voice was rough and low. Something in Calum told him she only spoke quickly so she could hang up faster. 

“Actually - it’s not Benny. But I did forget about the time difference.” Calum cursed himself in his head for forgetting she lived in New York. Its 3am for her. She was definitely asleep. 

“Um who is this then?” She seemed a little bit more awake now, but definitely still groggy. 

“It’s..uh…Calum. Calum Hood?” He said it like a question. Unsure of how else to phrase it.

Becca flips the light switch and drops into a chair. The kitchen illuminates in a murky yellow color, but she feels a little bit more awake. 

“Uh…” She breathes out. It’s her turn to talk. “I’m Becca, Becca Woods. I’m sure you know that by now though,” her voice is too breathy and she’s rambling but she can’t seem to stop. “I heard you have a picture of me? That sounds creepy. Well I have a drawing of you too. Does that make it less creepy? Um…sorry. But yeah, sounds like I should be paying that psychic for drawing me and giving it to you. I mean - I didn’t! I didn’t pay her at all. Well I did pay her for the picture of you but….yeah. I didn’t pay her off.” The disaster grew with every word she spoke. 

He lets out a low chuckle over the phone. Maybe she wasn’t that much of a disaster? “Love, I know.” A breath across the line, “I know.” Another breath, “I was hoping to get to know you? Um, I didn’t really think I’d get this far and that you’d be real. But…yeah? You live in New York? Maybe you can come out here or I’ll go there? I’m not good at the whole phone thing.” He slowly chuckles.

Becca had to remind herself to breath for a moment. “Yeah, we should! I -uh. Schedules for work just came out. I can’t request off until next month. Um - I don’t even have the money for a flight. I’m sorry. I’m rambling. and I’m tired. I’m sorry, I’m not exactly sure what I’m saying -“ 

Before Becca could keep going, Calum just breaths another laugh. “Don’t - don’t worry. We can figure it all out later. Just go to sleep, Love.”

“I-uh-okay. Goodnight…Calum.”

“Goodnight Becca.” A beat. “Thank you for picking up.”

“Well, that’s what you do when the phone rings.”

Becca places the phone back on the hook in the kitchen. She’s so tired, she doesn’t even realize that she didn’t remember to give Calum her cell phone number. Becca just stumbles back to her bed and collapses into a dreamless sleep. 

Calum stares at the cell phone in his hands like it was the map to Atlantis. Confused on how he had gotten it, but he wasn’t going to let it go now. Something in him lit up from talking to her. A spark so small, someone like Luke wouldn’t have even noticed it. But when your chest is hollow and dark, the little light is more like a beacon of hope. 

Calum descends the stairs back to the living room. He collapses on the sofa, the conversation around him not even faltering. It didn’t bother him as much this time though. 

Becca messed up about 4 drinks the next morning, burnt her hands three times and overcharged a regular by double (he thankfully wasn’t mad). The regular, George, leaned up against the counter near the espresso machine as Becca steams the milk for his sugar free vanilla latte. Becca barely makes eye contact with him, a far cry from their usual banter. George is not quite middle-aged yet, in his 30’s with a 15 year old daughter (a result of a teen pregnancy), but still has a widow peak starting to show between his fine hair. George studies her, concerned, as she pours his latte a little too quickly making the latte art muddle together. Becca just pushes the drink across the counter. 

George stares down at his drink, “Now I know something is wrong. You okay Becca?” His voice is slightly strained and awkward. Even though every morning, for the couple minutes it takes Becca to make his drink, they talk and banter a little, they have never talked about anything remotely serious. As it goes with most customers. 

Becca is already starting on the next drink order as she speaks, “Yeah. Got a call at like 3am last night and I’m trying to figure out if it was a dream or not. Ha.” Her laugh is more like a hard breath, but it does the trick. 

“Check your recent calls on your phone?” George awkwardly stands there, gripping his drink, not sure if he should leave or not. 

“Picked it up on my old landline. No caller ID or way to check past calls. It’s a miracle that thing has voice mail,” Becca says absentmindedly, dumping espresso out of the basket. She grinds more espresso, filling the basket again. 

“Is everything okay?” George is still hovering.

“Yeah. Yeah, it is. Just - unexpected and weird. Feels more like a fever dream than a call.” Becca pauses for a moment. “It feels okay and not - all at the same time.” Becca positions the milk wand into the container and turns it on. 

“I hope it works out!” George calls over the espresso machine. He turns to leave, and just before he walks out the door Becca responds. 

“Me too!”

[dontshootmespence]

Don’t Be a Stranger

Summary: Your on-again, off-again fuck buddy Dean rolls back into town, but something about him is different this time. Will you be able to handle the change?

Pairing: MOC!Dean x Reader

Word Count: 1,929

Warnings: Rough sex, hitachi fun, butt plug, slight spanking, squirting. Good jams with desperate Dean.

A/N: For those of you 18 and over! This fulfills my “sex toys” square for @spnkinkbingo and my plugs prompt for @covered-byroses kink challenge.

Coming home smelling of cheap beer, whiskey and cigarette smoke wasn’t exactly your idea of the best job ever, but with your ample assets and ability to flirt with whoever necessary no matter how disgusting or good-looking, it paid the bills.

Pushing past the impossibly heavy door to your apartment, you peeled off your leather jacket and threw it over the back end of the couch, worn by years of passing out on it instead of your own bed. Perk of living in the middle of buttfuck nowhere was that even your pittance of a paycheck provided you with a halfway decent apartment. Clean it wasn’t, but that was your own fault, normally too tired to bother cleaning after making whatever comfort food you wanted for dinner. It was - as Goldilocks would say - just right. 

After shoveling nearly half a box of Kraft mac and cheese into your face, you went to brush your teeth and get changed. This was the one night of the week were you got off early and didn’t have work the next day. So tonight, you’d treat yourself. Light some vanilla candles, get nice and relaxed with a bubble bath, put on some silky lingerie and go to town on yourself. It was the least you deserved after six straight days of dealing with the scummiest men imaginable trying to worm their way into your pants.

You sighed happily and sauntered through the apartment, turning on the bathwater and grabbing a couple candles before tossing your vibrator on the bed. Just as you were about to slip into the steaming water, you heard a knock at the door. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Grumpily, you pulled on a silky bathrobe and went to answer the door. Whoever it was better have had a good excuse for interrupting your one night off. You peered through the peephole and did a double take. “Dean?”

“Yea, Y/N, it’s me.”

You looked through the glass a third time. He was fidgety; he looked irritated. Normally when he showed up at your door it was because he was sliding through town yet again and the two of you had undeniable chemistry. You were fuck buddies, but you could never sleep with someone you didn’t at least care for to a degree - and Dean looked like hell.

Opening up the door, you invited him and asked if he wanted a drink. When he nodded, you fixed what you knew he drank, which you just so happened to have at home due to your similar taste in liquor. You poured a double shot into a glass, no ice of course, and brought it over to him, passing it to him without a word and watching as he tipped the entire thing back into his mouth. 

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really.”

Typical. He rarely opened up.

He scratched at his arm and you glanced down, seeing a mark that hadn’t been there before. Almost looked like a brand. “Something to do with that?”

“Something to do with that.”

After meeting him all those years ago - apparently he, Sam and Cas had just stopped the apocalypse in its tracks - he told you what he did for a living. You’d come into contact with a vamp once, but with Dean’s basic training, you’d taken it down. Other than that, and the fact that you knew of this whole angel and demon business, you didn’t have much knowledge of whatever insane bullshit Dean got himself into. 

“Let’s just say this mark controls me in a way.”

You moved back in your chair, silently chiding yourself for not checking him for signs of demon or vamp or whatever. “Not like that. I’m clean,” he said, pulling out a bottle of holy water and flicking it onto himself. “In a different way. And I need a distraction. The kind of distraction this Mark demands...I’m trying not to give into it. I don’t know any other way. Sam and Cas want to help, but they can’t-I-”

“Dean, it’s okay. You know I’m always down for a distraction.”

He’d already opened up more than you thought. And you didn’t necessarily need his life story if he wasn’t willing to give it. You were great in bed together and right now that was really all he needed. 

Dean smirked slightly, relief flooding his features as he pulled you into his lap and began nipping at your collarbone. “What do you need, Dean?”

“Rough,” he mumbled. “I need to fuck you senseless.”

“I’m down,” you laughed in reply, grinding against the hard denim covering his knee. “How about some toys? You can choose.”

In times like these, Dean needed control and you knew it. Plus, he was never one to leave you hanging, so you knew you’d be taken care of, no matter how soft or rough he was with you. 

Gently tossing you to the side, he nipped at the side of your neck before running into your room. He knew exactly where everything was. “This little thing?” He asked in amazement, probably referring to your vibrator. “This is nothing. I want the big guns.”

He did a little rummaging around and found what he was looking for. The hitachi. You only brought that out when you need a quick, easy, powerful orgasm. “Robe off,” he commanded as he walked out with the wand in hand. 

You did as he demanded and let it drop to the floor. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see your stainless steel butt plug, with a green jewel at the end of course, shining in his side pocket. Removing it from his pants pocket, he placed the tip at your mouth. “You’re going to get this nice and wet and then I’m going to fill up your tight little ass.” Moaning around the plug, you began teasing your nipples as he continued detailing every depraved thing he wanted to do to you - what he needed to do to you. “Then I’m going to take my belt and fasten this wand straight on your clit and fuck you from behind until you come so many times that you can’t move from the floor.”

You’d gotten rough before, but normally not like this - not that you were objecting. It just proved that something was different about him even though you didn’t fully understand.

Dean pulled you close and dipped his head to you nipple, pulling one roughly into his mouth and biting down so hard you gasped out loud. “Am I going to have to keep you quiet?”

“You keep doing things like that, hell yea.”

He grasped you bottom lip between his teeth and growled at the slickness between your legs. He’d barely touched you and yet here you were. “Down on the floor. Face down, ass up.”

Once more, he slipped the plug into your mouth before pushing it into your ass. “That slid in pretty easily. You play with your own ass or is that just for partners?”

“Little bit of both.”

“God, you’re amazing.” By the time Dean was happy with the plug’s position, you could feel your pussy dripping. He gave your ass a playful smack before placing the hitachi against your clit and ensuring it stayed in place by fastening his belt around your waist. 

Even though he started it on the lowest setting, you knew you were in for an experience, even by Dean standards. “Who’s my perfect little slut?”

“I am,” you breathed, a dreamy smile setting upon your face as he placed himself at your entrance. The subtle rumble of the wand on your clit intensified as he slid into your heat, a guttural moan escaping from Dean’s lips. 

He pulled out, almost painstakingly slow, leading you into a false sense of security that shattered like glass as he thrust back into you with one, hard, smooth movement. “God, your pussy is so tight.” You wanted to respond, to say something that might indicate the depth of your need, but as he thrusted back into you, pointed, sharp movements driving your clit down onto the wand over and over again, nothing came out. Nothing but strangled cries and bone deep whimpers.

As he picked up the pace, the intensity becoming more than you ever imagined or experienced, he slipped his hand underneath you to flick the switch on hitachi and up the speed. “Oh fuck! Oh my God, Dean!” 

At your outburst, Dean yanked on the belt, pulling you upward and flush against him. His hand found its way to your mouth and covered it. “You remember last time I was here? You made too much noise and got the landlord called on you? Don’t want to do that again, do you?”

You shook your head and bit your lip, stifling the moan that rumbled up from within as you got lost in the pace of his thrusts and the intensity of the wand and the way your ass gripped tightly onto the metal plug, puckering with each movement.

When he pushed you back down toward the ground, he smacked your ass, the sting of it sending you into a tailspin of begging. “Please, Dean! Please, make me cum. Please, please, please-”

Again he pinned you to the ground, upping the speed of the wand one final time  as he wiggled the plug inside you. “Gonna come in this tight little pussy.”

With one final thrust you came apart, a warm liquid flowing onto the ground below you while your clit throbbed and your pussy tightened around Dean’s cock. “Oh, fuck,” you mumbled into the floor.

You were a bowl of jelly, completely pliable and up for anything Dean had in store. Whether or not you could take much more, you weren’t sure. But instead of taking you to the edge of the universe and back, he flipped you over and turned the wand off, removing the belt from around your waist and removing the plug, letting it fall from his hand with a thud. “What a little slut, do you always squirt when you’re not in control?”

“Only by myself, never had someone make me,” you managed to say, your body still shaking. “How about we get in the shower you interrupted me taking and then I can ride you like there’s no tomorrow?”

Even though he’d just fucked you into next week, Dean’s irritation was evident, the mark on his arm almost burning with an unslakable lust for something you couldn’t place. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he said, lifting you up like a doll and carrying you into the bathroom. “But I gotta go before I do something I regret.”

“What the hell could that be?” 

He turned the bath water on and filled the tub, shaking the last thoughts of confiding in someone away. “You don’t want to know. That’s what this is, right? All fucking, no talking. You don’t need to know what a shitshow my life is. I won’t do that to you.” The last words he spoke came out almost like a whisper, voice cracking from a burden he was barely holding steady. 

After placing you in the tub, he bent down and kissed you, lingering for just a moment before turning away. “I’ll see you.”

“Of course, Dean,” you replied, sinking into the bath water, almost melting into it. You wanted him to stay, to unburden himself of the fuckery, but you knew it was a lost cause, at least right now. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?” 

“With you, no chance. Can’t stay away forever.”

[carlisle980]

I get in trouble on here for being honest

In fact, I lost one of my first followers ever about a month ago for saying that mothering three kids 25/8 (because homeschool) and living hundreds of miles away from family (not by MY choice) is hard sometimes.

Oh yes. That one still hurts intensely.

However.

I haven’t got anyplace else I can say what’s in my head, which, granted, is not a sparkling, lovely place sometimes. (Cue “Human” by Human League.)

So. Hate me if you want. It hurts, but my grandmother has always told me “You’ve got broad shoulders.”

I have scoliosis. Specifically, I have a double or “S” curvature of the spine that measures 42 degrees on the top and 42 degrees on the bottom. When it was discovered, it was already over 30 degrees and I was nearly done growing. I was told that I was neither a candidate for bracing (the Milwaukee brace was all that existed back then) nor surgery (because I was a Risser 5 at age 14 I guess? I don’t think I really would have wanted to be fused with Harrington rods as it would likely have been my ENTIRE spine, but yeah). I won’t lament about how it feels to live this crooked, but know that there is never NOT pain. I avoid, or have given up, doing (and wearing) a number of things I’ve loved (ballet and modern dance; running; an office job where I had a corner all to myself and a job specially tailored to my strengths; wearing cropped workout tops or high-waisted anything because my waist is non-existent) because my body CANNOT.

I have a daughter. She’s twelve. Just before she turned 10, I noticed a small thoracic curve in her spine. (It’s really easy for me to spot in other people and I drive all three of my kids insane with how often I check their backs). Anyway. Just after her 11th birthday, she began wearing a Boston brace 3D for 20 hours a day. At first she hated it and it was the end of the world (it is a hard, hot, inflexible plastic shell after all), but soon she got used to it and now doesn’t want to take her allotted 4 hours out of it daily. In the time she’s been braced, she’s grown 8 inches. Her largest curve measured 20 degrees at the start. As of today, it’s down to 16. In other words, as she’s grown, her spine has straightened and derotated. Her orthopedic specialist gave her the option to start reducing her wearing hours and see what happens to her curves, or to continue as is, since it’s going so well. She chose —she CHOSE— to keep on going with her current wearing schedule. She’s the only kid I’ve ever heard of who’d rather be in a brace than out.

I am insanely proud of my girl and THRILLED about her prognosis. When she is 39 like me, she won’t sit on one cheek more than the other, or have to hold onto the steering wheel and pull herself into the car. She won’t have a part of her back she doesn’t breathe into, or one hip so much higher than the other that she can feel her legs twisting to compensate when she walks. She will actually look thin (whereas my ribs sit ON my hip bones, so my stomach always looks fat even though I’m a healthy weight for my height). I couldn’t be happier. She will be normal.

I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t say that I also feel jealous. And ANGRY, so angry about the way I was handled by the “experts” at her age. If I were diagnosed today, at the age I was when mine was discovered (9), I would be on an operating table immediately. It would still be a pretty high and long fusion, but surgery now is night-and-day different to what it was when I was first threatened with it (1990) and subsequently learned it was “unnecessary” (1994). If it were happening now, I’d probably go on to major in dance in college and actually be employable. I would be 5’7-8” and wouldn’t constantly be fighting not to get heavier than I am at this moment because it’s all so damned visible. I would enjoy swimsuit season, wouldn’t avoid clothing styles that highlight my back.

If my curves were caught early and braced now. If my largest curve was 16 degrees. I would not crumble in searing, spasmodic, random pain. I would not experience menstrual cramps as much in my back as anywhere else. I could drive for 7 or 8 hours at a time and not be temporarily paralyzed when I stepped out of the car.

On the other hand, if I hadn’t lived this struggle, I would not wear a beautiful piece of art on my right shoulder blade in tribute. A white pine tree, curved in the middle but persevering. Bent, not broken.

I would not understand the pain that made my grandfather retire at 59 and sit in his recliner for nearly three decades. The pain that ultimately took him last September, at 86. A long life by many standards; yes, but at a premium no one should have to pay. He is the one from whom I, and my daughter, inherited scoliosis. He could have chosen to keep moving and probably been a lot happier, somewhat less in agony on the daily. But chronic pain of that kind, that will never fully disappear, takes its toll over a lifetime. He was tired. I am tired. I have, personally, never felt like ‘... and therefore I cannot go on here.’ But I can see how he did. It wasn’t only physical pain for him; he had his own demons and a whole lot of shit outside of his control that took his youngest son at the age of 40 and the second youngest in March of 2018 at age 59. That was the final straw. After that I watched him slowly die. If it wasn’t for the inescapable physical torment, would he have hung on longer? Would he have stayed to see my kids grow up; would he have made peace with my grandmother? Could they have had a few happy years together for the first time in nearly seven decades of relationship?

I don’t know. I won’t know. I feel his pain even now. It doesn’t justify the poor decisions he made. It does, however, explain some of his harsh treatment of those close to him when the pain was unbearable. You get ugly when you can’t get away from it. I choose stretching and weight-bearing exercise and chiropractic care to stave off the point of madness. I think he reached that point so long ago that those options weren’t there for him then. He turned to alcohol for a long time, and when that wouldn’t do it anymore he chose oxycodone and immobilized himself.

What is my point? Scoliosis kills. It steals beauty and freedom and joy. I cannot express my gratitude for the fact that my daughter will not lose to a deformity.

I just wish I’d had that option, and my grandfather before me.

[lovemesomerafael]

Under The Influence

Peter Stone one-shot (NSFW)

This is a writing exercise I did to try to write in present tense, because @mforpaul does that and I really like it.  It’s also Smutty McSmutface, which @mforpaul also does really well, but I am responsible for my own smut.  (I’m so ashamed.)  It’s long AF, sorry about that, but did I mention smut?

Shout out to @peter-stone and @thomas1340 because Peter Stone.

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Peter Stone can’t believe his Monday morning is going to start with a garden-variety drunk driving arrest.  He thought he’d graduated from these ten years ago.  But when the suspect owns a major international oil conglomerate, D.A. Jack McCoy doesn’t want the news showing pictures of a junior-level A.D.A. handling the case.  So Peter finds himself trying to drink his tall, double-shot, caramel macchiato with extra foam and run at the same time, because he’s late.

