#just like us founders circle dinner

[jbaileyfansite]

Best of Jonathan Bailey in 2023 | Top 10 Photos (not included in previous lists)

[vrystalius]

Spiralling Obsession

Douma is laughing at himself for the silliness of writing this stupid letter, yet his hand just keeps writing and writing.

Pairing: Obsessed!Douma x follower!gn!reader

Chabudai: Chabudai are used for various purposes, such as study tables, work benches, or dinner tables (shokutaku (食卓、しょくたく)). In the winter, the chabudai is often replaced by a kotatsu, another type of short-legged table equipped with a removable top and a heater underneath. (Click on the word Chabudai for an example picture!)

(Douma slowly spiralling, yandere-ish)

His legs were crossed over on another as Douma sat quickly in front of his Chabudai, slightly hunched over the surface, staring at the empty paper he prepared to write on. He was spinning the fountain pen between his fingers, unsure how to start.

Gods, Douma doesn’t even know what exactly he’s writing. He can’t concentrate on anything of late! His head is always fuzzy, his chest stinging and his stomach hurting badly to the point he couldn’t eat a meal properly! Countless beautiful women and men were wasted on sad attempts to keep at least a little down before gagging all over again… All because Douma can’t get your damn face out of his head. It’s infuriating, really.

He sighed deeply and dipped the pen in a small pot of ink, hesitantly preparing to write down all his thoughts. The Founder wasn’t planning on ever giving you this letter since it was meant only to gather his damn thoughts so he can finally concentrate on things for once.

His pen was rapidly writing things down, almost obsessively.

» I can’t seem to get you out of my head. And believe me, I’ve tried. I have tried.

» It’s become unbearable, actually. Isn’t that hilarious? Usually I don’t think a lot about my followers. All their sorrows are the same, so why bother thinking more about them, right? I have better things to do after all. But lately, there’s been this nagging thought, this damning presence, always lurking, always interrupting, corrupting, my damn head.

Douma stopped for a moment to take a breath. His hand was a little shaky and the words he wrote down were almost etched into the table from the sheer intensity of pressing his pen down. He closed his eyes for a moment and threw his head back to take a breather. But every time he closed his eyes, your face appeared on his thoughts again. The shaking in his hand stopped and Douma’s shoulders sagged slightly. Just merely thinking of you was comforting to him for some reason. The thought of your smile and your eager eyes locked onto him, hanging onto every word that is leaving his mouth caused a nauseating warmth to spread all over his body. He took a small breather before continuing to write.

» I can barely eat. Do you know that? I can’t even enjoy the taste of human flesh without this gnawing ache in my stomach, as if I’ve swallowed something wrong. At first, I thought it was just my body reacting strangely, but no. It’s you. Somehow, every time I try to focus on something else, your face, your voice, your scent invades my mind and twists everything. You’re under my skin, like some kind of poison, and it’s making me sick.

» I never thought I could feel this way. Not me. I’m incapable of feeling emotions, I was born without them. But now… now I’m writing this ridiculous letter, hoping that if I just get the words out, maybe my thoughts will stop circling around you like vultures. It’s absurd. You’re nothing special. Just another plain follower, just another boring human. So why do I feel like I’m being torn apart from the inside out every time I don’t think about you? Or even when I do, I feel like stepping out in the sun or experiencing the wrath of the gods that I never believed existed.

Douma was now fully hunched over his desk, ink splatter decorating his aggressively written letter by carelessly dipping it into the ink pot before immediately going back to writing, letting the ink splatter.

» I should end this. End you. That would be the logical thing to do. Snap the thread that’s tangled around me and be free again. It should be so simple. But every time I think about doing it, I get even sicker at the thought of loosing you. I’d rather endure the torture you currently give me than even think about killing you. For now.

» I need to do something, anything, to make this stop. I can’t keep writing like this—it’s useless, it’s not working. I think it’s getting even worse. I don’t even know why I’m bothering to put these thoughts down, maybe I think that if I see them on the page, they’ll make sense. But they don’t. Nothing makes sense anymore.