Alyson Sanders’ heels were not made for walking the long, tiled halls of a police station.  Truth be told, they weren’t made for walking at all.  And Alyson has no business being in a police station.  Her last exposure to criminal law was as a first-year law student, and it was the last time she’d wanted to think about it.  But Chester Palerisian had called her at an ungodly hour this morning, drunk as a skunk and demanding that she get him out of jail.  So here she is.  She should have had an associate handle this, and she would have, except that it’s Palerisian himself, and she just knows what she’ll have to listen to if he isn’t represented by someone whose name is on the door of the firm.  Of course, having her name on the door of a firm that doesn’t do criminal law should mean that she doesn’t have to deal with the drunken fuckery of an overbred clown like Chester Palerisian.  But his ownership of CTP Oil, and its status as one of her firm’s most lucrative clients, means that she does.

Alyson walks up to the Desk Sergeant she’s been directed to, and asks to meet with her client.  Then she waits, taking the opportunity to look around at the diverse and fascinating group of people waiting with her.  She listens to the conversations she can overhear, trying to identify languages and intrigued by the dramas going on around her.  She is almost sorry when the Desk Sergeant calls her and escorts her to an interview room. 

The room has the standard one-way mirror, which shows that today’s wet fog has done Alyson’s hair no favors.  She congratulates herself on going wavy and messy with her long blonde bob today, because that was how it was going to end up, anyway.  There is also the standard long, metal table with scratches, dents, and metal loops for handcuffing suspects who threaten to get out of control.  The room reeks of alcohol.  To be precise, her client, sitting on one of the mismatched and battered chairs haphazardly surrounding the table in a suit that had cost several thousand dollars and was probably now beyond repair, reeks of alcohol.  The minute he opens his mouth, it is clear he is still very, very drunk.

“Aly!  Thank God.  Get me the fuck out of here,” he says, standing as though she is just going to lead him out this minute. 

“That’s why I’m here, Chet.  Are you all right?”

“Does this look all right to you?  I’m in fucking handcuffs, for fuck’s sake!  What am I, a criminal?”

Alyson is just annoyed enough to consider answering that question, but she hasn’t gotten to where she is by giving in to impulses.  “All right, I just wanted to check on you before we talk to the cops.  If you’re ready, I’ll let them in.  And you are not going to say one word, all right?  Let me do all the talking.”

“Fine, fine.  I’m not stupid.”

On that wildly debatable note, Alyson suddenly realizes she has no idea how to summon whoever they need to meet with, presumably the cops and maybe an ADA.  She puts her briefcase and purse down on the table to stall for time.  Fortunately, very quickly thereafter, the door opens and tall, pretty man walks in, his very well-cut suit outlining what appears to be an insane body underneath. 

Peter will later thank God for muscle memory, because the minute he comes through the door and sees the defendant’s attorney, time stops.  “I’m ADA Peter Stone,” he says automatically, holding out a hand, because that’s what he always does when he walks into this room.  If Peter had to think his way through this moment, the beautiful blonde would be standing there holding his hand while he had feverish sexual fantasies about her for a very long time.  His vision is actually fuzzy, which tells him that, in addition to the things happening lower down in his body, his eyes are already dilating with lust.  He has never seen a better-looking woman in real life. 

Her hair looks as though it is doing exactly what she intended, although what it’s doing is making him picture himself doing things to her to get it gorgeously tousled like that.  Her beautiful suit is tailored by a master, and her hand feels warm and soft and feminine and holy shit the dirty thoughts going through Peter’s head right this minute.  She is wearing very small gold earrings, and he wants to nibble on them, for some reason. 

Peter is fortunate enough that the woman’s moronic client begins to speak at that moment, stirring the alcohol reek in the room and reminding him why he is here. 

“Well, this is my lawyer, Alyson Sanders.  Of Ogilvie, Sanders and…  somebody else.” 

Alyson’s contemplation of the way the ADA is looking at her is interrupted, and she’s not happy about it.  The man looks like he’s about to take a bite out of her, and she’s down with that plan. 

“Fishbach,” Alyson says, still holding Peter Stone’s hand and looking into his eyes.  The voice that comes out is not her usual “meeting opposing counsel” voice.

“Hmmm?”  Peter asks, not letting go of her hand, either.

“Fishbach.  My other partner’s name.  Jared Fishbach.”  The blush of shame at such a stupid statement begins very low on Alyson’s chest and blooms, rapidly and hotly, up her body.   

“Right,” Peter says, realizing with a minute shake of his head that he needs to release her hand.  “And your name is…”

“Aly.  Alyson Sanders.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Sanders,” Peter says, and shakes her hand again.  Both notice at the same time that this is a bit redundant, but they still shake.  They just laugh nervously as they do it, and drop their hands quickly.  “Ogilvie, Sanders…  I wasn’t aware your firm does criminal defense.”

“We don’t,” Alyson responds, grateful she knows this one.  Her neurons are not working correctly.  She notes, however, that her autonomic nervous system is humming along nicely, increasing her heart and respiratory rate and hardening her nipples, as well as dilating capillaries and stimulating lubrication.  Because damn.  The way this Peter Stone has just the very slightest lisp when he says her name should be at least a Class C Felony.  Don’t think about punishment, Aly.  Don’t think about punishment.  Client.  Opposing counsel.  Not spanking.  Work mode.

“I guess I should explain,” she tries to fake coherence.  “My firm represents Mr. Palerisian’s business interests.  When he was arrested, he called me.  I’ll be representing him for the time being, but I’m likely to be replaced at some point.”

“I see,” Peter answers, moving to sit down at the table in hopes she won’t notice that his legs are actually shaking.  Also in hopes she won’t notice other things in the neighborhood of his legs that he is helpless to control now that he’s had a whiff of her perfume.  He can’t remember the last time he had an involuntary hard on.  “Well, I just need to ask your client some questions.”

“Right.  I thought you might want to do that, but I’m afraid we’re not going to be answering any questions this morning.  He’s been arrested, correct?”

“He has.”

“What are you charging him with?”

“Second offense aggravated DUI, felony assault, resisting arrest, disorderly conduct, and misdemeanor possession of marijuana.”

“What do we need to do to get him released?”

“He’s charged with 2 felonies and 3 misdemeanors.  He can’t be released until he’s been arraigned, and even then he’ll only be released pending trial if the judge allows it.”

“That is bullshit!”  Palerisian shouts, standing abruptly and basically falling onto the table, which fortunately is bolted to the floor. 

“Chet, I got this,” Alyson says, giving him a steadying hand to sit back down.

“Fuck that!  I’m not staying here one more minute.  I demand to see this guy’s supervisor!”

“Chet, ‘this guy’s supervisor’ is the District Attorney.  He’s got better things to do.  And you’re not in a position to demand anything.  Let me do my job.”

“I want out of here!”

Alyson wants out of here, too, but she doesn’t yell it and kick her feet into the table leg like a three-year-old.  Instead, she asks whether it would be possible for her and Mr. Stone to meet privately.  She immediately regrets her choice of words, because it sounds very much like she’s asking for the other thing she really wants right this minute.

“Of course,” Peter responds, standing up.  He ignores Palerisian, who is making toddler noises and asking what’s happening, opens the door for Alyson and waves her into the hallway. 

He escorts her across the hall to a small meeting room.  As she passes him, she purposely moves too close.  She has to see if he smells as good as she thinks he will.  Oh, holy fuck.  He smells better.  Without her consent, Alyson’s hypothalamus sends a signal to divert additional blood and energy to her autonomic nervous system.  She really doesn’t need to be this turned on right now.  She is a bit lightheaded – there’s only so much blood to go around, after all – so she sets her briefcase and purse on a chair and sits down at the battered little wooden table that dominates the tiny room.

“My client is…”  She begins, faltering almost immediately.

Peter raises an eyebrow.

She smiles then, tilting her head with a twisted, wry grin.  “A petulant, entitled asshat.”

“So stipulated,” he grins despite himself.

“Unfortunately, that’s not illegal.  Prisons are overcrowded enough already.  So let’s talk about his actual crime.  Bail?”

“I can live with releasing him to you, but he surrenders his drivers’ license.”

Her face clouds over, just a little.  Just enough that he knows she is letting him see it.  “Yeah…”

“That’s a gift, Ms. Sanders.”

“Oh, I fully recognize that.  You’re clearly a man willing to make deals.  But I think that, in this case, maybe not as much of a gift as you’d think.”

“I won’t go ROR.”

“No.  And I wouldn’t ask you to.  I’m thinking more in the neighborhood of a reasonable bail.”

Peter looks at her with surprise.  “Ms. Sanders, I was offering to release him to your recognizance.  No bail.”

“Mr. Stone…  Peter.  May I call you Peter?”

“Of course.”  Call me Daddy.  Call me anything the fuck you want. 

“I understand your offer.  I just don’t accept it.”

“You understand that, if he has to bond out, it’ll cost him money.  That’s not as good as the deal I’m offering.”

“Mr. Palerisian wouldn’t need a bail bond.  He has the cash.”  Her face holds an expectancy that tells him she is sending a message she’s not willing to put into words.  Peter gets the message anyway.

“And you don’t want to be responsible for him.  Maybe you also think he should have to go to the hassle of putting up his own money.”

“This is DUI number two, and he’s been well above .18 both times.  Besides which, he’s an asshat whether he’s drunk or not.  Frankly, if it didn’t mean having to deal with my partners’ whining, I’d fire him.  Maybe if I can’t get him ROR’ed, I’ll get lucky and he’ll fire us, instead.”  Then, as if a switch has been flipped, Alyson sits a bit straighter and says mechanically, in a tone almost – but not quite – imitating robotic quoting of a statement that is not her own, “But I don’t know what you’re talking about.  You’re suggesting I’m not advocating for the best deal for my client.  That would be unethical.”

With a wide smile, Peter says, “Ms. Sanders – Alyson – you’re a tough negotiator.  I don’t feel good about half a million dollars’ bail-“

“Don’t push it, Peter,” she tilts her head with a playful scowl.

“As I said, I don’t feel good about two hundred fifty thousand dollars bail…”   He waits for her smile of agreement, then proceeds.  “But you’ve twisted my arm.”

He reaches out his hand.  She stands and shakes it firmly for the third time in under ten minutes.

“I’m sorry I had to be so rough on you.”

“Let me call, see if I can still get us on the arraignment calendar this morning.”

Alyson looks up at Peter from under her long eyelashes, muttering, “Don’t push too hard.  A night in jail might do him good.”

He stops with his phone in his hand, just about to touch the screen.  “It’s usually fairly difficult to get a last-minute addition to the arraignment calendar.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“I’m sorry,” he says with an obviously faux chagrin, and puts his phone back into his inside jacket pocket.  “I did everything I could.”

“I appreciate the professional courtesy.”  They stand there, grinning conspiratorially at one another.  “Once he sobers up, I’ll talk to my client and see if he’s open to a plea deal.”

“Who says I’m offering one?”

“Well, I’ve heard you are sort of a hardass.  You might not.  I’ll make sure he knows that.  But, just in case, I’ll see what he’d be willing to accept.”

“I’ll see you at the arraignment tomorrow morning.”

“Looking forward to it.”

Peter can’t concentrate on the scumbags today.  He needs to, and he needs to ride herd on all the Junior ADAs he’s responsible for, but for the life of him he can’t clear his mind of the picture of Alyson Sanders walking away from him down the hallway at the police station.  He wants to find the person who tailored that skirt to fit her bum like that and shake their hand.  Or perhaps punch them in the throat, because that picture is not helping him get shit done today.  He wonders what she’ll wear to the arraignment tomorrow morning, and hopes like hell she won’t be replaced by then.  Peter had no desire to see Randolph Dworkin in a tight, ass-hugging skirt.  

 *****************

The gods smile on Peter Stone and he sees Alyson Sanders sashay into the courthouse wearing another beautiful suit.  He gets one look at the skirt and knows this will be the second day in a row shot to hell. She has an eager young man walking beside her, legs twice as long as hers but still running to keep up with her in her heels, and she is listening attentively to what he has to say.  Peter recognizes him now; he worked for Peter until about six months ago, when he quit to go where the money is.  Alyson’s eyes light up when she sees Peter and the smile she gives him wakes his cock up for the day.  

After another handshake that goes on a beat too long, Alyson asks Peter whether he remembers whatever the kid’s name is.  Peter remembers him, and instantly forgets his name again.  The kid is there to give Alyson a crash course in arraignments, which aren’t rocket science, and she and Peter already have a deal.  Still, Peter admires her preparation.  He imagines she doesn’t like being out of her depth any more than Peter himself does.  

“I’m going to need to get in there in a moment, and I don’t know when they’ll call Palerisian’s case.  So I may not have a chance to talk to you again this morning,” Peter explains to Alyson.  “I also have a crowded day, but we need to talk about what we’re going to do with your client.  Are you, by any chance, available to have dinner with me tonight?”  He hopes he got the inflection and expression just right, like he couldn’t give a shit, even though if she says no and he doesn’t get to peel off that skirt, he might just cry through the entire arraignment docket.

“I can probably do drinks, but dinner would be tough.”

“I see.  You have another engagement.”

“No, I…”  What Aly means is that she can probably keep her hands off of Peter Stone for the time it would take to have a drink, but knows herself to be entirely unequal to the task of behaving appropriately through a whole dinner.  But that’s probably too much information at this point, especially in front of her young associate.  “I meant that I had to reschedule some things to be here today, which means I have some catching up to do.”

Alyson actually has a dinner engagement with a potential new client, which she would be insane to miss.  They’re a major retail chain just beginning to move into the online marketplace about five years after they should have.  There is serious money to be made here, and quickly.  But the dinner is small, the only guests being the owner, the Chairman of the Board, and the CEO, which means she has options.  The weather has been unseasonably warm for fall, and the firm has a lovely boat for exactly this purpose.  She’ll spend several thousand extra dollars this way, but Peter Stone would be worth it if she had to add an extra zero to that.  Maybe two.  She’d decide when she got his shirt off.  In the meantime, she tells herself the first call she makes after the arraignment needs to be to her assistant, to get the dinner moved to later in the week, with the excuse that she thought her guests might like to take advantage of the lovely weather with a dinner cruise around Manhattan on the boat.  Self-important business types eat that shit up.  It’ll be fine.  And she doesn’t give fuck one even if it isn’t. 

“I’ll tell you what, Peter.” She likes the taste of his name on her tongue, and he can see that.  “Let’s plan on drinks, and I’ll see if I can make dinner work.  Let me know when and where.”

Peter nods as though she’s just agreed to do nothing more interesting than rotate the tires on his car. “I’ll see you in there,” he says, turning and entering the courtroom.

Stone doesn’t want to be meeting Alyson Sanders for drinks tonight.  Oh, he does, heaven knows he does, but he also doesn’t.  He’s done with women.  After the hideous demise of his long-term relationship with Angelica, he has stuck to men.  Women are just too …  Well, they’re too everything.  Absolutely not worth the trouble.  He prefers women, if he had to choose, but lucky for him, no one is asking him to.  Men are so much easier – the most they ask is that he buy them dinner first, and even that doesn’t happen much.  Mostly they just want what he wants – a few laughs over drinks, a good fuck, and that’s it. 

Which is why it’s kind of a step backward to have drinks with Alyson Sanders.  Maybe she’ll turn out to be the rare woman who will just have sex with him and then leave him alone – which is very much all he wants from her.  He’s going to run for the nearest hot guy if things start to go any differently with her.  True, he wants her more than he’s wanted anyone in a very long time, but she is still a woman, after all, and therefore almost certain to annoy and frustrate him in the end.  But he’s stuck now, he made the date himself, and his dick has been looking forward to it ever since.  Peter does his dick’s bidding much more often than he wishes he did.

The arraignment is a snooze, as expected, except for the part where Alyson stands a few feet away from him.  Judge Smithson, a woman of a certain age, insists on keeping her courtroom at a balmy sixty degrees in all seasons, and apparently Alyson finds that a bit chilly.  Or at least her nipples do.  Peter finds himself in the unenviable position of standing in front of a full courtroom trying to ignore the turmoil happening in his boxers.  He’s had dreams like this.  They were not good dreams.

He texts Alyson Sanders sometime in the early afternoon.  Actually, he texts Alyson Sanders at precisely one in the afternoon on the dot, because that is the time he has decided will be early enough, but not so early that it looks like he’s eager.  

Peter meets Alyson at Geraldo’s, where meets all his first dates.  It’s small enough so they can hear each other talk, the bartenders know him and will send him an emergency text to get him out of a bad situation if he signals them, and it’s just around the corner from a fairly cheap parking garage for quick getaways.  He’s early so that he can choose where they will sit.  He chooses a small booth with room for only two people, one on each side of the table.  It’s a good strategic first-date choice, for many reasons, not least of which is that he can sit forward and get close to his date, especially if it’s a guy with long legs, or he can sit back and put distance between them. 

When Alyson breezes in, he notes that she waves to one of the bartenders.  He is annoyed at her knowing the bartenders like he does, because he likes to be one up on everyone in all situations.  His annoyance only lasts long enough for Alyson to slide into the booth across from him and announce that he’s chosen the bar well.  Her firm has an account here, and since she and Peter are working on Palerisian’s criminal case together, drinks are on Palerisian tonight.  He can’t help liking that Alyson Sanders has a bit of an edge to her.  And he is struck anew by how beautiful she is.  It’s not a conventional, fashion-model sort of beauty, exactly, although she certainly has that.  What gets to Peter is a certain swagger and sass she has that are evident even when she is standing still, and a look in her eye as though she’s up for anything.  Sassy women who are up for anything are Peter’s kryptonite, and he knows it.

“I’m a little surprised you’re so willing to piss off an important client,” he notes. 

“I’ve been really fortunate,” she says sincerely.  “I had some success early on, which allowed me to start my own firm fairly young, and we’ve worked really hard.  These days, we’re blessed with a number of important clients and it lets me worry less about losing one.  Not my partners, however, who act like we’re all going to be homeless anytime we lose a motion.  It’s a good balance, actually.  They keep my baser instincts in line, and I keep them from getting trampled by bully clients.”

“Sounds like a good partnership,” he says.  She’s being modest.  He’s done his research.  Her firm bills eight figures annually, and it’s primarily because Alyson Sanders is a giant-killer.  She’s won a number of huge cases, including several against the feds.  She personally does less litigation now that she heads a team of over forty corporate and tax lawyers.  She bills four figures an hour and still her firm has clients begging her to take them on. She’s also been very wise in her choice of partners, both of whom are as gifted as she is.

“It’s a very good partnership, as much as we bitch about each other.”

The waitress comes over with a cocktail for Alyson and asks whether Peter is ready for another.  He says no.  Drinking less than the other person is another way he likes to keep the upper hand. 

“Your appetizers will be out very shortly,” the waitress says, deferential to Peter, but even more so to Alyson. 

Alyson gives Peter a smile that he is unable to avoid returning.  “Calamari, oysters on the half-shell, fried zucchini, and some more stuff I can’t remember.  The appetizers here are great, and I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

Now Peter’s even more conflicted.  On top of being seriously attractive, this woman is also an eater.  Peter likes a woman with an appetite.  Shit.  This new development is good from his dick’s point of view (also his stomach’s – he’s hungry), but from a “not dating women anymore” perspective, it’s kind of a problem.  He pushes the thought aside.  It’s very, very early.  She’ll say or do something to cool the attraction anytime now. 

Alyson wonders whether they oysters were a bit much.  They come with the platter she ordered, and it’s the one she always orders, but he doesn’t know that.  And damn it, she wants to make a good impression.  Not nearly as much as she wants to tear his clothes off and see if the raunchy fantasies that have plagued her all day match the reality, but still, she was very impressed by him in court and she’s done a little research.  Peter Stone is one hell of a prosecutor.  Well on his way to becoming District Attorney someday. Not that she’s particularly impressed by titles, but she is very impressed by talent.  And he has it.

He can see that she is thinking about him, and if the glow under her skin is any indication, her thoughts are good ones.  In no time, Peter is back to the level of arousal he was at this morning, only now there’s alcohol and opportunities.  He leans forward to clink glasses with her.  “To new acquaintances.”

Alyson toasts with him and takes a drink.  When she’s done, she sits forward and takes off her suit jacket.  It’s a fitted, tweedy suit with leather accents that is lovely, but she’s suddenly feeling warm.  She seems to recall feeling a bit of a hot flash this morning when she saw Peter Stone, too, before entering the arctic chill of the courtroom.  He smiles, mutters something about removing jackets being a good idea, then removes his, as well.  There’s a hook for their jackets on the outside of their booth and Peter graciously hangs Alyson’s jacket up for her, along with his own.  This gives her the opportunity to check out his body under the shirt, and suddenly she realizes removing their jackets is not going to be anywhere near enough.  Her libido ratchets up several notches and she begins to think she doesn’t have the patience to be social.  She wonders what he would do if she just straight-up propositioned him.  She empties her glass at the same time he does. 

A few minutes and a bit of superficial conversation later, the appetizers arrive and they order their second drinks.  Peter’s leg makes contact with Alyson’s.  He doesn’t move it.  She grins and he doesn’t know whether it’s because of what he’s just said, or because their legs are touching.  The way she eats oysters borders on obscene.  He’s mesmerized.  He thinks about trying to do it, but is certain he’ll end up with a red face and a dry-cleaning bill.  She’s interested in him.  She leans in and asks questions about what he’s telling her.  She also laughs at his jokes, which always seems to inspire him.  Even he thinks he’s being fairly witty.  This is good.  He’s definitely going to invite her back to his place and do all the things he’s been imagining, and he has no doubt she will accept, especially since there is some fairly intimate leg-pressing going on now.  He’s hard, and he’s not alone; her blouse is giving him his second glimpse of her nipples today and holy crap he wants to rip that thin fabric off and just get to it.   By the time the appetizers are worked over and their drinks about gone, Peter is feeling a very nice glow that is part bourbon, part lust.  It’s a good combination, and it affects the risk/benefit calculations going on in his head about how to approach making a pass.

Alyson has imbibed two cocktails, and she drank them a little more quickly than she normally would, because Peter’s hazel green eyes and that little lisp are really getting to her. Since she met him about thirty-six hours ago, she’s been horny for him - sometimes more, sometimes less, but never not – and at this moment, she hits the limit of her ability to resist him.  She makes a motion to the waitress across the bar and holds her glass out to Peter.  There is one swallow left in the bottom.  His is about the same. 

“What are we drinking to?”  He asks, very successfully trying to smolder.

“Elevators.”

“Really.  Why elevators?”

“Because my apartment is at the top of this building, which means all that’s standing between us and my bed is an elevator.”  Her grin is almost as lascivious as the way she eats oysters. 

Peter clinks her glass and turns up the smolder.  “To elevators, then.  Sláinte.” 

Shit.  He likes women who make the first move, too.  Especially when they’re that straightforward about it. He wonders how obvious it will be when he carries his jacket in front of his crotch.  Maybe she will be lousy in bed.  Not that he wants her to be lousy in bed, he just needs her to give him something to work with so that he can keep his usual distance.  So far, she’s not been cooperating.  The waitress brings a bill, Alyson signs it, and they scoot out from the booth.  Peter would love to hold Alyson’s jacket for her to put it on, but he fears that, if he does, he’s going to make the 6 O’clock news.  Or at least YouTube.  Alyson notices what he’s hiding and she slides a hand down his chest, winking. 

“Me, too,” she whispers.  She is shaking.  Shaking, she’s so hot for him.

Peter thinks he might have to pull the emergency button on the elevator.  He knows he could come from a stray breeze right now, so he’s sure he can get off and think of a good story before the fire department arrives to rescue them.  Besides, any male firefighters are going to take one look at Alyson and be completely on his side. 

No such luck.  Peter hadn’t thought about it, all he cared about was the bar, but this is a primarily residential building.  So he and Alyson are sharing the elevator with an elderly Chinese woman with approximately seventeen shopping bags, along with two teenagers who are theoretically speaking English, although Peter has no earthly idea what they’re saying.  There is also a young woman pushing a basset hound in a stroller.  The basset hound needs a bath.  It helps Peter regain a touch of his composure as they ride up.  

Alyson’s apartment is one of three on the top floor.  Peter’s a little humbled by the elegance and size of the space.  The view is impressive, even for a life-long New Yorker like Peter.    Peter has a great job, but working for the County of New York, he’s never going to make this kind of money no matter how high he rises.  She gives him a few moments to look around, apparently used to this. When he turns from the wall of windows, she’s just sitting on the arm of a couch, waiting.  She smiles at him.  

“I know you get this all the time, but you are fucking gorgeous,” she says.  While he’s been admiring her view, she’s been admiring his.

It’s the first F-bomb she’s dropped, and he’s delighted.  “So here’s my dilemma,” he says, walking toward her in what he hopes is a measured way rather than running to her like the basset hound on the elevator, which is what he’s doing in his mind.  “If I tell you how beautiful I think you are, it’s going to sound like I’m just returning the compliment.”

Her smile brightens as she gives just the hint of a giggle.  “Well, you’ve had a bit of luck there,” she says, palming his crotch as he reaches her and she stands to meet him.  “I believe this is what we in the law call ‘evidence’.”

Their first kiss is like most first kisses: awkward, not quite right, with imperfect aim and a little bit of nose mashing.  But they’re experienced and they get better fast.  Alyson is quickly all hands.  Peter’s trying to kiss with some finesse, and she seems to really like what he’s doing judging by her breathing, but she’s touching and stroking and squeezing him everywhere at once.  Something about that makes Peter feel very good.  Well, sure, it feels good, but it also feeds his ego and lets him know he hasn’t been imagining the appraising looks she’s been giving him.  

He tastes like bourbon, with a slight hint of the appetizers they’d shared.  He’s delicious, but that’s no surprise.  The surprise is just how thoroughly he’s kissing her.  Firm, in control, the exact right amount of wetness, so far just the slightest tease of tongue…  Oh, this guy can kiss.

He slides her jacket off her shoulders, trying to be careful but also trying to slow himself down.  It’s not easy.  He’s had a raging hard on for the last half hour, and she’s starting to make noises. Peter is aroused by the sounds his lovers make, letting him know they’re enjoying what he’s doing.  Alyson pulls her arms quickly out of the jacket and starts on his tie.  She loosens the knot only enough to slide it over his head, then tosses it onto the couch behind her.  Their kisses get messy as she divides her attention between his mouth and his buttons, and when she thinks she has enough buttons undone, she just pushes his shirt up his chest.  

“Holy shit,” she breathes, getting her first look at his bare torso. The beauty she expected is nothing to the reality.  This man is a work of art.  She’s not looking for love at this point, but damn, if she was, this chest would be a good place to start.  She regrets skipping Pilates on Tuesday.  Not that one class with Gunther would make her look like this; pretty much anyone is going to look soft and flabby next to this man.  She cannot wait to see his ass.

She gives a frustrated grunt as she realizes she has forgotten the buttons on his sleeves, but together they fumble through that and he is finally, blessedly, shirtless.  Kissing is forgotten for the moment.  The look in her eyes has Peter pulling at her blouse now, but she’s not helping.  She’s not resisting by any stretch, but she’s very busy feasting her eyes on the dirty dream of a man undressing her in her living room, and she’s preoccupied.  

He gets her blouse off somehow, a little concerned that a couple of buttons may have been lost in the process, but she doesn’t seem to care so he certainly doesn’t.  Besides, she’s begun to work on his belt and he doesn’t want to distract her.  He strokes her shoulders and arms and closes his eyes while she starts running her face all over his chest.  It couldn’t really be called kissing, because although there’s a lot of kissing involved, there’s also a lot of tasting and smelling and nuzzling.  And appreciative noises.  

Belt undone, Alyson takes a little longer to undo Peter’s slacks, but only because she’s distracted by his abs.  She is going to run her tongue along them, but that will have to wait until after she gets him inside her because she is on fire and she could come just from looking at him.  She hopes he doesn’t mind the artlessness with which she yanks his pants, socks, and shoes off.  

Holy flying balls of shit his cock is gorgeous.  Cocks are not, as a rule, particularly aesthetically pleasing appendages, but Alyson has just discovered that Peter Stone’s penis is as beautiful as the rest of his body.  It’s perfect. It fits him; large and strong and hard and stunningly attractive.  She’s mesmerized.  Just as a few moments ago, she was distracted by his beautiful chest, and then his abs, now it’s his penis.  She runs her hands along its length, awed, trying to find words to describe how well-shaped it is, with the exact right amount of veining, and a hot rosy pink color rather than the angry red some guys are, that she tries to ignore when she sees it.  Can you compliment a man on his lovely penis?  

She doesn’t get the chance, because suddenly he’s all over her skirt and it’s off before she really has time to drag her mind back from his cock. He makes the most wonderful noise – a gasp with a moan behind it – when he sees the lingerie and thigh-high stockings she purposely chose this morning in hopes he’d see them tonight.  He doesn’t so much lay her down on the couch as throw her there.  Fine by her. She would’ve jumped if he’d asked her to.  She keeps her heels on.

He kneels next to the couch and suddenly, it’s him who is all hands and mouth, gliding his hands up her thighs and mouthing her breasts through the soft, satiny and barely functional bra designed for pretty much exactly that. She’s lost the ability to monitor or control the sounds she’s making.  His huge hands have her entire attention, or at least the part that isn’t laser focused on his soft biting at her nipples through the slippery cups of her bra.  

Peter kisses his way to the top of Alyson’s breasts so that he can flick his tongue under the cups.  He wants to hear the noise she’ll make, and he isn’t disappointed.  He hopes the hot drops rubbing from his cock onto her couch won’t be a problem – the couch is white.  But he has much more important concerns at the moment, like whether to slide his fingers underneath the satin of her barely pink panties, or tease her through them first.  He decides that the latter is the way to go, and at last touches her where he’s wanted to since the second he saw her the previous morning.  The panties are soaked.  Drenched.  He can feel moistness on the inside of her thighs, even.  Oh, this is good.  Very, very good.  

As soon as he touches her through the thin, wet fabric, she moans and begins to lift into his touch.  She moves against his fingers, one hand splayed in his hair as he licks her nipples under her bra, and the other firmly grasping his ass.  She knows she’s being selfish, but she’s beyond caring about anything but the way he is making her feel.  It’s starting to drive her crazy that he won’t take her lingerie off.  She wants him to touch her everywhere.  Of course, he knows that and he’s doing this on purpose, the bastard.  She tries to make a mental note to do it back to him, but her entire blood supply is shunted far away from her brain.

“Tell me when you’re close,” he says, looking into her eyes, pupils huge and lids heavy.  “I’ll decide when to make you come.”  He’s smiling evilly, and it is an absolutely outstanding look on him.

She can only moan and nod vaguely.  He rewards her by slipping a finger under her panties and beginning to stroke the wet folds there.  

“Oh, Peter, that feels so good, you’re so…”  She slides her hand around from his buttock to grasp his pretty cock. “I want you…”

“Tell me.”

“I want you to tear my panties off and fuck me.  Now.”

He smiles and mercifully slides a finger inside her.  She arches her back and cries out, immediately beginning to rock into it.  He leans over and begins to kiss her again, slowly and deeply, with a great deal of tongue, while he slides his finger in and out of her, enjoying her wanton, increasingly desperate response.  

“More,” she begs.

She’s surprised – in a very good way – when he grants her request and slides another finger inside her and softly touches her clit with his thumb, coating her with her own moisture and rubbing lightly.  She still has his cock in her hand, but her stroking is haphazard because she has too many sensations to focus on.  

“Peter!”  She cries. “Oh, fuck!”

“Don’t come,” he murmurs.  

“I don’t–  I can’t-“

He continues to use his fingers, allowing her to fuck herself on them and increasing his thrust slightly, but stops rubbing her clit with his thumb. Soon, his fingers slow.

“No…”_

“Do you want me to fuck you?”  He asks with just the hint of a smirk.

“Yes!  Oh, yes, I want you.”  Her breathlessness makes it hard to speak.

“Then sit up.”

She does.  He somehow manages to be aggressive and gentle at the same time as he unclasps and pulls her pretty bra from her.  He sits next to her on the couch, then pulls her up so that she is standing before him. She’s fairly dizzy with lust, and he keeps an eye on her as he pulls her panties quickly down and off, leaving her thigh-high stockings where they are.  He reaches behind her to the floor where his pants are, and fumbles his wallet out of a pocket.

She stands naked but for her heels and the stockings while he pulls a condom from his wallet.  She takes it from him and knees down between his knees, tearing the packet with her teeth. There is a lot of eye contact. There is a lot of smiling.  She leans in and takes him in her mouth for a moment, holding the condom between her fingers.  She nearly loses her concentration when she begins to taste and feel that beautiful penis between her lips, but she is too desperate for release, and so is he.  

“Put it on,” he groans between gritted teeth.  She does, stroking him and kissing the insides of his thighs.

He immediately pulls her up, guiding her onto his lap until she is straddling him, on her knees.  With his hands on her hips, both of them watching what she is doing, she takes his cock into her hand and guides him to her entrance, then pushes roughly down on him. Both of them cry out with pleasure, Peter’s cry a series of curse words Alyson hasn’t heard in that particular order before.  

Her arms naturally encircle his neck and shoulders, and she begins to kiss him as though she’s missed him.  His lips, the way he moves his mouth on hers, could easily become… Well, this is about sex.  She refocuses, which isn’t hard because she is very, very close.

“Peter, you’re going to make me come…”

“Now, Aly.  Come now.” He puts a hand on her backside and rolls his hips into her.  On her knees, she can move her pelvis against him, and his pretty cock is about as much as she can take, so within the next several thrusts, she begins to feel the inevitable wave of pleasure start to roll through her, from somewhere deep inside, gaining momentum as it makes its way toward the surface.  She pulls away from his lips and throws her head back, her groans almost grunts as she explodes, grinding against him and rolling her hips.  

He watches her face, her flushed chest, her breasts bouncing lightly with her movements.  This is a woman who knows how to ride an orgasm.  And she looks like a fucking goddess doing it.  So good, in fact, that he is already coming before he really realizes it. Soon he is lost to himself, jutting his hips into her and shouting.  

It takes a very long time to come down for both of them.  They’re gasping for breath.  She needs to get off of him so he can remove the condom, but damn she doesn’t want to.  Eventually, however, she resigns herself and lifts herself off of his lap.  She stretches and arches her back while he goes into the powder room.

Alyson looks around.  There are clothes in a wide semicircle around the couch.  It’s kind of fabulous, actually, like a modern art piece.  Peter catches his face in the mirror of the powder room.  He looks fucked out.  He is fucked out.

But Alyson is not done with Peter Stone.  Oh, hell, no.  When he saunters back into the room – he usually struts, and he does it very, very well, but apparently post-coitally, he saunters – she takes his hand and leads him into her bedroom.  He makes no comment or protest as she yanks the covers down and climbs in, holding her arms out to him.

Post-sex cuddling with Peter Stone could cure cancer, bring about world peace and end famine.  Alyson is sure of it.  Nothing could possibly be wrong in life when this gloriously handsome male sprawled naked in your bed and put his powerful, sturdy arms around you.  Actually, she realizes, this is not post-sex cuddling, but intra-sex cuddling, because Alyson plans to have Peter at least twice more before she lets him out of her apartment.  It’s time to do that ab licking she’d planned earlier, so Alyson begins lazily stroking Peter’s chest.

Peter is fairly hormone-muddled at the moment, but he realizes that this is an extraordinarily comfortable bed.  He also realizes that Alyson has not turned out to be lousy in bed – or on the couch, as the case may be – so he is going to have to find something else to dislike about her.  But right now, she is worshiping his body, which he kind of can’t dislike, so he’ll have to think about that tomorrow.  Or the next day.

[gruntydiecast]

Casting Call: Vector W8

First off, I’d like to apologize for the fact that I’ve not been updating my Tumblr lately. I’ve been busy at work and haven’t had time to write something. To make up for this... I’m writing quite possibly one of my longest posts yet.

By popular demand, this is the casting you chose on Instagram for me to document: the Vector W8. Grab some popcorn, a drink or some music... and enjoy the read. This is also in some ways a car that time forgot, but it’s not a concept car... but I can break the rules because I made them.

When it comes to cars of the ‘80s, there is a debate as to what the best car of the era was. Many say it would be either the Lamborghini Countach or the Ferrari Testarossa. But I have something that is neither of those things. Today, we’re going to take a trip down memory lane and explore the car that attempted to elevate a small company to the dizzying heights of the supercar realm. This... is the Vector W8.

First, here’s a bit of background. The W8 was manufactured by a company known as Vector Motors, then known as Vector Aeromotive. The company was founded in 1971 as Vehicle Design Force by Gerald “Jerry” Wiegert in Wilmington, California; we’ll get to the full history of Vector in a post in the near future because it is honestly very interesting.

In essence, the W8 was a highly refined version of the Vector W2, one of the company’s initial prototypes (the “W” in the name stood for “Wiegert”). Wiegert wanted to put the W2 into production, but an economical downturn prevented him from doing so. However, by the ‘80s, Wiegert had eventually secured enough capital through public stock offerings and even various lawsuits, allowing him to chase his dream: to build his ultimate sports car, designed and built by his own company.

Design inspiration for the W8 (and by extension the W2) came from this green car: the Alfa Romeo Carabo (Hot Wheels actually did a model of this way back when). Its sleek, futuristic and aerodynamic design was perfect for Wiegert, especially with the aerospace theme the company was going for in the ‘80s.

Combining the sleek looks of the Carabo with the geometry and technology of fighter jets of the time like the F-15 Eagle, F-16 Fighting Falcon and F/A-18 Hornet, Wiegert and chief designer David Kostka set out to create what would be quite possibly the most insane supercar of the ‘80s, and probably still is now: the Vector W8. The term “Aeromotive Engineering” was used to describe the process of manufacturing this car, for the car used the newest and most advanced aerospace materials when manufacturing the W8.

The car passed the mandatory DOT crash tests and emissions tests. It used a semi-aluminum monocoque chassis which was epoxy bonded and riveted using 5000 aircraft-specification rivets with an aluminum honeycomb floorpan. The body was made mainly of carbon fiber and Kevlar. The car featured scissor doors, like a Lamborghini.

The beating heart of the W8 was this: a highly-modified aluminum resleevable 6.0L Rodeck twin-turbocharged racing V8 with variable boost pressure. The engine produced 625 horsepower and made 649 lb⋅ft (880 N⋅m) of torque at 4,900 rpm at 8 psi of boost pressure, and as if the Rodeck V8 couldn’t get any more ridiculous, it featured TRW forged pistons, Carrillo stainless steel connecting rods, stainless steel valves and roller rocker arms, a forged crank, a dry-sump oiling system with three separate filters and braided stainless steel hoses with anodized red and blue fittings. This engine sounded mad; click here to hear a Vector starting up and revving.