» I just need to-

Douma slammed his fountain pen down onto the chabudai, breaking it. He lost his patience with himself after realising how pathetic he’s actually sounding. Is this how Gyutaro feels when he scratches his skin open to the point of skinning himself? Because Douma sure as hell feels like ripping all his skin off right now just to finally silence his ever circling mind.

His thoughts kept running and running, circling and circling, all about you.

You damn seductress cursed him, didn’t you?

Damn you.

🎃

Flufftober prompt: “Written letter but never sent”

It’s supposed to be fluff but I decided to make it angsty! Hope you enjoy! I missed writing for this silly man. This is my second attempt to write a fic for him, I actually started writing another and struggled hard so I switched over to this. The other fic was actually really fluffy and sweet, all kisses and cuddles and this is.. well. Yeah.

Anyways, make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough!!

Take care of yourselves <3

My event Masterlist 🎃

[gothicprep]

in december, many of us watched a 4 hour long argument about plagiarism on youtube, and how bad this is for creativity more broadly. but here's another thing that bugs the hell out of me, that i'd argue is just as bad for creativity online: influencer circle-jerk. luckily, i can make my case for how disheartening this is in under 4 hours.

there's a podcast i listen to sometimes called otherworld. it's aiming to be the "this american life" of ghost stories, but its secondary purpose is also to give advertising plugs to the host's insufferable LA transplant friends. it's incidentally good when it's not doing that, but it's insufferable to listen to when it is.

some of the podcast guests include:

bonnie mckee, songwriter for the worst things that plagued your ears in the early 2010s, such as "california gurls" by katy perry and "dynamite" by taio cruz. poor bonnie's solo career never really took off – can't imagine why that is – but she's still giving it a go. incidentally, she started re-recording some songs that were left on the cutting room floor for an earlier album of hers in 2022, which lines up with when she appeared on the pod.

kareem rahma, also known as kareem on instagram, host of a tiktok series that's basically just bothering people on the subway for content. he's also co-founder of something called "nameless network", with some ex-vice employees (put a pin in vice, we'll come back to it later). the purpose of the company is making viral hack shit: "i promise this made for instagram pizza museum is more than a cynical waste of your time. pwomise 🥺". hmm, what do you know. vice is the outlet covering it. the host says they met at a dinner party thing in los angeles.

two episodes about a married couple named sean johns and gina. they're psychics but the real deal! there's definitely a real deal for this sort of thing! the wife is, as you may have already guessed, big on tiktok, and you should listen to her because she uhhh knows what she's talking about for real. not like those other fraudulent people on witchtok (which is all of them, including her, but whatever). unfortunately i forget what her handle was, but i'm sure someone who has more time on their hands to dig for it can dredge it up.

two more episodes with, what do you know, a clairvoyant. did you know that she's the real deal and not one of those fake ones? she's referenced in the episode series prior to this, and what a fucking coincidence, the host of the show had an appointment with her before he began this project. oh, and someone from a more recent episode happened to be a client of hers too. (side note: one episode has a recorded reading of hers, and it'll come as no shock to anyone, but she's just as vague as every other hippie con artist who does this shit for a living)

one guest named alex doesn't outwardly seem like he's an influencer or trying to be, but it's probably worth noting that he's told the same story on at least one other podcast, so who knows what this guy's motivations are

gabi abrao, another influencer and one of the countless writers riding rupi kuar's coattails. i probably don't need to elaborate further.

actress and comedian sarah sherman guest hosts one of the episodes for no clear reason.

jack corbett, who makes bad tiktoks about economics for npr, is another guest. i'd be more forgiving of him, because i don't think it's possible to make good tiktoks about economics, but sadly his episode was one of the worst on the show. guy gets drunk after a bad breakup, fucks his leg up, blames it on tiktok astrologers cursing him. whatever dude. and get this – he and the host both say that they met at the same dinner party that the kareem guy i mentioned earlier was at.