Yes, you heard that correctly; variable boost. The boost for both turbochargers was adjustable from 8 to 14 psi through a dial in the interior. And speaking of which, let’s talk about that next; because, if you thought the engine was already mad enough, the interior is on a whole other level.

As you can see, the interior of the W8 is mad. Fighter jet-inspired screen? Check. A million buttons everywhere? Check. Gauges? ...no check. And hang on... is that what I think it is? A Turbo-Hydramatic 425 transmission?

Yep, that’s right, and that just makes the car a lot more insane; this ridiculously powerful 6.0L Rodeck V8 was mated to a 3-speed Turbo-Hydramatic 425 automatic transmission. Next to it on the right was the handbrake, sort of shaped like the throttle on a fighter jet. Due to the placement of the transmission and the handbrake, the driver side doorsill is very, very wide, making it a bit tough for the driver to get in and out of the car. You will also notice that there are buttons on top of the gear stick. I’ll get to those now.

As if this car couldn’t get any more ridiculous. This is the screen of the Vector W8, with four different settings (controlled with those four buttons), marked “Main”, “Performance”, “Performance” again and “Chassis”. This is the “Main” screen, showing the odometer, fuel gauge, speedometer and tachometer.

This is the first “Performance” screen, showing engine temperature, oil pressure and temperature, the tachometer reading and various other metrics.

The third screen was the second “Performance” screen, showing the transmission pressure (because it had a torque converter) and transmission temperature as well as battery voltage.

The last screen was the “Chassis” screen, which showed a picture of the W8 which updated in real time when a door was opened, when the engine compartment was opened and so on.

On the other side, you will notice that the W8 doesn’t actually have a partition between the driver and passenger side footwells. So it is a little awkward. This car also has no glovebox; in its place is a... CD changer?

Yes, that’s right. The car came with an in-car stereo... and a Sony CDX-A2001 ten-disc CD changer which graced the entire right side of the car’s already insane instrument panel. This was a nice innovation, although it did came with one drawback; no passenger-side airbags. Good luck if you get into a crash riding shotgun.

Back to the interior though. It was upholstered in premium leather and suede, with electrically adjustable leather Recaro seats and featured a premium air-conditioning system. Some driving amenities such as power steering were excluded. The seating position for the driver was made slightly towards the center for better drivability.

The rear of the W8 was dominated by lines, and the rear sightline... wasn’t very good, mainly because of that gigantic wing. The license plate holder is located on the left and apparently may have been an afterthought. “TWINTURBO” is seen gracing the back.

The car also features a trunk which is just behind the engine.

As for the front... oh, right, the headlamps. They’re not pop-up... they’re pop-DOWN.

The car also has a storage cubby up front, although really, it wasn’t much.

Also gracing the front were windshield wipers, as you would expect on practically every other car. However, there wasn’t just one, nor was there just two: there were THREE. A moonroof was also standard. It also had sliding side windows like a race car, as well as power-adjustable side mirrors.

The logo on the side of the car was the only thing that really gave any indication as to what manufacturer it was.

The car had unique six-spoke “turbine” wheels fitted to Michelin XGT Plus tires; the car used 255/45ZR-16s in the front and very, very strange 315/40ZR-16s in rear. These wheels were apparently of a bespoke design made to the driver’s specifications. 

In terms of suspension, the W8 featured double A-arms up front and De Dion tube suspension at the rear, located by four trailing arms that stretched all the way forward to the firewall. The W8 used 13-inch vented disc brakes with Alcon aluminum 4-piston calipers.

In terms of performance, the Vector shined; it claimed to be able to do 389 km/h (242 mph) and a 0-60 mph (0-97 km/h) time of 3.9 seconds. These numbers were never officially tested, but if true, these are very impressive numbers for the time. Okay, enough about the W8’s performance and figures; let’s get to the part you’ve been waiting for, the history.

The W8 was first introduced in 1988 with a sticker price of about $185,000, priced within striking range of European competitors like the Lamborghini Diablo.

One high profile owner of a W8 was this man: Andre Agassi, although he ended up giving the car a bit of a bad rap. Agassi had insisted that his car be delivered before it was fully prepared; Vector agreed to this on the condition that Agassi not drive it and keep it in storage as the car was adjusted for the various emissions regulations in place. Agassi did not listen and drove it and ended up burning the rear carpeting due to an overly hot exhaust system; Agassi ended up requesting for a refund, which was ultimately granted. I’ll let you decide who’s at fault here.

Car And Driver magazine also tested the W8, but couldn’t complete testing because all three cars they were sent somehow managed to break down in different ways, leading to even more bad publicity. However, not all is bad as Road and Track magazine waxed lyrical about the Vector, praising practically every aspect of the W8’s performance.

Vector was still going strong in 1993, selling W8s; however, Wiegert was already planning for a successor. That successor was to be known as the AWX-3, better known as the WX-3 (Hot Wheels also made a model of this one too), where the name stood for Avtech Wiegert eXperimental, 3rd generation.

I’ll get into more details of the WX-3 in a later blog when I receive my WX-3 from the United States. Production of the W8 ultimately came to a halt in 1993 as Wiegert attempted to put the WX-3 into production; however, as the company was engaged in a hostile takeover by a Bermuda-based Indonesian company known as MegaTech, production never resumed and Vector entered a sharp decline. I’ll get into the rest of that history in another post.

In total, twenty-two cars were produced; seventeen of which were customer cars and five of which were prototypes. The car is now worth over $1 million today; so, if for some reason you ever see a car that looks like this on the roads, drop everything and take as many pictures as you can, because you have just seen one of only twenty-two Vector W8s. Okay, now that we’ve gotten all that out of the way, let’s get to the reason why you’re here.

This... is the Hot Wheels version of the Vector W8. Named the Vector W8 Twinturbo in the Hot Wheels lineup, this casting was first introduced in the 2012 HW Boulevard series in the Ahead Of Its Time sub-series. This casting was designed by Manson Cheung.

The base of the W8 features no mention of “Vector” anywhere; instead, just the SKU is displayed: W4831.

The sides feature the text “VECTOR W8 TWINTURBO” and nothing else. Black lines streak across the back to represent the engine cover.

The rear fascia is nice, although my only real gripe is a lack of rear detail apart from the engine cover.

The front fascia is also well done, with “VECTOR” and “TWIN TURBO” on the windshield, although a lack of detail on the body apart from the side reflectors leaves me wanting more. The interior is painfully cramped so I can’t get any good photographs, but what I see are the Turbo-Hydramatic shift lever, the steering wheel, seats and molded pedals (those pedals are part of the base). The distinctive screen and CD changer are absent from the instrument panel, but of course, you can’t have everything.

Folks, I believe you may have heard of the term “One-Hit Wonder” before. This is exactly an example of that; the W8 only saw one release in the HW Boulevard series and has not been seen since. As a result, prices for the Vector have been steadily climbing on eBay and I don’t see them going down for some time; why don’t you take a look for yourself?

I hope this long writeup has given you a better idea on this turbocharged thrasher, and what is quite possibly my new favorite supercar from the ‘80s; step aside, Lamborghini Countach. As usual, I’d do something like this any day.

This article is the first in a three-part series I will call The Vector Saga. The series will document the W8, the WX-3, and the history of Vector Motors as a whole.

[randomkposts]

The crack twilight shipping conversation

E :-"I took care of those girls who spread rumors about you"

"What girls?"

"Not important "

I have back flashes of this kid and I'm like yo she scares me.

K : Jane is terrifying. Just not in the same way to Bella as she is to others.

"We are going to Yellowknife, so you can see the northern lights at this time of year! They are glorious! This guy has agreed to fly us."

"Jane, I don't- wait, why is he shaking"

"Juicebox is also excited to see the northern lights"

Shaking man: "Absolutely ecstatic"

"I made sure that all the warm clothing fits your size! It's even real fur! "

Crack twilight ships

K - E, Crack AU, where Jane is the one who imprints on Bella, going after James for crime, and Bella has to deal with the insane situation of "I think I was kidnapped by a child, and the child is trying to woo me."

Except Jane's Idea of wooing is terrifying and surreal, and has some pretty bizarre stuff to try to impress her.

"Jane-"

"But let's double check!"

E -OMG

K :-”Jane, why do you always give people such strange nicknames? Quickmunch, O delicious, lunchmeat, mosquito bait, and now juicebox?

Except for Jaccob, who you just called stinky

Why do you call him that?

-Because he just is

He doesn't smell any worse than any other athletic teenage boy. You haven't even seen him since he got sick.

Hey, does she have a nickname for Bella, you think?

E -Jacobs sweating furiously at all these vampires

K -It's because he's a wolfy shapeshifter, but for story purposes, Jane has no Idea, just that she hates Bella's childhood friend.

Alec, who is back in Voltera, but Jane talks on the phone too, assumes she's being possessive of who Bella spends time with, and views him as a rival.

He tells her that.

E - The fact he face times this stuff. Supportive bro vampire.

K - Don't kill the rival Jane. Bella will be crying, and you don't want to spend time with her mourning. Maybe take her on a trip, and get some personal time

E -She does, but also scares ppl to give them cool shite.

K -I had a crack thought once, where I thought what's the randomest most out there mates I can give vampires. , where Jane's mate was a random old man that she met in the food chamber, was like ,"wait don't kill him!" It became quite a debate.

Alec's, on the other hand, was a toddler he met on a job, where a lady had been vampired, and had bad control.  The kid wasn't even related to the target, just on a walk in a bad place and time. He can't get the face out of his head.

Neither of them are decided on who has it worse.

But Bella being shippable with almost any vampire in the series has way more potential for comedy.

Still, question, does Bella ever come to return the affection?

Edward is hundreds of years older than her, but looks roughly around her age. Staying beautiful, and around his age was something Bella found important to her in their relationship.

Jane, for all she is also centuries older than Bella, can not easily be mistaken for a young adult. Admittedly it could be claimed, possibly by dwarfism, but given that  physical appearance is important to Bella, and plays a part in her affections to other people, how would that play into any potential relationship with Jane?

K - God, weird how what starts as crack, leads me to wonder about real questions.

If that random old man is in fact Jane's soulmate in the crack mate's verse, should she take her mate in the form she finds him, or eat him and hope he reincarnates. Is there only one possible match, or are there potential matches walking around that finalize when conditions are met? Is the old man, at his age, fit to be a mate to a centuries old vampire of a young body? What if he's amnesic. How would that translate to vampirism?

Should Alec keep tabs on the toddler who could be his mate, or let them go and hope for another chance encounter?

E -Probably yes, even though you are aware she is older than you, she is mature maybe *I debate on that due to they stay in that state forever* but you can't get over the fact that is a child's body

K -If Alec chose to keep tabs, when would be the time to reintroduce himself? And how?

E - I say let them go, cause this is a bit too close with the Renesmee and Jacob kind of thing

Hmmm I say reincarnation is kinder?

K-Is reincarnation even real, or a hope?

How would you find them?

E -They have vampires, werewolves and shit, but does reincarnation really draw the line?

First off how did they even know they were mates?

K -It is, though I can't see Alec child napping the toddler, and raising them himself

Some voice in their head screams "Mine!"

Edwards was just weird, because he thought his voice meant " my meal"

E -Bwhahaha

Oh God Eddy

K -The Cullens are unusual in that they turn people in life threatening situations.

Still,Carslie and Esmae certinally had some affection between them, before she commited suicide.

Why did Rosaline get Emmet turned again?

Beyond the bear wound, I mean?

She doesn't seem the type to go out of her way to do something like that for just anyone.

Maybe it was blurred by the blood, and the need for control, but something about him called out to her, I think.

"Rosalie confessed to Bella that she saved Emmett from dying because of his innocent look, dimples, and curly hair that reminded her of her best friend Vera's child, Henry, and that ever since the day she saw the baby she always wanted a child of her own just like him."

Somehow, I doubt she looked much at the appearance of someone covered in blood. She is trying to resist killing after afromented bear mauling.

That sounds like a post rescue justification.

E - True. Always wondered about that.

K - Anyway, I think he might just send Gianna, or something to guard the kid for a bit, if he decided to keep tabs. Gianna is just glad to be temporarily spared, and hopes that job success may mean Alec turns her into a vampire, or at the least, doesn't kill her.

E -Shot, i would make sure that kid have the best life ever if that means he doesn't kill me

K - But anyways, to a vampire who is not rescuing a human from a dangerous situation, or abstaining in general, sometimes they get a sense of "Mine!" About humans they see.

Jane, as a member of Voltri, where mates are occasionally found like this, has heard, and does not question, and in fact jumps on the opportunity.

Her human smells delicious, and is resistant to her gift, and absolutely perfect. Now, how to not kill her, while making Jane the center of her world.

That kid has aunt Gianna, who is not really an aunt, but is... A family friend now, and full intent to make the kid happy.

Gianna is a dead secretary as of Breaking Dawn, I think, But Alec has a need for the human, so he can borrow her.

She's well aware of her morality, at this point.

Also, get rid of that James guy, who found Bella while she was hiking in the woods, in this verse.

E - Yeah lets get rid of him!

Honestly the image of a grown asa man getting his ass handed to him by some 12 year old cracks me up.

K -While Bella might find inclination to view Jane romantically, possibly, sexual orientation may be an issue for her.

In cannon, Bella had the higher sex drive then Edward, and would have prefered that to marriage, indicating she may have a higher sex drive then romantic inclination.

Book Bella didn't show much interest in women, and I don't know what way she swings in this AU, but either way, that Jane has the body of a child would probably complicate things in that aspect.

Would Bella be exploring cross orientation here, or having a crisis for her finding a sex drive for someone who's body is closer to a childs then an adults?

Both would be complex issues.

-It does!First she takes him out with mental fire, then she fights and tears him up, in hopes of impressing her would (will) be  mate!

E -Crisis at the sex drive, cause again kids body, and I'd be hella creeped out. And orientation since I haven't seen her show much interest in woman so that's a lot of issues for her to start on

"And here we see the alpha female show her dominance by obliterating the high male in order to impress her mate"

K - Its kind of weird to even talk about it, yes.

But it would come up in this context

Bella herself, would probably be creeped out

Jane, might be less so, due to being centuries older than her, and living in a different time with different marriage standards

E - Bella is like "oh honey no, that's. ..no"

K -Jane was born in England around 800 A.D, the daughter of an Anglo-Saxon woman and a Frankish soldier.

She was 12-13 when transformed.

Let's bump it up to 13, because while both are far too young for being burned at the stake, 13 is slightly more

----

Was reading this

----

"Contrary to Victorian beliefs that pale, delicate women were the most attractive, Brown says that actually, muscles are key. It's the earliest known example of #fitspiration:

"All women would be healthier and none the less beautiful if they possessed firm muscles and strong limbs; this scarcely any one could controvert."

Even if she wants to consign herself to a life of singledom: "And if a girl never intends to marry she should be none the less mindful of her health."

Brown explains that women are often less inclined to discuss sensitive maladies than their male counterparts. But that's wrong.

"Young women should learn that to neglect disease is to create more," he stresses.

"Secondly, they should appreciate the fact that, though they may get very little sympathy from either the other sex or their own, there is no execuse for not taking their complaint boldly and sensibly to that quarter made for them, namely, their doctor."

---

And this guy sounds kind of radical for the time, and possibly today even, for some, but why does that last line still feel relevant to today's attitude of women's health.

[thewanderingdelusion]

Fictober Day 16

Prompt #16: Listen. No, really listen.

Title: Working Relationship

Rating: T

Warnings: Language

—

Sheryl counted to ten in her mind and tried to pretend that the sound of Nicolas’ breathing wasn’t annoying her. She tried to focus on her work, but every single thing he did seemed to poke at her brain. His breathing, his loud typing, the way he cleared his throat, the way he bounced his leg; it was slowly driving her insane. The equations on her computer screen should have been easy for her to work through, but her attention refused to block out the endless noise he was making two desks away from her. Finally, he coughed and she couldn’t take it anymore.

“Can you please be quiet?” She snapped at him, turning in her chair to glare at him.

Nicolas turned to look at her. The lab was dark, but harsh light of his monitor lit up his bewildered expression. “I am being quiet. I haven’t said anything to you.”

“You keep making so much noise.” Sheryl said, trying not to outright seethe. “You keep clearing your throat and coughing.”

He gave her a very flat look. “Yeah, I’m coming off a cold. Sorry if me being ill is inconveniencing you, princess.”

Sheryl pointed an accusing finger at Nicolas. “You shouldn’t even be here if you’re sick. This needs to be a clean environment. What if you get someone else sick?”

“I’m not sick anymore. I just have a few symptoms left. I should be fine in a day or two. Besides,” He gestured around to the empty desks and powered-down computers, “that’s why I’m here late, to avoid exposure. It’s not my fault you’ve fallen behind and need to perform double shifts.”

“Excuse me?” Sheryl said, turning away from her monitor completely to face Nicolas. “I don’t know what little high school experiments you’re working on, but my work is too important to just let sit aside. I’m here working overtime because this new strain is evolving faster than we expected. I need to be here. I can’t just let it sit overnight unsupervised.”

Nicolas rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure. You’re here to supervise, not because you’re desperate to get back in the boss’ good books after the water-breathing experiment completely failed.”

She very nearly threw something. “And whose fault is it that the experiment didn’t work? Your slipshod work on the gill grafts was why those test subjects drowned. My calculations were correct, it should have worked!” Her jaw was beginning to ache from clenching so hard.

He wouldn’t back down. “I told repeatedly that we needed more time to get the grafts to work. Yes, it worked on paper, but you need to learn that there’s a difference between paper and reality. The gills had more complications than we expected and we needed more time to get them up to the standards you expected. You could have asked for more time, but instead, you promised the boss that we would finish ahead of schedule. I don’t know what you were thinking trying to showcase an incomplete experiment. Of course, they pulled the plug after our demonstration failed. You should have known better as the team leader.”

Heat flooded Sheryl’s cheeks, knowing he was right. She had been desperate to prove herself in front of the superiors. Her confidence in her own abilities made her refuse to listen to the others when they said things weren’t working the way they had intended. She tried to think of some form of retort, but her expression must have been openly pained.

Nicolas just sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Look, I’m sorry that the experiment fell through, but you need to learn to let it go. Some experiments fail. Take it on the chin and move on. Tearing yourself apart like this won’t help.”

She turned back to her monitor, unwilling to meet Nicolas’ eyes anymore. Her fists clenched over her keyboard. “I can’t screw up again. This next experiment has to be perfect. I can’t afford more mistakes in front of the superiors. I don’t want to lose my position here.

Nicolas looked incredulous. “Woah, woah. Who said anything about losing your position? You had one failure. There are others here who have way more expensive and important experiments completely fail and they haven’t been sent anywhere. Hell, the gills experiment was my third failure this year.”

Sheryl turned to him with an expression of hysterical disbelief. “We’re in an underground bunker, performing human experimentation that goes against every law there is! I gave up my entire life and identity to be here! My family all think I’m dead. I can never go back to my old life and even if I could, I’ve already seen way too much here for them to let me just walk away.”

Nicolas ran his hand through his hair. “Holy shit, Sheryl. I know you won’t like hearing this, but you need to calm down. You aren’t going to get black bagged for failing. That’s not how this organization works. You’re here because you were chosen to be here and the executives believed in your talents. You’re a scientist, you know that failures can yield just as much useful data as a success. Focus on what those failures teach you and the superiors will be happy to let you fail over and over again.”

She snorted. “Right, just like they let Marcus keep failing.”