bear in mind, this is only nine episodes out of a 65 episode show, but i think that's enough to say that there's at least some clout-sharkery going on. it doesn't help that the "official" subreddit – meaning, the one moderated by one of the show's producers – has a tendency to go dark when the fans complain about one of the guests. this happened with the psychic married couple and the npr tiktok guy. it's one of those things that makes you wonder if the motivation behind the blackouts is that the complaints give away that this is a bad avenue to plug your shit.

i'm not the only one who's suspicious of this. see this post on the fanmade sub, which asks, "what are the odds that this podcast is total bullshit?" OP defends this in part by saying, "Jack [the host] literally got famous from being a troll/social media guru/guy who’s good at making things go viral"

about that. you might remember this dumb thing that went viral in 2018 of a mural in LA that only influencers could take pictures at. it ended up being a publicity stunt to promote a webshow that jack from this podcast was attached to. what makes that vice article i linked to, imo, really unethical is that the author, justin caffier, is friends with jack. or at the very least, well-acquainted enough that jack was a guest on an episode of caffier's podcast that was published a few months earlier.

i don't know. when you dig shit like this up, it just seems like there's so much content out there that's mostly created as avenues for the worst people alive to network with one another. or if not that, this is the foundation for an argument that those vice pieces like "some fucking idiots took 20 tabs of LSD in the desert" solely exist for whoever wrote them to advertise their vapid friends' social media whatever. and nothing good ever comes out of it. it's a shallow gambit for quick money and attention, designed to be thrown away and forgotten about in 2 weeks. it's depressing!

jack holds that "otherwold isn't a show about the paranormal, it's a show about people". and given all this, that statement feels revealing.

[endlessly-cursed]

ᴇʟᴇᴀɴᴏʀ ᴛʜᴏʀɴᴇ

"𝙄𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙞𝙩𝙡𝙚 𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙩𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙖𝙙𝙮. 𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙤𝙞𝙣𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙗𝙚𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙧𝙞𝙘𝙝 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙮 𝙞𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙗𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙞𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙣𝙤 𝙪𝙨𝙚?"

BASICS

Name: Eleanor Marie Thorne

Birthday: 2nd of March, 1881

Zodiac sign: Taurus

Weight: 58kg

Height: 1.63m

Religion: Non-religious

Eye colour: Brown

Hair colour: Light brown

Faceclaim: Dominique Devenport

FAMILY 

Mother: Dasha Thorne, neé Seymour

Pureblood woman, sister of Albert Seymour, was bred to find a suitable match and was commanded to marry the rake Elijah Thorne. Smart, witty, observant and a Slytherin alumni, it didn't however save her from a miserable marriage, blackmailing him in order to do their duty and be done with it. She ended up raising the twins herself.

Father: Elijah Thorne

A rake, irresponsible, neglectful and a useless drunk, he was always doing drugs and in brothels rather than alone with his young and beautiful wife. Who ended up blackmailing him in order to conceive at least one child and be done with it. The marriage worked well until an American opportunist used a love potion on it and convinced a whipped Elijah to elope and leave his family for America. He would never return to England or get out of the ship alive.

Other relatives: Marcellus Alexander Thorne, twin brother

Both raised by different tutors, where Marcellus was reserved and flamboyant, Eleanor was calm and with a calmer head on her shoulders. They both had a great affection for one another, and bonded much during their time at Hogwarts. He'd be her biggest support in England during her adult life, and his daughter Enya would often visit her home in France.

Jesse Isaiah Seymour and his sisters, first cousins

Both cousins were within the same age ranges and had similar natures and got on well.

Friends: TBD (open!)

Significant Other: Eris Armand Durand ( @cursed-herbalist )

Eleanor and Eris moved in similar circles, but never interacted properly until she attended his first opera role, and the moment she heard his voice, she fell instantly in love.