“Marcus?” He asked. “Marcus got sent to our underwater facility in the pacific.”

Sheryl shot him a withering look. “Do you really believe that? One day he was here, and the next he was gone.”

“Jesus Christ, Sheryl. I knew you were anti-social, but I didn’t realize how bad it was. Have you actually seriously talked with anyone here outside of work hours? Marcus facetimes half of us once a week. He’s got some really promising experiments going on making the human body withstand heavy pressure environments. I think you really need to stop working so hard and start taking regular breaks. Go to the rec room or the lounge once in a while. Make some friends. This job does come with benefits, you know. Start using them.”

She just shook her head. “I don’t have time.”

“Listen. No, really listen.” He held up his hand when she opened her mouth to retort. After a few seconds, she realized she could here the faint sound of an alarm blaring somewhere in the facility. Nicolas turned to his computer. A few seconds of furious typing had him swearing. “Oh shit. Containment breach in F Sector. Fantastic.”

“What’s F Sector?” Sheryl asked. She still didn’t know most of the facility outside of her own workspace.

“Bio-weaponry.” Nicolas said, getting to his feet. He moved to a large strong box that Sheryl had never seen open. He typed in a code and pulled open the heavy metal door. “Looks a like a couple of test subjects have reacted poorly to their latest dosages and have started rampaging on the lower levels.”

“What’s the procedure for that?”

Nicolas turned to her, holding two shotguns. “12ccs of hot lead delivered directly to the head.”

“Are you kidding?” She asked.

He held out one of the guns towards her. “Does it look like I’m kidding? Saddle up, we got some zombies to put down.”

“This is ridiculous.” Sheryl said, taking the gun and checking that it was loaded. “Why do we even have security if we’re the ones who have to go do the dirty clean up?”

Nicolas laughed. “Security is for making sure nothing gets out of the facility that isn’t supposed to. Clean up and containment? That’s our job. You know what the boss says. Its important for us to deal with the results of our experimentation.”

“Because it keeps us focused on the consequences of our actions. I know, I know.” Satisfied that her gun was loaded, Sheryl got to her feet and followed Nicolas out of the lab. “This argument isn’t over, by the way.”

He chuckled. “Sure, we’ll pick up after we’re done. Maybe you’ll be more agreeable after venting some stress on some zombies.”

[ask-runaan-anything]

Spirited Moonshadow: A Moonshadow Tale

For my little shadows. Thank you from the bottom of my Moonshadow heart.

Characters/Tags: Runaan, OC Earth creature, Moonshadow spirits, monster hunter Runaan, action/adventure, snake monster’s got tentacles okay, bit of gore, slish slash, cocky young Runaan, sassy Runaan, putting the “sass” in “assassin”, did I mention the sass, teenage Runaan, beating my elf boy up a bit, nod to Tolkien, spirit realm, temporary major character death, for a given value of death, everybody relax this is the plan, Moonshadows gonna Moonshadow, they will also sass

Spirited Moonshadow

“Is this as big as your kind get, or is there anyone larger I can defeat?” Runaan drew his short swords from the narrow double sheath nestled against his spine and flicked their straight white blades out to full length. The winds of dawn swirled in the box canyon that stretched before him. Its breezy fingers tugged through his long ponytail as he stared up at the monstrosity he’d chased away from the Moonshadow village. The chieftain had promised him breakfast after battle. If he survived.

The chitinous, eyeless creature towered over him like a giant cobra, unable to escape the canyon Runaan had trapped it in. An Underhowl—the first he’d ever seen. Its slender, snakelike body sported a fleshy frill just behind its head, and the spines of it grew into a dozen tentacles, each tipped with razor-sharp mouths that could rip him in two and feed his dying halves to the scimitar-fanged, circular maw that dominated its face.

“You… are… tiny…” The larger mouth spoke slowly and sloppily, for its shape had been determined long before Xadian became a language. A three-pronged, deep purple tongue flicked out, points waving with prehensile grace, as if tasting Runaan’s scent.

Runaan drew himself up to his full height, achieved last summer—finally—and felt the taut pull of his short bow’s string across his chest. “I have been enthusiastically informed otherwise.”

“And tasty.”

The young journeyman tipped his horns to the side with a sassy grin. “That one I have heard.”

The Underhowl smiled with its mouths. All of them. So many. Such dark creatures hunted from underground, panicked their victims into freezing with terror, and then yanked them below the surface to feed in silence and safety. Three such deaths in a week had led to Runaan being assigned a hunter mission to dispatch the threat. Standard journeyman assassin work, which Runaan usually found very engaging. The fact that his target was a rare Underhowl added a new layer of interest.

The Underhowl had weaponized sound itself. Its roaring lay below the point of elven hearing, but it felt as loud as an avalanche, and it seemed to shake one’s very soul from the inside out, driving terror into its victims with terrifying hallucinations. While those were very bad things for Moonshadows, they were merely appetizers for the Underhowl’s main course—which had recently also been Moonshadows.

Runaan bounded to the top of a boulder near the box canyon’s entrance. Back straight, hands at his sides, with the wind teasing his side tails, he eyed the slick brown behemoth in the box canyon. It, in turn, focused on him with all but two of its tentacles. Most of them made idle munching motions at him, though he stood well out of range of their bony teeth.

His turquoise gaze studied the vast creature. Its coiled length was more swift than bulky. Those tentacles were whips of pure muscle, a dozen arms clasping mouthfuls of knives.

Runaan could die so very many ways today. But he’d just turned nineteen. The final stage of his assassin training wouldn’t be complete until he successfully completed several more hunter missions. He couldn’t die yet—not permanently. He had Plans.

Some of them even involved being an assassin.

“You can return to the depths below Earthblood territory on your own,” he called to the tentacled brown horror, knowing it would do no such thing. His clear voice carried easily on the swirling winds. He twirled one of his blades for emphasis and snapped it tight in his fist, aiming the sword at the beast. “Or I can kill you. Don’t make me wait for your decision.”

The Underhowl’s immediate response—How considerate—was to jam all of its tentacles against the stony ground—too stony to burrow to safety, for that had been the trap—and use the rock as an amplifier for its cry.

Its infrasound howl vibrated through the stone underfoot and rose through Runaan’s boots, invading his very bones with the cold ache of terror. His stomach twisted in sudden fear, and his chest seized. His palms grew damp inside his gloves. Every one of his instincts cried out that death was upon him, that there was no escape, that the spirits had come for him.

But Runaan was a Moonshadow assassin. He had tasted death. He had heard the spirits call for his soul. Yet here he stood, still very much alive. And very much kicking. His turquoise eyes slitted, and he bared his teeth in a silent growl. The dawn warmed his shoulders, and its rising winds tugged through his long white hair. He ground the ball of one foot against the boulder and crouched, ready to spring.

Life sang in his veins. Death keened in his bones. They met and mingled in his smile.

How I live for this.

The young journeyman launched himself off the boulder, white blades out to his sides. Half of the Underhowl’s tentacles rose and sent their unheard shrieks in various directions, trying to track him while he was airborne.

One of the wicked sound pulses caught Runaan just before his foot touched down on a stepping stone to his target. He flinched against the howling inside his head. Missed his footing. Tumbled messily across the boulder and landed hard on the stony ground with a muffled grunt of pain. Coarse sand ground against his cheek and infiltrated his left side tail. “Nngh, Moon and Shadow,” Runaan cursed, shaking the offending particles free of his hair.

The Underhowl uncoiled and began a serpentine slither toward him, using flexible dark scales on its belly to pull itself across the hard ground. It had found him, and it would keep shrieking until the horrors behind Runaan’s eyelids had their way with him.

Unless Runaan shut it up.

With a determined groan, the Moonshadow shoved himself upright, sheathed his swords onto his back, and braced his feet on the sides of two nearby boulders so that he stood off the ground. It did no good as protection from the insanity shrieks the Underhowl hurled at him, but it did allow him a good vantage point from which to loose arrows.

Runaan slipped his now-scuffed short bow off his shoulder and nocked a poison-tipped arrow from his hip quiver, drawing and firing in the space of one breath. His missile lodged itself through one of the monster’s tentacle mouths, pinning it shut, and the appendage began to flail wildly, trying to dislodge the deadly shaft.

But another was already singing its way through the flesh of a second tentacle. Followed immediately by a third. Other tentacles halted their silent shrieking—blessedly lowering the shaking in Runaan’s bones—and began trying to extract the arrows from their flailing counterparts.

“You haven’t said a word, and you still talk too much.” With a wolflike grin, Runaan leaped forward, firing more arrows as he landed on boulder after boulder, always zigzagging closer to the silently shrieking behemoth, dodging its blind attacks. His arrows pierced even more tentacles, distracting them from their arrow retrieval, enraging the Underhowl further.

The great, shiny body halted. Its toothy gyre opened toward Runaan as he stood on the nearest boulder, bow lowered. Vicious teeth that curved like scimitars dribbled with envenomed strings of saliva as it stretched its circular jaws wide and, in a voice of deepest fury, screamed.

The blast caught Runaan full in the chest and tumbled him off the boulder in a breathless tangle of white hair and bloody visions. Most of the creature’s shriek was still infrasound, but some had been horribly, painfully audible. The Moonshadow skidded on one knee and dug the fingers of his scuffed glove into the coarse sand among the boulders, feeling his whole torso clench hard from the shock of the blow. His ears rang with warring choirs of Sunfires and Skywings at a Summer’s Turn festival, and the world had gone foggy, as if he saw through a misty window. “Nngh.” He closed his eyes and managed two quick breaths before he felt as if his insides weren’t going liquefy on the spot. I never did like soup.

Runaan took a shuddering breath and braced himself with a full-body flex. Then he brought his bow to bear sideways across the top of the rock that lay between him and his target. He aimed up toward the monster’s gaping maw, poison-tipped arrow hungry to bury itself in the deep, dark, slimy flesh of its soft palate. “If you had eyes, you might see this coming,” he muttered. He nocked the arrow, yanked back on the string. He could nearly taste victory, and it was sweet.

His bow snapped.

Runaan instinctively dodged its whirring halves as its tension released with a crack. Sweet victory was suddenly far out of reach again, and his anticipation soured. That first tumble he’d taken had done more damage than he’d realized, and his choice to irritate the beast with poison arrows suddenly seemed foolhardy in the extreme.

Almost half of the Underhowl’s tentacles were out of commission, but between those that remained and its screaming maw, Runaan didn’t stand much of a chance, no matter how skilled he was with his blades. He glared coolly at the creature as it picked one of his arrows out of its tentacle. The poison wouldn’t be enough to kill it, and soon all those tiny mouths would be back at work.

If Runaan didn’t act fast, he’d be just another dead Moonshadow in a long line of victims. And some other journeyman assassin would get the glory for this kill.

Runaan squinted wryly. Well, that’s not happening.

He rose and stepped atop the boulder. Let the wind catch his hair. Felt the dawn backlight his horns and outline his silhouette. “You think I’m just another tasty Moonshadow? That I have ‘easy prey’ carved into my horns? That I will lay down and die just because you’re hungry?” Runaan let a cocky laugh bubble from his lips.

Because that was exactly what he intended to do. What could go wrong? I’ve done this before. More than once. Twice is more than once.

He hopped off the far side, keeping his eyes locked on that great toothy maw, which heaved out breaths that smelled of decaying flesh. And he strode, slowly, purposefully, hands empty out to his sides, until he stood in easy reach of the beast’s tentacles.

Between the space of one breath and the next, all of the monster’s undamaged tentacles converged on Runaan, shard-toothed jaws hissing open with angry anticipation.

His mind thrummed with a thrill of pure fear. He let it go.

The mouths cried out, and their silent shrieks drove Runaan to one knee. His body felt like it was melting. He let that go, too.

The gritty golden stone below him blurred and danced as his eyeballs shook with the sonic assault. Ethereal hands rose from the ground, and for a moment Runaan believed he was hallucinating. Until he felt their presence echo off his soul.

Spirits of the dead. Of the eaten. Moonshadow spirits, angry, seeking their own vengeance. And Runaan had let them down.

One of them seized his ankle with chill fingers, while another, more direct in its intent, grasped him by the throat. The third spirit’s hand reached into his skull through his eyes, blinding him with a starry blue dazzle and a flash of icy cold. Runaan gasp echoed in his own mouth as his spirit detached and floated free.

The world blazed white.

Runaan’s eyes struggled to comprehend what he saw at first. His vision perceived only slight variations in bright tones. The three spirits knelt around him in palest blue and lavender forms, eyes hard, the edges of their bodies wisping as if made of smoke. His own body gleamed dark with turquoise highlights—his full Moonshadow form. The box canyon stretched before him, formed of stone that gleamed like marble and glass. The sight that met his spirit eyes took him aback as he glanced up toward the spot where the great hulking monstrosity had been.

A tiny, willowy thing stood over there, all green and palest sunshine-gold, a soft swirl of nature spirit that would not have been out of place in a child’s bedtime story. Except for its eyes. It had six of them, large and angular, and they bore black sclera and red irises that throbbed with fiery hatred. It bared its teeth at Runaan, and a massive, guttural growl oozed past its lips.

In that moment, Runaan hesitated. He could see—could feel—that this Earth spirit had not been intended for destruction. It was an ancient thing, and it had been created to tend living creatures. Yet it had chosen not to follow the spirit of its purpose, but to embrace a twisted interpretation of its calling.

Something deep in Runaan’s soul wanted to call the Earth monster back to its origins. To give it another chance to start over, make amends, set things right. His mouth opened to speak.

The beast before him lunged, moving its rootlike feet as if running in a living wooden skirt. Thick ropy tendrils formed at its shoulders and shot out, trying to tangle Runaan in their grasp. The Moonshadow spirits fled with howls of frustration.

Caught flat-footed by the sudden attack, Runaan barely dodged, rolling to the side in a whirl of loose white hair that floated weightlessly around his head. Turning to face the twisted spirit, he formed a spirit dagger in each hand. Black blades bore deep moonlike crescent edges that gleamed as if kissed by Moonlight. Runaan gave each one a circular flick. “Don’t do this. You were meant for a different path.”

But the Earth spirit’s deathly smile, so sweet and gentle beneath its demonic eyes, was its only response. That, and a soft slither backward on its agile, rooty feet.

Instinct prickled the back of Runaan’s neck, and he lunged, slashing hard. His sudden thrust drove the malevolent spirit from its close proximity to his slumped body, which lay pale and wisp-edged as if in deep sleep. If the spirit could harm his physical form enough, Runaan’s spirit wouldn’t be able to return. But the tree spirit was even more flexible than he was, and it darted around him, whipping like a willow and blurring with speed. Appearing behind him, it snaked a tendril of root out and captured his body’s right wrist.

Runaan spun and dropped hard, slicing the root off with the flash of a spirit dagger. But even as he did so, he felt a cold pang in his right wrist, as if that part of him were going numb. He spun to stand between the twisted creature and his own body. “This won’t end well for you,” he growled.

But the Underhowl was not cowed in the slightest. “You cannot defend yourself and attack me at the same time, little Moonshadow.” Its voice was surprisingly airy for its tree-like appearance and blood-red eyes. “You must choose. Stay out of your body long enough to defeat me, and join the spirit world as it dies for lack of your spirit. Or accept your failure now, return to your soft and blood-filled form… and join the spirit world when I kill you. I shall not make you wait long.” A tiny green stem of a tongue licked across the spirit’s lips, twisting its sweet expression into one of foulness. “I smell pride on you, Moonshadow. Anger too, and pain. Your despairs will fill me well.”

Shoving hard memories down before they could distract him, Runaan bared his teeth and ground the ball of his foot into the bright white sand. It gave strangely, though, offering no traction. In the split-second that his focus was distracted, the Underhowl struck again.

It bypassed Runaan’s spirit, bending in an entirely inhuman manner, and slashed at his body, catching him across the back of one shoulder with a whipping root. A thick line of cold began to burn across Runaan’s back, and he grunted in sudden pain. But he shifted and stood over his own body, gesturing with his glimmering blade. “I thought you’d hit harder. Perhaps I overestimated you.”

The monster struck again, and Runaan slashed at it. He pushed himself hard, adapting to the creature’s ethereal flexibility and finding that he possessed it as well. He danced and twirled, slashing and cutting, carving his victory one cut at a time. But the tree spirit simply grew more tendrils, and time kept passing. He was going to lose the battle just as the Underhowl had predicted.

Runaan spun hard and fast as the creature slid around to his left. He could feel the warm burn of his own death creeping along his shoulders. His dagger slashed across two of the spirit’s eyes, and the thing screamed in agony. He jinked, aiming for the heart with his other dagger, but the sweet-faced beast flung its rooty arms wide in spectral rage, and a hard-tipped finger pierced Runaan’s chest just below his collarbone, running him through with a heat-stealing slither that drew a gasp of agony from Runaan’s lips.

The Underhowl felt the contact and lunged toward Runaan, eager to finish him off, growling in pain and fury. Runaan felt his balance slip as his chest started to radiate with cold from the spirit’s touch.

Out of time.

His only hope of victory—of survival—was retreat. Arching hard, Runaan kicked backward and landed in his corporeal self with a messy, hypnic jerk that sprawled his limbs.

His chest burned as he gasped hard for the sweet coolness of air. His turquoise eyes opened again, wide and straining as he drank in the endless bright colors of the physical world.

They were beautiful.

He lay in the shade of the Underhowl’s towering, chitinous body. Its remaining tentacle mouths surrounded him, just beginning to open. So many infrasound blasts at this minimal distance would fling Runaan straight back into the spirit world without hope of returning to his body.

With a single, fluid motion, he tucked into a backward roll and pushed himself airborne. In midair, he drew his white bladed swords from his back. A hard flick snapped them to their full length, and he spun his way through the two nearest tentacles, leaving their ends flopping on the coarse sand and gushing a dark ichor.

Without pausing, Runaan leaped and stabbed one sword into what remained of a shortened tentacle just as the monster yanked it back in pain. The creature’s instinctive retreat pulled the Moonshadow high into the air and momentarily out of reach of the other tentacles. The Underhowl reacted quickly and tried to bite him with its vast, circular jaw of scimitar fangs. Runaan freed his blade and arched high over the beast’s head, delivering a spinning slice to two more tentacles as they tried to snatch him out of the air.

He landed on the monster’s chitinous back scales with a smooth skid, blades out, hair flying, teeth bared. Immediately the remaining tentacles descended on him, reaching behind the blind monster’s head from their places on its neck frill, their silent shrieks blasting from several directions. His bones shook hard, and a terrifying void of moonless, empty night flickered before his vision.

He grimaced and hurled himself into another spin. Lopped off one tentacle as it struck. Then a second. Leaped high off the Underhowl’s frill and slashed hard at a third near its base, cutting off its infrasound scream. He rebounded off the flailing appendage and twisted in midair, slashing as he spun, slicing one more tentacle off at a sharp angle, sending its gnashing mouth spinning.

His trajectory took him high above the monster’s head, toward one of the two remaining tentacles. With a hard twist, he pivoted around and stabbed one white sword deep into the fleshy wall of the tentacle, anchoring himself. His other arm stretched wide, and as the other tentacle dived for him, bony teeth desperate to spill his blood, he sliced half its head off. The spurting chunk of meat tumbled to the rough sand below, taking its silent voice with it.