They both started courting, and she'd support him and enhance his singing abilities, striving for him to become his better self. Both families approved of the match and soon made a life in Paris. They married and had two children: Knox and Marielle.

PERSONALITY

Overall personality: Eleanor is sweet, smart, gentle but firm, with a good head on her shoulders and a woman of her time, loyal to the end and devout of her loved ones.

Positive traits: Sweet, smart, gentle, loyal and with a good head on her shoulders

Negative traits: Rich girl privileges, nepo baby, selfless

Guilty pleasure: Limericks

HOMETOWN

Thorne Abbey is the ancestral home of the Thornes since the Anglo-Saxon era with its founder, Luxia Thorne, established a powerful castle guarded by walls full of thorny vines and pointy towers that are enchanted to repel bad-meaning visitors and intruders. At first it was Thorne castle, but with time, it was changed to 'abbey' to avoid drawing muggle attention. It's famous for its fierce warriors, draped in velvet, white and black walls, fiery members and astute matriarchs, although it all changed after the French Revolution and the beginning of the Regency Era, with Abel Thorne following the Prince Regent into his extravagant and hedonistic habits. The family would change their ideas again well after Eleanor's time.

BACKSTORY 

Eleanor Marie Thorne was born on a snowy night of March in 1881, alongside her twin brother Marcellus, although they grew up differently, they had loyalty to one another and a sense of siblinghood, although they teased one another plenty.

Just like her mother, she was sorted into Slytherin and was made Prefect and Head Girl, achieving a flawless curriculum, being a quiet and friendly girl, but an overachiever. She was always brought along dinners and reunions with investors and tennants as well as her brother, and co-ran Thorne Abbey after their mother retired until her brother married and had a child of his own. Despite her being away in France, she kept advising her twin brother until they both stepped down as well.

MISC

As a very wealthy untitled lady, she was required to be equal to her titled counterparts, and thus learned the harp, pianoforte, singing and the violin. She was taught to fence, shoot to almost perfection, archery, horseriding and field games. She developed a great love for Parisian and royal fashion, to embroider, recite poems of the best writers from memory, as well as Latin, Greek, German and French.

She was one of the richest bachelorettes of the wizarding world, with nearly 25,000,000 galleons on her dowry alone.

She soon became a philantropist, and spent her fortune on enhancing her husband's branch of the Durand family with lavish portraits, generous donations to important charities, endear herself to the high society and was pen pals with several figures of the wizarding world, among them many Ministers of Magic, socialites, heroes,... anyone who was somebody had received Mrs. Durand's regards.

She was a fashionista through and through, always wearing the best designers, with her gorgeous, luscious and thick brown curls that could've rivalled Empress Sissi's long hair and was a fashion leader, always dressing for the House of Worth. Her great fashion sense would be passed down to her niece Enya and being a fashion icon would be mandatory within the House Thorne.

[imagination-mess]

How you joined his circle of friends; his feelings for you

The Adventures of The Sano Family

It's more like you got dragged into it by Shinichiro, ever since the two met at his home.

He hasn't left you alone and tried to invite you to hang out with his friends. You prefer to be by yourself, but Shinichiro saw through your lie. You were hurt so many times that you prefer to not get hurt any longer.

By pure coincidence, Shinichiro finds you by yourself surrounded by a group of men. He was hanging out with his friends. He clearly steps in.

It ended up turning into a full-blown brawl, his friends and him were surprised, but shocked that you haven't run away from the fight but instead joined in and covered their backs.

You were kicking ass!

Shinichiro saw how similar your moves were to his younger brother's techniques. You must be the one that Mikey has talked about teaching someone at the exchange of snacks.

You invited them into your home to get fixed up and get a homemade dinner as a thank you.

Ever since, the brawl. You had tagged along with them. You didn't care that they were delinquents. You also became founders of the black dragons, but you were more staying in the shadows.