The Underhowl’s circular mouth roared in frustrated agony a dozen paces below his boots. Before Runaan could leap to safety, the appendage he’d stabbed his sword into coiled tightly around him, pinning his arms to his sides. He writhed and bucked against its grip, but it was nearly as thick as he was and made of pure muscle. Only one of his swords was in a useful position, but if he cut through the tentacle’s musculature—he glanced down as it swung him high, saw his fate looming, and gritted his teeth—he’d fall straight into the creature’s maw.

Might as well.

“I’ve been called salty far more often than tasty.” Runaan wrenched hard against his sword, forcing it through the sinewy tentacle. “I welcome your feedback on the matter.” The last bit of gristly muscle gave way, and Runaan felt his balance tip and plummet. As the appendage separated, he kicked free of it and arched into his fall, reducing his white blades to their shorter length and pulling them in across his chest.

He landed inside the Underhowl’s circular maw with blades spinning and white hair flying. The creature’s talon-hooked fangs spiraled shut behind him, trapping him in fetid darkness that smelled of rot and death. A cold gust of rotting breath saturated his hair and invaded his lungs, and the Underhowl’s whiplike tongue shoved him against those deadly teeth. The fang points drove into his back, and Runaan growled hard against the burning pain of their venom.

His blades lit with Moonlight in the blackness, and he hacked at the tongue and sliced off one of its three forked points, then pulled himself free of the curving fangs and leaped toward the back of the creature’s cavernous mouth. The swords threw violent shadows around the piercing glow that lit his bared teeth and shafted through his trailing ponytail. He thrust upward as he landed, and one blade sheathed itself high in the Underhowl’s soft palate. The light in the fleshy cavern dimmed by half. A swift spinning kick to the sword’s hilt activated its full length and shoved the steel shaft inexorably into the monster’s brain.

The shriek the creature let loose was mercifully short before it shuddered into death. Runaan dropped his other sword and clapped his hands over his ears as the Underhowl’s death cry blasted past him. As the beast began to topple, its neck and head plummeting toward the ground, Runaan snatched up his sword and stabbed it deep into the creature’s mouth to anchor himself. The collision with the ground was less violent than he expected, though. Dead monsters didn’t bounce.

Runaan tried to take a deep breath and settle his shaking guts, but the air in the creature’s mouth stank, and he only ended up coughing. The impact of its fall spiraled its jaws open a little, though, and fresh air and the clean light of dawn entered, caressing Runaan’s bloodied back as he knelt in the mouth of his vanquished enemy.

A high, thin keening finally reached his ringing ears. Runaan shot a wary look upward as the Underhowl’s treelike spirit wafted down through the wall of its dead mouth and hovered in the swordlight. Its slender tentacle arms were wrapped around its head in distress, its mouth open as if in pain.

Runaan stood and balanced one foot against the curve of a massive fang. “I told you. You were meant for a different path. You refused to choose it. So I have chosen for you.”

“What… right… have you…” The spirit’s thin voice rippled with rage.

No. not rage. Fear.

Runaan straightened his shoulders, though they throbbed with various hurts that were becoming harder to ignore. “I am Moonshadow. I have the only right. Now, go.”

The spirit trembled and hunched. “I do not know the way!”

“We will take it with us.” The soft voice glided past Runaan’s ear with a cool brush of wind, and a shiver rippled down Runaan’s spine. One of the Moonshadow spirits approached the tree spirit and was soon joined by the other two. They surrounded their murderer, then looked back at Runaan. Much passed between them—regrets, gratitude. Sorrow, release. Peace.

Runaan nodded soberly. “Then I will see you on the other side.”

The shortest spirit spoke up, its voice aged. “We will look for you. But not soon.”

Runaan’s mouth fell open softly at the spirit’s words, its gentle regard of him, its otherworldly prescience. But he only nodded. They were all Moonshadow. No further words were necessary.

The three Moonshadow spirits linked hands and ushered the trembling tree spirit ahead of them, wisping into nothingness before Runaan’s eyes. A small sigh escaped his lips, and he allowed himself to feel. Relief, closure. Life.

And then, rather a lot of pain.

With gritted teeth and a few too many curses, Runaan retrieved his swords, doused their moonlight spell, and gingerly leaped through the circle of curving fangs that ringed the Underhowl’s mouth. Though its ring-shaped jaws were slack in death, he had no wish to get more envenomed than he already was. He fell gratefully to his knees on the hard golden stone at the entrance to the box canyon and let his eyes caress the broad blue sky.

The morning light seemed endless, the heavens vast with possibility. Runaan’s chest heaved with a rising weightlessness, and a great smile split his face.

His ears throbbed, and a pounding headache had begun behind his eyes. His shirts clung to his back, soaked with sweat, blood, and venom, the last of which had begun singing its way through his bloodstream with an acid melody.4 The tree spirit’s ethereal attack had also done something painful to Runaan’s chest just below his left collarbone, and it throbbed in counterpoint to his heartbeat. Breathing hurt on so many levels that he didn’t even want to count them.

And I broke my bow!

At that sudden, grumpy thought, Runaan suddenly burst into quiet laughter. Despite his injuries, his shoulders shook gently, then harder, until he was wheezing for breath and had to lean forward onto a hand, side tails swaying, to steady himself. Moon and Shadow, that hurts. I suppose I can’t be dead, then. Not yet.

He breathed through his nose until he got the pain—and the laughter—under control. Then he settled back onto his heels. The Moonshadow village was only a short walk away, even in his state. Runaan’s stomach growled insistently as he realized that the rest of the day was his to live out. And the day after, and the day after that.

With a stifled groan and an eager smile, the journeyman assassin got to his feet, caught his breath, and headed toward the village. He had been promised breakfast, after all.

[nln4]

bloodsport

Or the story of how you get your little therapy pet. a headcanon fic about my sidestep from @fallenhero-rebirth

Word Count: 2829

Rating: M for cursing, blood, violence, animal abuse. TW: animal abuse

0200.

While many are comfortable in their beds at the moment, you are on the roof of a supposedly abandoned building in the warehouse district, peering through a grimy skylight at a sight down below. The glass is covered with filth from years of exposure to Los Diablos smog but the filters in your helmet artificially sharpen the camera feed enough for you to make out details.

Yellow fluorescent lights illuminate a crowd of about thirty people, giving everything a sickly glow. They’re all cheering and screaming behind the safety of a chain link fence while watching the main attraction: two dogs viciously snapping at each other. 

Each are covered in open wounds and scratches, blood matting their fur. Fangs bared, they lunge at each other’s throats while the crowd roars. You’re glad you have your shields up to dull out the bloodlust of these people. It’s a low thrum at the back of your skull and you push it far, far away.

Above the crowd on a mezzanine, (because this is a super classy event that deserves box seats, you think) is your target - a middle aged man in a cheap polyester suit, puffing away at the cigar in his mouth. He’s slouched in a rolling chair like it’s a throne, a glass of brown liquor in his hand, laughing. And in this moment, you know. You don’t even need to scan through his thoughts to know.

He thinks he has it all. Money. Comfort. Power.

Your original objective was for information on Hollow Ground. Surprisingly, this idiot has ties with someone who knows someone. But then again, in the criminal world, everybody knows everybody and you suppose that he was chosen for a very specific reason.

Disposability.

A snap and a whine draws your attention down to the enclosed circle once more; one dog collapses in the dirt, convulsing while the other is foaming at the mouth, its barks and growls muted by the crowd. The dogs look like they’ve been pushed to their limits. The crowd begins to riot as someone announces the winner of the fight.

A handler shoves a cattle prod through the links of the fence, intent on reaching the growling hound. It backs away and stumbles, falling against the other dog. It doesn’t get up.

That does it.

“Sound off,” you spit into your mic, teeth gritted.

“Red one, here.”

“Red two, here.” The responses come from Pelayo and Ward; you had Nehal sit back with Boris because the job required some heavy muscle. She appeared more than happy enough to remain on call within the van.

A moment of silence. “Red three, do you copy?”

Nothing.

Motherfucker. You really need to have that talk with ZaZa about commitment to teamwork.

A crackle of static before - “Yeah, sorry, boss, I was just watching the fight, did you see--”

You groan internally. “All right, change of plans. One and Two, secure the exits. Three, you’re with me on the balcony. Two and Three, collar handoff. Flashbang in five.”

“Wait, wha-?” ZaZa’s voice is indignant before you cut off his channel. You’ll listen to his complaints later. If you care enough.

The mezzanine is close enough to the skylight that someone would notice glass breaking so you place your hand on the grimy plastic paneling of the skylight window and let your nanovores eat a hole wide enough for you to hop through. But before you make your entrance, you pull a grenade from your belt, pull the pin and drop it. It makes a hard thud on the ground, emitting a rising whine and drawing the crowd’s curiosity before -

A white-hot flash of light followed by a deafening BANG!

People in the crowd screech as their retinas are temporarily burned, falling over each other. It’s complete chaos as they try to flee for the exit. But as they reach the metal doors, they double over, coughing and gasping for air before slumping onto the ground, completely incapacitated, all in a matter of minutes. The canisters - some, CS gas, the other a sufentanil derivative - hiss as they release the remains of their contents.

Pelayo and Ward’s part of the job, done. You’ve had them prepped with gas masks, for both protection and anonymity. They now guard the doors, just in case someone comes skulking around.

You drop down from the skylight onto the metal mezzanine, right in front of the man in the chair who’s currently hunched over, scratching furiously at his eyes and retching. At the sound of your arrival, he struggles to sit up and locate where you are. He’s still disoriented as he tries to focus. You give him a once over and the helmet scanners alert you that he’s armed with a pistol in his pocket.

But between his current state of mind and your armor, he doesn’t stand a chance.

“Who- who are you?” His thoughts are tinged with confusion and fear as he takes in his surroundings, watching the crowd beneath him fall unconscious.

“That’s not important, Mr. Thomas Michael Johnston, age 47.” The vocal distorters in your helmet makes it sound like a purr.

He looks like he’s going to be sick to his stomach.

Truth be told, you’ve been tailing this fucker for about two weeks. Single. Likes to watch football at dingy bars. Cuts the heroin he sells with fentanyl. The dog fighting you didn’t know about, but it’s just the cherry on top of this shitstain sundae. You can’t imagine how he got in with someone with ties with Hollow Ground, but it seems like he’s a loose thread about to be trimmed off anyways.

You step closer, grinding his forgotten cigar underneath your boot.

“I have a question for you, Mr. Johnston. And we don’t have to make this encounter difficult. You went to Joes the other day and you received an envelope from a contact. What was in it?”

He gets to his feet unsteadily, fumbling in his pocket for the gun and shakily draws it, leveling it at your face. His eyes are wild as he glances about and you push his frazzled mind to focus on the reflection of his face on your mirrored helmet. To remind him of the ugly little man that he is. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Really?” Behind your helmet, you roll your eyes.

“Who the fuck told you about me? How did you know about this place?” His thumb flips at the safety of the gun, prepared to shoot.

“Hey, c’mon. I’m the one asking the questions here.” And faster than he can react, you dive forward and twist his wrist, relieving him of his gun, which you promptly toss over the railing of the mezzanine. You don’t need weapons to hurt anyone anyways.

He screams and clutches his wrist in pain. “Fuck you, man, I ain’t talkin.”

“Okay.” You do your best to sound resigned. “We’ll do this the difficult way.”

You kick him square in the chest so hard that he’s knocked off balance into the chair. The force of the kick rolls the chair back into the waiting arms of ZaZa - who’s finally in position on the balcony with you. ZaZa has a gun drawn, pointed directly to the man’s temple.

“So, Mr. Johnston, I’m gonna be honest with you. I already know what’s in the envelope. It’s a hard drive with schematics for a very important event that will happen soon.”

“How did you-” he wheezes.

“I also happen to know that you keep it in a biometric safe that only you can open.”

He takes a moment to recover from being kicked but recognition finally dawns in his eyes. “You’re that guy - on the news - that Sidestep guy.”

“So you do know who I am.”

He laughs, wheezy from pain, blood staining his teeth. “And I know you don’t fucking kill people either. You just like to scare them. So why don’t you fuck off?”

All this attitude, plus the dogs. You suppose your next move is fitting. Poetic justice, even. “Collar him.”

He starts but ZaZa shoves the struggling man back into the chair, forcing a metallic collar on him. A magnetic closure snaps with a satisfying click. His hands scrabble at the collar as the metal digs into his neck. “What - what the fuck is this?”

You roll your eyes again. “What do you think? It’s a collar. It’s also a collar fitted with an explosive device should you not go along with my requests because you somehow think I don’t have the balls to kill anybody but you know...semantics.”

The fear is finally getting to him. The understanding that he might not get out of this situation in one piece. “All right, what do you want? Money? Drugs? What?”

“The drive, of course.”

“If you know about the drive,” he gasps, “then you know about the people behind the drive. And if I talk, there’s no way I’m getting out of this alive.”

“Which is why I’m proposing you a solution, Mr. Johnston.”

“Which is?” He looks at you like you might be insane. And the possibility of you trying to defend against Hollow Ground, you might just be.

“You give me the drive, I’ll unlock the collar and I’ll get you on a ship set sail for Guam in a couple hours with enough money for you to survive.You can live out the rest of your miserable life there.”

His eyes narrow. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch. Just a regular business transaction. Your other choice is that the collar blows your head off and I take the safe anyways. I’m sure I can figure out how to open it.”

He gives it a moment of consideration. “What’s stopping you from killing me anyways?”

You lean down and draw level with his face. “See, you were right earlier- I do just scare people. But you were also a little wrong. It’s not that I don’t kill people, it’s that I don’t like killing people. Unless I really have to. So give me a chance not to kill you, Mr. Johnston.”

Of course, with your powers, you could just take over his mind and make him open the safe for you. In fact, it was your original plan. No wonder why ZaZa was confused. You really don’t go for the collar for something so trivial.

But those dogs. They did nothing wrong.

You consider the violence your own sick brand of justice. Some villains have standards.

“All right, deal,” he spits.

“Lead the way.” You gesture towards the metal stairs for him to take point. “And just in case you have any funny business in mind, I need your hands up where I can see them.”

You nod at ZaZa to follow him, gun pointed at the man’s back. He leads you to a unlocked office and turns on the light.The sight that greets you makes your stomach turn. Walls lined with kennels, some empty, some with dogs in them. They don’t move, even with the lights turning on.

In the corner of the office is a desk with a singular lamp and a laptop. Next to it, a huge two door safe. The right door has a panel with a keypad on it.

“Go on,” you prompt. ZaZa still has the gun pointed to the man, but even he’s looking around at the cages with a frown.

“How long have you been in the dog business?” ZaZa asks.

The man gives a low laugh. “Years. Why? You thinking of taking up the ring when I’m gone?”

“Just open the safe,” you snarl.

The man keys in the passcode and the metal panel slides up to reveal a fingerprint and retinal scanner which he also completes. You’re impressed that he hasn’t tried anything suspicious and a quick look through his head shows that he’s being truthful. Of course, he can’t risk alerting authorities to what’s going on and you suppose he has a sense of self-preservation to be going along with you so far. But you’re surprised that throwing him a couple bones would get you so far.

Metallic whirring indicate that the tumblers inside the safe are unlocking and the doors open with a pneumatic hiss. Inside are wads of cash, wrapped bundles of what are probably drugs, and enough SEMTEX and C4 to decimate the entire building to rubble.

The man rummages around to reveal an even further hidden panel and tosses out a couple individual plastic bags of whatever drug and a diamond ring (which raises one of your eyebrows but you don’t care enough to dig the story out of his mind at the moment) to draw out a sleek hard drive.

“Here.” His hands are trembling as he hands it over. One quick reach into his head and he is still - surprisingly - being honest. Although he was probably not smart enough to care and make a duplicate. Or was instructed not to, which is the more likely choice.

“Well.” Behind the helmet, you smirk. “Mr. Johnston, you’ve exceeded my expectations.” You study the drive carefully. It appears to be just a commonplace hard drive but you know it probably has so much more behind the metallic housing. Once you get home to your base, there will be some work to do. Knowing Hollow Ground, decrypting it will not be easy.

“I did what you asked,” he says, the anger turning his face red. “Now let me go.”

“One last thing though. How do you release the kennels?”

“Huh? There’s a buzzer under the desk, you g--” Whatever he is about to say next never makes it out of his mouth as ZaZa knocks him out with the butt of his pistol.

“Move him to the boat,” you instruct ZaZa and he nods. “Tell the others to come in and clear out the safe.” Even ZaZa looks glad to be rid of this scum. You make for the desk and find the button to open the kennels. The gates release with a buzz and you move through to study what’s in them.

It hurts to look at them. The unmoving bodies, thin enough that you can see their ribs. Covered in horrible scars, and worse - mutated beyond belief from what you think might be the Boost drug. You feel your breathing worsen, silenced only by your helmet.

You send out a small wave towards their mind, searching for something, any sort of activity.

And to your relief, one comes charging right at you. It growls and snaps at you, gnaws at your boot. It’s so little. Hasn’t even grown into its floppy ears yet. You reach out with both your gloved hand and your mind and it bites at your hand with a doleful look.

Once you return to the van, Boris asks about your little souvenir and you shrug.”Spoils of war,” you say.

---

“You...got a puppy.” Ortega’s grin grows wide despite his confusion. He crouches down beside you as you sit in the grass at the park. It’s a typical sunny Los Diablos day and despite everything else happening with you right now, you feel almost...normal.

“Yup.” The puppy playfully bites at your hand as you scritch at its ears.

“Is that why you asked to meet me at the park? To see the puppy?”

You look at him, still absentmindedly giving the puppy belly rubs. “What? Yeah. I guess.”

“By the way, did you hear about that boat explosion down by the docks?” he asks, as he holds a hand out for the puppy to sniff. It growls, a little wary but Ortega still gives it a scratch on the hindquarters which slowly turns into a happy thumping of its tail.

You nod. “It was all over the news. I wonder what happened.”

“Rangers inside scoop says the boat belonged to some drug dealer.” Ortega’s eyes twinkle conspiratorially. You look at him. Does he suspect something?

He studies you in turn. “So about the dog. Why?”

“What?”

“I never took you for a dog person.”

“Well, I never was a people person either until you.”

He chuckles, tossing a tennis ball you brought with you a little distance away. The puppy immediately gives chase after it. “And I worked hard for that too. But this little guy, just all of a sudden…”

“Look, some guy from work decided he couldn’t take care of it anymore. So I volunteered.” It’s technically the truth, you think.

The puppy returns, drops the ball in your lap and looks up at you expectantly. And you smile. This sort of loyalty, you can’t find anywhere else other than dogs. Maybe it was a dumb choice taking the puppy but it was the right one, you decide.

You reward it with a good scritch behind the ears. “Good boy, Charge.”

Beside you, Ortega chokes and you can see the color rising in his cheeks. “Excuse me, what?”

[lexiseigneur]

Chapter nine: He sees you

The Strigoi roamed the camp and the couple spied. Her binoculars were barely good enough to distinguish blurry silhouettes. At this distance, even Quinlan had to squint to make them out. Finally, the moment of truth. Within moments they would know whether the devices could disturb the mental link between the Master and his creatures. Dr. Goodweather and Dutch Velders had worked relentlessly to create the original device and their brilliant idea would not die with them. It had worked on the Master as well, making him weaker which had enabled Quinlan to shove him in the coffin. Just before that nuclear explosion had ruined everything.

Quinlan had placed the devices to include an isolated corner of the farm in the triangle they formed. If Lexi had done her job correctly, once the machines were activated, that area would become a trap for Strigoi. The Dhampir held the remote designed to activate them. Between two barracks, a blob of color was dragging another. It was headed straight for the triangle.

“Between buildings three and four.” Lexi whispered.

“Yes.”

They exchanged a look and he pressed the button. As she watched, the pale silhouette of the Strigoi stopped walking. The human it had been dragging did not attempt to run away though it could still move. As the seconds passed, it became obvious that this was not a mere coincidence. Quinlan deactivated the devices and the Strigoi walked on. Their efforts had just rewarded them with a first success.

“It works." She whispered.

The Dhampir nodded. No joy, satisfaction or pleasure on his face, just pure determination. Lexi rubbed her eyes as relief soothed some of the tension in her back. Quinlan retrieved the three transmitters. Without another word, they walked to the truck hidden downwind. The end of their mission was near. And it was good. In fact, it was the best news possible under those circumstances. But that final blow stood like a wall.

That wall was too massive for her to glance to the other side. She fought for her future and that of her species but she could not imagine it. When would she be able to look ahead? As the Master was locked in a coffin? Or as that coffin sunk in the frigid ocean water? Probably never. Lexi was quite convinced that she would die that day. That day, Quinlan would shove the monster into that box alone. The task seemed too huge to be achieved without a sacrifice. Lexi had always been a pessimist but even she surprised herself with those thoughts. The woman very much desired to live. He secured the machines in the trunk and distributed drops of blood to their biological components.

“Just another test, to see how far we can stretch the trap area. Then we can start looking for the Master.” She said as he took a seat.

A tentative grin and his eyes closed.

“Victory is within reach…I can sense it.”

Lexi smiled without meaning it. This place was weighing heavily on her mind and she wanted them to leave and never return. It would take an entire day to go back to the bunker since they could not drive at night. The Strigoi tolerated the orange light but they thrived at night. Better leave it to them. Quinlan started the car and they drove away. The sun had almost disappeared at the horizon when he spoke again.

“You are not usually so taciturn.” He remarked.

It lifted her spirit a little that he thought of her as chatty. She really enjoyed silence but he acted like words cost him their weight in silver. A matter of relativity.

“I’m worried about the size of it all. It’s so much to bear. How have you been doing this for so long?”

Quinlan bit his glove off before tucking it away. The warm fingers found her hand and she kissed them. They smelled of leather.

“I focus on what I can do right now. One small achievable task at a time.”

He glanced at her face.

“At this very moment, I search for a secure location…we need to wait for dawn to continue.”

They stopped a few minutes later in a small, deserted town. Anything so close to a camp would have been cleared almost immediately after the fall. Lexi detested those nights in the homes of strangers she knew were long dead. The only redeemable aspect was the instant Quinlan would hug her tight under the cover of a blanket. Only then could she ignore the unfamiliar surroundings and be at peace.

“Lexi?” He said just after closing his arms around her shoulders.

“Yes?”

“You never told me what you did…your work…before the Fall.”

The woman grinned then the longer she thought about it the more amusing it became.

“I studied the reproductive behavior of lizards.”

She peered at his face. A corner of his mouth had lifted and he was frowning.

“What?” He finally said.

Lexi burst out laughing and tried to calm herself but this only resulted in her eyes filling with tears.

“But…the stitches?..All the...”

“I stitched a lot of rats, mice, and even hamsters during my studies.”

Quinlan shook his head. Lexi was ashamed of that fact. Their innocent lives had been wasted away for her to finish a degree she would never use again.

“Why not divulge his information before?”

Lexi grunted as she was sure that her answer would displease him.

“You only asked at the beginning…and I was certain that if you judged me incompetent you would ditch me or even drink me.”

It was his turn to laugh.

“You were mistaken. I had been convinced of your competence and usefulness within hours.”

He kissed her forehead then pulled her chin so their gaze would meet. Mischievous delight transformed his traits.

“I was tempted to drink you regardless… Because of how irritating I found you.”

“Oh!”

Before she could retort some insult he kissed her. Then when she attempted to reply, he kissed her again. Then she gave up and melted into his hug. His caresses were pressing and his desire so commanding. She also wanted him desperately but she felt so very exposed.

“Wait…maybe we should not here…it’s not safe.”

 “You are always safe with me.”

The woman relaxed for at that very moment, she did not doubt those words. She unzipped his vest and they enjoyed each other’s embrace.

During the night, Quinlan shook her awake. The reptilian part of her psyche kicked into hyperdrive. Quinlan would never wake her that way unless…

“Cars are coming!” He yelled.

But she was already in her boots and pulling her pants up. She cringed when he scooped her up and ran to the truck. Last time, he had held her so strongly that her skin had bruised. When she finally managed to lock her seatbelt, he started the truck and barreled down the road. Much, much too fast. Their vehicle was practical and not meant for high speeds. It struggled as the engine roared abnormally.

“Deodamnatus!” Snarled the Dhampir.

The cars appeared behind them at the end of a curve. On the now straight country road, they were gaining on them every second. Panic crept inside Lexi. No car lights. Just like Quinlan, they did not need them. Pondering their identities or motives was futile. They were Strigoi and their goal was to kill them. Elegantly simple.

“Lexi! Stay down!”

She made herself as small as possible in her seat. He peered into the review mirror.

“Brace yourself!”

The truck jolted forward violently as the first car rammed them. Quinlan maintained control of the truck and grunted. There was little he could do and his helplessness was driving her insane. He had lied. She was not safe.

“Do not let them see you! Where is your hood?”

It was in her backpack, in the trunk. To reach it she would have to become visible to the Strigoi. She was struggling for breath.

“If they see you, HE will see you.”

Time slowed and their eyes met. She nodded. His face hardened and he twisted the wheel. The truck flew out of the road and into a dry open field. Before it even stopped completely, Quinlan was gone. She jumped violently when the fire of automatic weapons sliced through the night. The Dhampir was shooting at the pursuing cars. Sudden brightness stabbed her eyes. They had switched on their brights at the incoming Dhampir. They were blinding him. She used the mirrors to observe. He managed to destroy three of the lights but then was swarmed by Strigoi. Lexi trusted him with all her heart but she was not stupid. She prepared her own gun, checking the magazine and removing the safety.

Quinlan had run out of bullets and was fighting with his sword alone. Limbs were flying in his wake. Another vehicle arrived as the Dhampir faced the last two creatures. It was a truck, larger than theirs and resembling a delivery vehicle. A silhouette jumped from the driver’s seat and rushed to the back. The double doors burst open. Then all went so very fast. One of the two Strigoi still standing was fleeing away from Quinlan. Toward the truck. Toward Lexi. She was ready to aim. Quinlan looked at the runner a second too long and was rewarded by a stinger bite. With a growl, he sliced at the offender. The warrior went into a desperate pursuit of the straggler. Because of that, he did not face or prepare for the passenger of the delivery vehicle. This one ran on all fours like a dog. It made noises which were disturbing even by Strigoi standard. As Quinlan killed the deserter, the monster pounced and drove long claws across his midsection.

 NO.

The Dhampir crumbled to the ground.

 He could not die. He could not leave her alone on this wretched planet.

Lexi put everything into the dark room. Nothing was left but her gun and that single target. It was on top of the Dhampir. The creature held the sword between them, preventing Quinlan from swinging it. Lexi opened the car door. It was pushing the blade down and down. She fell to a knee on the cold dirt. The metal was inching closer to the delicate swirls. With both hands on her weapon, she aimed and pulled the trigger. Its head exploded and white pearls shone momentarily in the beam light. Lexi scrambled to her feet and ran as fast as the uneven terrain allowed. Quinlan was trying to get up but fell back down to his knees. One hand held the sword and the other his torn side. She was close enough to see blood pouring from his mouth. He looked at the approaching Strigoi, the driver, then at her. His expression switched from pain to utter horror.

“BORN!” Yelled the creature.

Lexi felt sick. The voice, the burning red eyes and the eerie confidence of the thing. All was so disgustingly wrong. She shot but it kept moving in and out of the light. Her hands were shaking from the adrenaline. “If they see you, HE will see you.” As the glowing red eyes danced, fixated on her, she was certain that this was the Master and that he would one day kill her.

“I can smell that one all over you.” The red-eyed parasite screeched.

Quinlan roared and stood.

“Will you ever learn, my so…”

The blade ran through the Strigoi’s skull and the eyes turned dark again. Quinlan, driven by his momentum, crashed into the rocky earth. The weapon left his hands. That door in her mind was still locked. Instead of running to him, she went to the truck and drove it as close to his struggling figure as she could. Lexi used a sweater from the back seat to pack his wound then secured it with his belt and hers. There was no point looking at it now. They had to leave. His body was heavy but he was still conscious and helping somewhat. She almost drove away but then went back for the sword that she tossed unceremoniously on the back seat.

The truck rejoined the road with the skittering of rocks hitting its metal underside. Darkness was no longer a luxury they could afford. She flipped the high beams on. At that speed, they could be back at the compound in a few hours. But that was a pipe dream. Their only hope to avoid pursuit was the noon light. The real light,  not that cursed ochre glow. Then they would be able to find safety. Those Strigoi could only have come from the human farm. Fly-over country was deserted and she did not know of any other such Strigoi holds around. With all this in mind, she picked a direction and accelerated well beyond her comfort speed. One task at a time.

Throughout the rest of the night and the orange morning, Quinlan came in and out of consciousness. Injuries such as these had seldom occurred in his two thousand years of combat. The wool coat, his denim pants, and the car seat were all soaked in blood. Without medical care, without feeding, he would die. But that could not happen. Because that vermin had seen Lexi. He now had her scent and her likeness. The Master knew she had been with Quinlan that night. Driven by that thought, he willed himself to blurt out a single word.

“Blood.”

Her jaw was so tense. The small body was a ball of tightly wound muscles. Lexi glanced at him extremely briefly. Then he almost lost consciousness again when his body shifted due to a sharp turn. They parked in a dark place. It was a wooden carport. The pine beams ran above the windshield. Lexi opened a cooler and took out several bags of blood. With a small blade, she pierced the first one and forced the liquid down his throat. It helped but it was not enough. She repeated the process two more times. The wound was too deep. It still gaped and Quinlan felt how his entrails were only held in place by fabric and belts. He wished he did not know…That she was not a medical doctor. Her lips pressed against his brow for the shortest of moments and their flight resumed.

Painful light was reaching him even through closed eyelids. He moaned but could not turn away to escape it.

“Quinlan!”

Her hands were on his cheeks. Slap! He opened his eyes at the shock of her assault. The frail arms were prying him off the seat. The Dhampir pushed the fuzziness away and forced his legs to walk. They were in a parking lot and the sunlight was only casting short shadows. It was intense and burning him. But then darkness again, another car seat. This one stank of plastic and…nothing. Just plastic. He could only smell and feel his inside move as the car sped away. He drifted again.

The angry light had faded then completely disappeared. She was grabbing him again and he leaned onto her, ashamed of his own weakness. The thin legs were buckling, but still carrying him. When the elevator reached the bottom, he passed out.

Lexi was quite certain that Quinlan had died when the elevator stopped and his weight crushed her completely. Her right knee hit the metal floor. She screamed with the effort it took to lift him off of her. Then she pulled him onto the concrete. He still breathed.

She ran to sickbay and took only three items. Saline, gauze and a medical staple gun. The woman hesitated before unfastening the belt. Nothing you can do can make it worse. He is dying. Inaction or mistake: he died. The result would be the same. It was a relief that his blood was white. The darker organs appeared clearer than they would have with red blood. She doused them with saline, clearing away the silvery liquid.

Was that his liver? It did not matter. There was a cut there and it was the worse bleeder. She forced the outer edges together. The organs were tough, much tougher than the fragile mammals and reptiles she was accustomed to. She stapled it shut until it stopped bleeding, dousing more saline often to get a clearer view.

There were other organs cut but to a much lesser extent. Those would heal on their own. She hoped at least. Lexi started on the internal bag housing his entrails. That tissue was familiar. For years she had sliced through smaller versions of it and sutured them back up. It closed easily. At least the cut had had clean edges. Only little tissue would be lost. Then the muscles were also familiar. There she would have preferred working with two additional hands.

How long was this taking? Lexi poured more saline on the muscles and peered anxiously. It was a mess but it held and did not bleed. She sighed and allowed herself a moment to press an ear against his chest. The beat was weak but steady. Halfway through the skin stapling, the gun ran out. She screamed in frustration and stormed back to the sick bay where she prepared needle and silk thread. Her fingers were crippled by fatigue as she worked.

The skin could not stretch further. There was an open gap the size of her palm. No matter, that had been a very possible conclusion from the start. The tissues had swollen from the abuse. All she could do was pour saline on gauze and pack the wound with it.

Considering his healing speed it would not take long for the swelling to go down.  Lexi lied on the concrete, took his hand between hers and waited. His Dhampir metabolism was insanely fast. She wondered if his cells contained mutated mitochondria to fuel that wonderful healing ability.

A thought struck her. She chuckled. At that very moment, Lexi was certain that she knew how Quinlan had been born Dhampir. She looked at his face and smiled. Maybe they could confirm it once he was better.

It hurt when the small woman peeled the wet compress off. As she stitched the wound, instinctive snarls tore his throat. Fortunately, per her usual, she was efficient and quick. The pain was subsiding and some strength was returning to his damaged shell. Quinlan opened his eyes and stared into the familiar pattern of concrete and steel. The control room had never seemed so inviting, so home-like.

“Lexi…” He whispered.

There she was, ignoring him while she finished her mending. Her main weapon had always been her mind and that calm within. Quinlan knew that without it, he would be dead, rotting in that field. His heart rate picked up. He was so very proud that this was his woman, his Lexi. She was so very precious and had to be safe. The Dhampir whimpered, not from the pain of his flesh but because of what he needed to do. He reached for her knee and she startled in surprise.

“Don’t move too much just yet.” She scolded him but smiled. “I’m going to bring you some food.”

Quinlan smirked at the word. When had blood turned into food in her mind? The tip tap of her footsteps resonated and he counted the seconds. It took her fifteen to reach the kitchen. Forty to warm the frozen bag just enough for its contents to liquefy. Another fifteen seconds to come back. He gulped the cold blood with desperation. The effect was immediate; he was healing. Still useless in a potential fight but strong enough to do what needed to be done.

“How do you feel?” She asked, leaning above him.

It took him a moment to answer as he was committing her face to memory. The jaw had relaxed and the corners of her full lips lifted.

“More blood, please, but first…”

It was much to ask, his tongue was still coated in coppery taste. He expected her to shy away from him because of this.

“A kiss?”

Her expression was so very tender at that moment. Now this, was the image he wanted seared into his brain until his death. The woman caressed his weary face and pressed her lips against his. When their skin separated, he wanted to scream for more but let her go. As the woman turned her back and headed away, he sprang to his feet. Sickbay was bright and ordered. The speed he usually enjoyed was not back yet. But he was still inhumanely fast as he opened the fridge and read the different labels. The general anesthetic was right there on the top shelf. Clearly labeled as such and with instructions in Lexi’s handwriting. He filled a syringe and double checked the concentration to make sure it would not harm her. Footsteps were coming out of the kitchen. In a few seconds, she would have a full view of the floor leading to the elevator. He was standing a few steps behind her when she stopped and stared at the wet spot. Saline and white blood but no body.

“Quinlan?” She called.

That voice. So smooth. Like velvet around his tired soul. Now all he needed to do...

She swirled around as he reached her. No! He did not want to see her face as he did this. The hazel eyes widened when the needle sank into her neck. That surprise turned to anger. Instantly, she was fighting him. Each punch was desperate, just like that regretted day in the gym. No. Please, don't look at me like this. The small woman screamed in anguish.

“No! YOU PROMISED!”

The drug was working but not quickly enough because he wanted to spare her the burn of a brutal injection. The betrayal on her face vanished but her eyes remained fixated on his. The calmness rose from within. Not because of me. Please. Her hand clawed cruelly at this wound. He deserved that. The pain was intense, almost blinding. It emptied the air from his lungs and forced him to push the plunger completely down. She yelped at the burn. Lexi managed a single word before her eyes rolled back and she fainted.

“Liar.”

Yes, he was a liar. He had lied when he had sworn to never touch her like this again. He had lied when whispering that she was safe with him before taking her. And he had lied to himself when he had accepted that imprisonment was sufficient for the Master. Quinlan had wanted so badly for this to be the solution because it meant that he could live on, with her. When she had presented an alternative, without even meaning to, he had said nothing because its significance had not yet struck him.

The memories of the most powerful explosion he had ever heard had been brought forward by his guilt. That summer of 1883, the Krakatoa had almost deafened him. Modern atomic weapons paled in comparison to what nature had already created. Soon, just like the Ancients, the Master would burn.

He could not stay alive while he knew of her. The Master had lapdogs who would remain thinking and plotting even after his control was cut off. They would search for their master and that risk was unacceptable.

The small body was limp in his shaking arms. He sat on the floor, cradling her. So fragile and so precious. For the first time in nearly two centuries, Quinlan wept. He kissed her and her skin soon glistened with his tears. Desperate, he caressed her face, her dark hair, her thin hands. It did not alleviate his torment. His sobs turned to roars as he rocked, holding her against his heart.

“I love you so very much.” He whispered into her ear.

But time was limited. So he made himself get up and tuck her in his bed. Then as quickly as allowed by his weakened state, he gathered all that he needed. The clothes that smelled of her strongest, he sealed into airtight bags. The small coffin, the hard drive and the schematics he shoved into the metal trunk. Another cooler of blood was also packed. His sword was missing but that would be a problem for his future self. Before leaving, he wiped away his blood. The reminder that she had just healed him.

All three devices were secured in the large trunk where he deposited his meager possessions. Of course, she had had her priorities in order. As he drove away a metallic clang caught his attention. The bone-hilted sword had dropped from the back seat to the carpeted floor. Despite the pressure of that night, she had saved something dear to him. Guilt was suffocating.

He drove until he could find more fuel then until the farthest town he could reach. There he stashed the car in an underground parking lot. A shirt she had slept in went inside his pocket. The Dhampir walked the streets to find Strigoi to kill. He would see. He would smell her on him again. Because Quinlan would allow it and that would lead the beast away from her. He would make the Master chase him to hell. At the gates of death, Quinlan would drag that cursed creature through with him.

[jigento-archived]

               the time has come-- honor code time !! 

honor code assessment, here we go !! 

for starters, i’m going to start by saying that after looking through a lot of what kuwabara considers his honor code, or at least, the hints to what he includes ( stand up for your fellow brothers, don’t fight women, fight for your beliefs even if it means death ) it leads me to believe that his honor code is heavily influenced on the code of the bushido as well as some of the more notable rules in the yakuza code of ethics or jingi. 

as far as the yakuza code of ethics: jingi is concerned, these would be the things that kuwabara would bestow on his fellow gang and, subconsciously, on those in team urameshi. of course, i mainly mean that in the sense of standards that kuwabara holds for those around him and those that he gets involved with. the codes and ethics that others hold themselves to must match or level with his own in order for kuwabara to value the words and actions of someone else.

the jingi is shorter than the lengthy and detailed bushio code, but they basically employ these main concepts: 

1.) treat the head of the family with respect. because kuwabara runs a small collection of close friends that double as a street gang, it’s been altered to treat each other with respect. if his fellow friends treat him with respect, then he can respect them. 

2.) don’t steal from the everyday man. thievery and criminal activity aren’t things that kuwabara wishes anyone to engage in. in his case, involving the innocent bystander in something that’s between his own group and groups from other schools goes against how they should act. what originates between gangs stays between them. 