However, you did make a quite reputation for yourself due to being a girl and being seen as delinquent due to hanging out with them. You would wear a mask during their gathering in order to protect your identity.

You didn't want to get caught by your parents. Your parents will murder you if they find out that you became delinquent.

You are also being their tutor even though you struggle at school as well. You were better off comparing to the rest of them. You are the reason why they even graduated with your help because they cutting class.

You would barely particulate when it comes to fighting other gangs because the boys wanted to keep you out of it. However, you did step in if someone was trying to play dirty.

If they wanna play dirty, you will play dirty as well. That's another reason why you were well known. You pull dirty tricks, such as using an object or using the dirty and through at their eyes. You are also handy when it comes to having a pocket knife. You would also bite your opponent.

The boys helped you training how to disarm someone with a knife, in case of situation arrives that you had to. They know how high the number of crimes comes a being woman. They don't you to become one of those numbers as well.

The first generation of the Black Dragons was protective of you as you are protective over them. They saw you as a sibling, however, Shinichiro didn't. He wanted to date you.

Shinichiro admired your compassion and inspiration. He also liked you didn't baby him, but instead motivate him to learn how to pack a punch. You inspired him to become a better fighter.

He also loves how you retract with his siblings as if they were yours. He saw how happy was to have a girl around finally who understand her struggles.

You were everything he would like in a woman, but you kept turning him down. Unknown to him, he already has swiped you off your feet and you are just scared.

However, due to close to death situation, you confessed to him. He got stabbed due to protecting you from a surprise attack by a rival gang.

"You can't die on me! You hear me! I love you!"

The rest was history, the two had become an item. Your friends were happy that Shinichiro would stop asking how to get you to like him romantically.

He didn't have to do anything special. He just had to be himself.

I hope you are enjoying these random headcanons. It was impulsive but hopefully, someone likes it.

[officerofmonkeyproblems]

Gerald Hannon, a key figure in the gay liberation movement, has died at age 77

Friends and colleagues recall one of Canada’s most infamous journalists and longtime board member of Xtra’s publisher

Canadian queers owe a lot to the legacy of Gerald Hannon, one of the key contributors to The Body Politic, a groundbreaking homo magazine of the early 1970s. Hannon, who had Parkinson's disease, died by assisted suicide on May 9, 2022. Xtra gathered up recollections from close friends and published them here. Below is one of these entries:

“After a swanky dinner, Herbie pulled out his dick and slapped it on the table”

It is hard to imagine how my life would have turned out differently had I not met Gerald Hannon. He opened not only the world of gay people to me, but also opera. Gerald was my first boyfriend; at the time he was the most famous homosexual in Canada, and even still today is the only person I have ever met who actually saw Sputnik. 

Gerald and I met in 1982, at a party at Michael Lynch’s house, where I was James Fraser’s date. This was the pre-AIDS era where at parties The Body Politic people would nod and seriously opine, “Promiscuity really is the glue that holds the gay community together.” I said “Oh, who is that, he’s cute.” James then introduced me to Gerald. It turned out I really liked Gerald. In fact, he was quite fun. 

At the beginning I was still in architect school; things were tight, but he wasn’t any wealthier—full-time at Pink Triangle Press was paying $8K/year—so, it worked. Gerald, who was once slightly frightened by the Royal York Hotel—emerging from Union Station the first time, it was the biggest thing he had ever seen—got a crash course in architecture, and I, a crash course in the wonders of being gay, by masters of the craft, his circle of friends, most of whom were somehow connected to The Body Politic. 

One time, Gerald and I went to New York City for a long weekend. We stayed with his friend Herb Spiers, who lived in a loft near Gramercy Park. He had the whole second floor of an old commercial building that his boyfriend Ray Gray had purchased for a song when New York almost went bankrupt in the mid-1970s. Ray’s space was the whole top floor of the building (and the roof), which we visited using a tiny elevator that only stopped at two and seven. It was crazy awesome, also exactly what you would want.