3.) don’t disrupt the harmony of the gang or touch the partner of a fellow member. this you can definitely see a lot in the way kuwabara interacts and treats yusuke. this can be translated to any and all altercations within his group of friends and kuwabara’s desire to keep things resolved and running smoothly at all times, of course, you can argue with his back and forths with hiei. those, despite being violent in nature don’t detract from the fact that kuwabara respects hiei to a pretty high extent. will he ever admit that ? oh hell no. the second half is very clear in regards to yusuke and his relationship to keiko. it makes the idea of kuwabara bonding with keiko during yusuke’s time with the makai so much more difficult when feelings and emotions come into play. since yusuke and keiko have more history and a more profound bond to one another, it makes sense that kuwabara would keep his distance and be respectful and supportive. he understands that their consideration of each other is something that would be dishonorable to disrupt. 

4.) never involve yourself with drugs-- self explanatory. 

5.) always be chivalrous. i’ll go over this again with the bushido code of honor later on, but this is hugely important. it’s something that not only does kuwabara hold to his gang and his friends in team urameshi, but it’s something that he holds himself to as well as his enemies. the most important of these, to kuwabara, is first-and-foremost, being a decent human being. respect for everyone, reaching out to help those in need, acting on impulse to defend the helpless, to stand up for those who need someone to stand with them, fighting for just causes, keeping violence where it belongs and with who it belongs, leading back to the bit about the everyday man a bit-- this is one of the main cornerstones of kuwabara’s code of honor. 

now the real base of the standards that kuwabara holds himself to can be directly related to the bushido code. within this code are what are widely known as the eight virtues. they can also be tied back to the knight’s code of chivalry ( again with chivalry being one of the cornerstones and foundations of kuwabara’s honor code ).

1.) rectitude - the power to decide a course of conduct in accordance with reason, without wavering; to die when to die is right, to strike when the answer is to strike--’ in the bushido code of honor, this is said to be the strongest defining virtue. of course, it could be argued for kuwabara as well. it’s one of those ‘ goes without saying ‘ type of virtue. he might act recklessly, but that’s only because he knows for a fact what he believes is right and he knows what his morals are. if those morals coincide with fighting or risky maneuvers, then he will act without hesitation. call it instinctual. 

2.) courage - courage is exercised in the cause of righteousness and rectitude. kuwabara’s drive to jump in at a moments notice to fight on behalf of someone, in most cases it’s yusuke, or to fight to prove value in his beliefs and/or the beliefs of the team, can be attributed to courage. to know when to fight, when to die, when to act, when not to-- knowing and understanding is one thing, but making the switch from that understanding into a physical acknowledgement and action on its behalf is where courage comes into play as the second of kuwabara’s codes as well as the second virtue in the bushido code. 

3.) benevolence/mercy - love, forgiveness, affection for others, sympathy and pity, are traits of benevolence, the highest attribute of the human soul. if anyone knows kuwabara well, they’ll definitely know this is one of the traits that comes naturally to him. love and affection, whether it’s the respect his has for people who are stronger than him, to those who look to him for protection and safe-keeping. it might be difficult to verbally affirm the feelings that he has for certain people, but being able to act on those feelings and allow them to influence his treatment of others for the better, will always prove to be important to his inclusion of those around him in the way he holds himself. 

4.) politeness - the description of politeness in the bushido code is mainly rooted in the respect and consideration for the emotions and feelings of others. manners may play a small part, which kuwabara tends to have a difficult time with, but the consideration of others in order to treat them with the highest form of respect has driven him to make decisions and pursue specific plans of action without judgement of the individual in question. this profound respect is most often, in kuwabara’s case, reserved for those who are close to him, this still extends to those outside his personal circles. 

5.) honesty/sincerity - within the bushido code, this applies to the earning and spending of money. thrifting proves just how far one can go with the resources that they possess. in terms of kuwabara, his sincerity comes mainly from his open devotion to his code of honor. he’s sincere in the fact that he won’t shy away from admitting that something he’s observed or a certain course of action isn’t true to the person he wants to be. this has nothing to do with money and more along the lines of his own personal conviction. 

6.) honor - a vivid consciousness of personal dignity and worth. kuwabara’s worth, while he hasn’t yet figured out what it is and has no way of really understanding his worth in the eyes of those around him, bases his worth on how well he follows his own code. in a way it’s related to conviction, not just his own, but being held accountable by those around him. 

7.) loyalty - once those who find themselves close to kuwabara will not live a day to regret the unspoken pact they’ve signed. those he values will find it damn near impossible to dissuade him from standing in their place for battles or speaking up on their behalf. their happiness and wellbeing becomes a priority to him above all else. their hardships become his hardships. their struggles become struggles he hopes to lighten. those that he trusts and puts in faith in will receive an insane level of dedication from him. those close to him are closer than even family. even without blood, the bond that binds him to those he cares deeply for cannot be broken unless their faith and trust in him is brutally severed. there hasn’t ever been a case like that before amongst his peers, so he’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it. 

8.) character/self-control - both the hardest and easiest of the virtues for kuwabara to implement into his honor code. what’s right is right, and what’s wrong is wrong. the difference between good and bad and between right and wrong are givens, not arguments subject to discussion or justification, and you should know the difference. character also leads into kuwabara’s insistence that he not fight women. he was raised understanding that it was disrespectful to hit women, therefore, he’s included it into his honor code. the aspect of self-control is one he has the most trouble with. when he isn’t consciously aware of his actions and how his emotions are affecting them, he borderlines breaking his ability to control himself, and it’s where he gets into the most trouble. he can’t control what he says more often than moments where he can’t logically control what his body does. most of the time that loss of control is caused by his issues with anger. 

overall, this is the basis for how i feel kuwabara’s honor code is set up. it’s not as if he’s written any of this down. all of it is self-taught and he carries it with him as if it’s been burned into his memory. maybe it’s subconscious and he’s tailored his lifestyle to include these standards and virtues over time ? for now, all we know and all that i’ve thought about has been that this is something he’s worked on developing and worked on teaching himself so that he can actively model his life around a set of self-established rules to help guide him towards being the man he so desperately wants to be. 

[anakinsbugs]

The Great CPC Hoax: Why Cost Per Click Doesn’t Matter for High-ROI Ad Campaigns

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The Great CPC Hoax: Why Cost Per Click Doesn’t Matter for High-ROI Ad Campaigns

People always ask me the same question about AdWords:

“What’s a ‘good’ cost per click?”

My response back to them is always the same:

“Why do you care?”

See, most people have AdWords wrong. They obsess over the costs.

They know that more and more competitors are advertising on the platform, which drives up prices.

So they’re zeroed-in on how much they’re going to have to spend.

That’s the wrong approach.

Instead, they should be concerned with what they’re going to get back in return.

I know this sounds counterintuitive. However, I almost never worry about the Cost Per Click for keywords.

In fact, I almost always ignore them.

I’m going to show you why CPC’s don’t matter in many cases. I’ll show you how worrying about keyword costs can mislead you time and time again.

Then, I’ll show what you should be analyzing to make sure you’re not leaving tons of money on the table.

Why Cost Per Click Doesn’t Matter (and What to Analyze Instead)

Each year, companies analyze the most expensive keywords in the country.

These are typically competitive phrases in law or insurance and can cost as much $50 for just a single click.

The insane thing is almost none of those clicks will turn into customers immediately.

Instead, they’ll usually opt-into a form, first.

That means you might have to front the bill for 50 or 100 clicks before someone ever converts.

We’re talking thousands of dollars for a single customer.

It makes sense on the surface; CPC ultimately determines how much you need to spend.

WordStream

, for example, always releases an annual update on Cost Per Click benchmarks across industries.

The businesses I own are all software-related. But we work with clients across different industries. So it’s always interesting to look at these cost breakdowns.

Average ecommerce CPC’s might only be around a dollar, while law might run up to around six dollars (these are higher than most

Bing Shopping campaigns

, which should be considered for e-commerce businesses as well).

To be honest, though, I don’t obsess over costs, alone.

The first reason comes down to what the study says at the top: Averages.

Average CPCs don’t really mean all that much.

Popular, generic terms aren’t usually all that expensive.

Only a tiny percentage of the people who ever click on those will convert. Whereas, a more commercial

long-tail keyword

will be incredibly expensive.

Just compare the difference in costs between “tax” and “file back taxes”:

See? It’s not even close.

That makes it hard to use a standard, “industry average benchmark” for any in-depth analysis.

There’s another reason why I don’t like to just look at costs — because you’re often forgetting the other side of the equation.

Conversions ultimately have a much bigger impact than costs.

Now, let’s check out those

industry average conversions

from the same study:

Ok, now we’re getting a little closer.

If you remember, the industry average CPC for ecommerce was only around a dollar. In fact, it was one of cheapest CPC’s on the entire list.

But if you now look at the average conversion rates, you’ll see why.

Their conversion rates are also among the lowest.

What does it matter if CPCs are ‘inexpensive’ if the conversions are equally low?

That’s why you often want to look at the

Cost Per Action

(or Acquisition) when putting together advertising estimates.

This is the effective price you pay to generate a lead, for instance.

It’s a performance ratio. It starts to take into account things like costs vs. conversions to help you determine a much better figure: ROI.

The industry average Cost Per Action for ecommerce lines up with education on the search network.

So from an ROI standpoint, there’s almost no difference.

This is why CPC is almost meaningless.

Yes, it’s important to a point because it drives things like your Cost Per Action.

However, what’s ultimately more important is the revenue you can generate.

It doesn’t matter whether we’re talking about

Google AdWords

, Facebook, or even Twitter ads. The message is still the same.

Digital Marketer

once ran a Twitter Lead Gen campaign, testing the effective Cost Per Action (or Lead).

One campaign was able to see a $7.81 cost per lead.

They then ran the same study with the same ad and audience targeting. But this time, they optimized the campaigns to increase conversions.

It generated a $1.38 Cost Per Lead, which came out to a five time lead increase on the same ad budget.

They were able to 5X conversions simply by focusing on conversions and Cost Per Lead. They didn’t even have to touch the CPC.

You can see this time and time again.

Jacob Baadsgaard of Disruptive Advertising confirms that the

best PPC metrics are revenue-focused

. They track lead data all the way through to closed sales.

Then, and only then, will they make a decision about which ad campaign is best.

It’s not that costs don’t matter. They do, of course. But they only matter in context to how much revenue you can generate from it.

Here’s a very simple example to illustrate.

Let’s say you run two ad campaigns side-by-side.

The Cost Per Click for the second campaign is twice as much as the first. But because the conversion rate is 2% instead of 1%, you’re able to double revenue.

Would you pay twice as high a Cost Per Click to generate twice as much revenue? Of course you would!

This is after reducing revenue by your ad costs. So it’s already accounting for the higher ad budget.

At the end of the day, you’re still doubling revenue. It’s totally worth it!

Obsessing over CPC doesn’t just leave money on the table. It can also make you waste a ton of what you’re already spending.

Here are a few examples.

Obsessing Over CPCs Can Make You Pull The Plug Too Early (or Too Late)

There are many things that separate big companies from small ones.

But here’s one of the biggest: Big companies spend more on advertising than small ones do.

Duh, right? Of course big companies have bigger budgets.

We’re not just talking about dollars spent, but percentage of revenue

Salesforce, the world’s biggest CRM company, spends up to

46 percent of their budget on marketing and advertising

!

Crazy, right?

The question is why?

Why don’t small companies spend more on advertising?

In my experience, I find that they’re often too risk averse.

They don’t have the same access to capital. So they tend to obsess over costs, as opposed to revenues.

The classic scenario is when a business owner spends a few hundred bucks on

new Facebook ads

, only to conclude that they “Don’t work” five days later.

So they pull the plug too early.

In almost all cases, they just need to let the campaigns run longer.

Jennifer Shaheen found that campaigns should

run at least 45 days

before stopping. And that makes sense when you think about it.

Look at it this way.

How many sales do you need to break even? Let’s hypothetically say two or three.

So what are the chances that those two or three sales land in the first few days?

Pretty slim!

It’s the law of averages at work. You need a big sample size before numbers start to meet projections.

It’s going to take a few weeks, at least, to get

statistically significant numbers

. Otherwise, you’re just guessing.

All of this assumes that you know the ‘right’ ad campaign variables ahead of time. Which, in all likelihood, you don’t.

Not because you’re not smart. But because it takes awhile to figure these things out!

Here’s the other thing:

Many times, you actually need to increase ad spend.

Yes, you heard me right.

Listen, the reason you spend money on advertising is to make money — not save it.

That means you need to get to statistical significance as quickly as possible.

For example, go check out a few CPC ranges for keywords you’re about to bid on.

I like to use

Ubersuggest

to get a this data:

The average CPC for “analytics software” is estimated to be around $12.85 Ok, not bad I guess.

Let’s use that as the upper limit. We can create

automated rules

in the Facebook Business Manager.

If you’re having a hard time hitting those numbers, you can set a rule to actually increase CPCs.

That will make sure I get better placement over the competition and as many conversions as possible.

Here’s how that might look inside

AdEspresso

:

Of course, this approach isn’t ideal.

Because you still might leave a lot of money on the table.

If your CPCs start edging up, the campaigns will back off or stop.

Then your lead flow will stop, too.

That’s why I like using CPAs as targets if possible, instead of CPCs.

Watch CPA Instead of CPC

Cost Per Action is a better performance than Cost Per Click.

It’s not as good as Revenue, though–and there’s the problem.

CPAs can still be subjective.

Is a ‘high’ CPA bad? Maybe, maybe not.

If your CPA is over $100 in ecommerce, that might be bad.

Almost every single campaign CPA will be over $100 in law, for example. So it’s not bad at all.

Its still a much better metric to control ad campaign performance, though.

You can still figure out an upper range that starts to make ad campaigns unprofitable. You’ll base this on your average sale per customer. (More on this later.)

For starters, you can set automated rules to increase or decrease the total budget based on your CPA.

Inside AdWords, you can go to “Bulk Actions” and create new “Rules” for these ranges:

Under “Change budgets,” you can set an automated rule to either increase or decrease budgets based on cost per conversion numbers.

This tells AdWords to automatically increase your daily budget 25 percent if the CPA is within a certain dollar range.

You can do this same exact strategy inside Facebook, too.

You’ll set a rule to increase, decrease, or stop a campaign if the CPA hits a certain threshold.

Managing ad campaigns by CPA can net you more customers and revenue.

There’s still one big section we’re forgetting.

Keyword pricing or competitive pressure aren’t the only factors to worry about.

Many times, your customer base could be going through their own issues, and that’s not something you can change.

That’s why focusing on revenue is always the best approach.

Increase the Revenue-Side of the Equation to Overcome Outside Factors

Spearmint Love is one my favorite success stories.

They went from a baby blog to growing revenue over

991% year over year

, and they did it almost exclusively through

Facebook

and

Instagram ads

.

The craziest part is that it almost didn’t happen.

They were growing like a weed, until…everything just stopped.

Results were declining across the board and they couldn’t figure out why.

Until, one day while on a walk, it dawned on one of the co-founders.

Parents will buy baby clothes until that baby grows up. In other words, their customers were kind of ‘moving on’ from the company.

The ad campaign decline had nothing to do with costs or his ad campaigns per se.

It had everything to do with their customer base.

How on Earth do you solve this problem?

By focusing on increasing revenue — not touching costs.

If the CPA is ‘too high’ to make your numbers work, start by increasing average order values.

Upsells are easy, for example, when you bundle similar products.

Think about the last time you flew somewhere. Chances are, you bought a travel-sized product at a store before going through TSA.

But that product probably only cost a few bucks, right?

Check out what

Jack Black

does here, bundling several travel products together.

You arguably need all of these products if you’re flying somewhere.

Instead of only charging you a few bucks each, they’re charging you $35 for the whole pack!

Simply bundling similar products allows them to charge 10x more. Which means you can afford a much higher initial advertising cost now, too.

You can also cross-sell products to try and raise the average order value.

For example, right underneath this travel bundle, Jack Black offers a few related products to take with you:

One interesting thing to note is the price of all three items. They’re all slightly less than the initial $35 purchase.

Why?

They’re using price anchoring effect to make these additional products seem less expensive.

The Economist included a middle pricing

tier for a print-only subscription. It was the same exact price as the ‘big’ plan for both the print and web editions.

Most people chose the combined third option because it seemed like the best deal.

Removing the middle plan on a subsequent test, however, led people to

overwhelmingly pick the cheap option

, instead.

Price anchoring changes someone’s perception of cost vs. value.

That’s why you should lead with the more expensive option. Then, showcase a few related products to cross-sell that are slightly less expensive.

Spearmint Love also expanded their product line to increase average order values.

They came out with decor pieces, like hundred-dollar baby lamps.

The age of a child mattered less in this type of purchase. So it kept the company relevant longer in their eyes of their customers.

After increasing average order values, you should increase the lifetime value of each customer.

One technique is a

vintage analysis

, which shows you which customer cohorts are worth the most already.

This way, you can identify trends or patterns.

You can see what the most lucrative customers are doing and then apply those lessons across the board.

Constantly acquiring new customers is expensive. You have to

spend a lot more

to get them to buy.

Increasing repurchases from your existing customers has a massive impact on your bottom line.

Let’s revisit that initial ad model to see why.

Keep in mind this is a simplistic example. But I think it still does a decent job showing how this works.

The first campaign has a higher initial cost; you’re barely breaking even.

This is what most companies are scared of. They worry about spending more money on keywords.

As a result, they completely neglect optimizing conversions, average order values, or repurchases.

So yes, they might bring in a few sales. But the higher costs deplete their ad budget before long.

The end result is a wash.

The second campaign has a higher average order value.

In this case, you’re not even

getting more conversions

. All you’re doing is bundling a product, for example.

Already, you’re back in the black. Not bad.

However, the third campaign?

Not only are the average order values higher, but you’re getting more repeat purchases, too.

You’re basically generating more purchases from the same number of customers. Many times, you don’t even have to spend a single dollar to get them.

All you have to do is send out an

email campaign

. These loyal customers don’t take a lot of extra persuading.

More sales, without increasing ad costs, skyrockets revenue.

You make several times the other few campaigns.

Best of all, you didn’t sweat a single CPC. You willingly paid at the top-end of the budget range to maximize your opportunities.

Then, you doubled-down on the other side of the equation.

Increasing conversions and revenue spent can act as a lever to

double or triple ad campaign ROI.

Conclusion

There’s only one reason to spend money on ads at the end of the day: to make money.

Chasing the keywords with the lowest CPC is a losing proposition.

If anything, you should be spending more money. You should actually search out the highest CPC’s in your industry.

Why?

Often, they offer the most potential. You want to maximize the most sales per dollar spent.

So you know all those “industry benchmark CPC” numbers? Don’t worry about them.

Instead,

start focusing on CPA

. That’s the number it costs for you to acquire each new customer.

It’s not perfect by any stretch. But it’s a better number to optimize around than CPC.

From there, try to dig into revenue numbers.

Can you bundle a few products to raise the average order value? Can you cross-sell recommended products and use price anchoring to lower their perceived cost?

Then, figure out how you can keep customers around longer.

That might mean introducing new, related product lines. Or it might mean introducing ‘consumable’ products that people need to repurchase again and again and again.

The point is to

drive up the lifetime value of each customer

as high as possible.

When you do that, CPC will matter even less.

There will be so much revenue generated per customer that you can afford to spend almost anything to get them in the first place.

How have you boosted ad campaign performance by focusing on conversions instead of costs?

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Go to Source Author: Neil Patel