Ray was an interior designer from Hollywood, California. Handsome. His loft, fully marbleized, was adorned with big Babylonian movie flats and large paintings. After a swanky dinner, Herbie pulled out his dick and slapped it on the table; it was his way of saying it was time to go to the Saint, an unbelievably fabulous private gay club inserted into an old theatre. For a brief moment there, I got a glimpse of the A-list New York gay life I had only ever read about, or heard about from Gerald, in what would turn out to be the last moments before it all went bad. Ray would be dead in a year. 

Gerald took me to the Anvil, the Everard, the St. Mark’s, the Mineshaft. He thought I should see these places, so many stories were attached to them. But also he took me to a party at the home of the writer Jonathan Katz, where we both met the gay hero Harry Hay, founder of the Mattachine Society, the first gay rights organization. Both publicly and later privately, Harry was generous with praise for Gerald’s writing and activism; that is where I really got the sense of the importance of Gerald. Without Gerald, not just our city, but all Canada, would have been less free. He opened up the law, throat-rammed it until it hurt, turned himself into the Antichrist in the eyes of some, while carving out a larger space in our society for LGBTQ folk, who were always there anyways (also the whores). If they knew Gerald as I do, they would know his gentle kindness, his passion, his humour and love. Being with him makes me happy and I will miss him so.

— Chris Lea served as the first openly gay leader of a Canadian political party (Green Party of Canada) and was on the board of the Toronto City Opera with Gerald Hannon

Read the entire article at Xtra

[gotham-ruaidh]

Little Bit Better Than I Used To Be

This story takes place during the summer of 1987. It's the time of the Cold War, and heavy metal, and Just Say No.

Ten chapters, each with a specific song as its soundtrack.

I'm so excited to finally share it with you.

Catch up: Chapter 1 (Starry Eyes) || Also posted at AO3

----

Chapter 2: Save Our Souls

Well, it's been a hard road, edge of an overdose // No matter how high, well, you're still too low // I've been the dancer, the wicked romancer // A never-ending nightmare, edge of disaster...

Soundtrack: "Save Our Souls," Mötley Crüe, 1985 [click here to listen]

Claire tapped her foot, swiveled in her chair, picked at a loose string at the knee of her jeans.

“Here’s how this works – we have an hour together every morning. I have a list of things I’d like to eventually cover with you, but of course I’m always happy to talk about anything that you want to.”

Then Dr. Gillian Edgars – “Gillian, please,” she’d insisted, shaking Claire’s hand warmly before settling down on the couch of the small but plush office – set down her notepad and pen.

“I won’t bullshit you, Claire. This is tough. You’re on Day 2. Your mind isn’t even here yet.”

Claire snorted. “You’ve got that right.”

“When was your last fix?”

Claire shifted uneasily. “Three days ago.”

“Is this the longest you’ve – ”

“Since I started? Yeah.” Claire darted her gaze upward to look at Gillian. The good doctor still wasn’t writing anything down. Interesting.

“Are you going to ask me why I started?”

“Only if that’s what you want to talk about right now.” Gillian held Claire’s gaze. “I know that forcing anything at this point, while you’re still detoxing, can be counterproductive.”

Claire nodded, grateful. “How does it work here?”

“You mean, how our program here at The Ridge works?”

“Yeah.” Claire crossed her legs. “I was kind of distracted when I read through the brochure. I know we have our individual sessions in the morning, and Group in the afternoon, and that we can pitch in for communal activities.”

“So far, so good.”

“And everyone is encouraged to introduce themselves by first name, and what their addiction is.”

“You got it.”

“No last names?”

“No – and it’s not any kind of privacy thing. Because a first name is who we are – and the addiction is who we are, too.”

Claire raised one eyebrow.

Gillian sighed. “It was wine for me. I thought it was refined. Turns out it made me so refined that I wrapped my MG around a telephone pole.” She pulled up her curtain of long hair to expose a thick, long-healed scar half-hidden above her left ear. “My sister found this place, and I went through the program, and I’m nine years sober.”

“It seems like a lot of people on staff here are former addicts.”

“We all are, Claire. Every one of us – including all the therapists, and our founder, and the ladies who do the laundry and the janitor who mops the floor. We can’t be hypocrites. We can’t tell you anything we didn’t do or think ourselves.”

Claire’s shoulders and stomach loosened a bit.

“You should know that whatever we talk about is one hundred percent confidential. I’d only disclose information to someone else if I thought you were in imminent harm of hurting yourself or others.”

Claire nodded, thinking. “And what about asking other people here about themselves? More than just their name and addiction, I mean. About their lives outside of here?”

“We say that people should only talk about what they’re comfortable to talk about. If they don’t want to share anything except their name and addiction, that’s fine. If they want to tell you all the gory details about their life, then that’s fine, too. Some people come here to reset.”

A beat.

“What about you, Claire?”

Claire bristled. “What about me?”

Gillian’s gaze bored into Claire’s. “You didn’t come here for vacation. Clearly there are things you need to fix. That we will fix, together. So what do you want to focus on first?”

Claire’s mind swam.

“Typically,” Gillian continued, “I like to work backwards with people when they arrive. It should be the easiest to remember. So – tell me about the last time you took the pills.”

A half-empty prescription bottle – the dull ache in her dry throat as she swallowed a handful of Halcions – the dark circles under her eyes, staring back at her from the bathroom mirror…

“It was empty,” she said quietly.

…screwing the top shut, shakily placing the bottle back on the shelf in between her deodorant and toothbrush…

“I was empty.”

…both hands planted on the counter, breathing hard…

“Do you mean – you couldn’t feel anything? Or that you didn’t feel anything?”

…counting to one hundred as all her thoughts just drifted away…

“I didn’t want to feel.” Claire folded her legs beside her on the chair. “So I didn’t.”

Gillian nodded. “OK. Are you afraid to feel?”

…static in her head…

Claire closed her eyes. “Terrified.”

“And have you felt anything since coming here? Is it too much?”

…a thousand silent screams…

“I just…I just want to shut it all out. To be quiet and alone.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but that won’t be possible. That’s deliberate, on our part. Because although you’re on your own journey, you’re certainly not alone. We will keep you busy.”

Claire slid down in the chair.

“So – I know you’re aware that everyone here is assigned a task. And we work to make sure it’s a task that you’d shy away from. Because the whole point of being here is to be uncomfortable.”

Claire said nothing.

“I was thinking.” Gillian drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. “People here have breakfast and lunch on their own time, but we all have dinner together. And every night we need help setting up the tables and chairs, and making sure that there are enough plates and silverware for the buffet line, and keeping an eye on everything while people are serving themselves and getting situated. Requires a lot of interaction with the others here. Great for building people skills.”

Claire threw her head back in the chair. “I guess I don’t have a choice.”

“Of course you have a choice, Claire – you choose everything you do. You could choose to get up right now, walk out the front door, and catch a plane back to Boston. But you won’t, will you?”

Gillian looked at her watch. “I’ll close our session a bit early. It’s a beautiful day outside – why don’t you sit out on the deck for a bit, and just take time to yourself to think?”

Claire stood, quietly murmured a thank you, and shuffled out the door.

Gillian paused, then reached for the phone extension on the table beside her chair. Dialed a few numbers.

“Dougal? Yeah, it’s me. Listen – I’ve put Claire on set-up duty. Can you make sure that happens tonight?”

[ask-them-bois]

Ancient Sounds 2/5

AS.pt1

Oliver took a deep, steadying breath, running his tongue over his lips as he waited. The chill of the ice rink slipped under his clothes and ghosted over his skin, making him shiver. He adjusted his stance, his bloodpumper thudding against his thoratic cage. He never felt blinder than when he was on the ice; the cold negated every scent, and at the moment the rink was dead quiet. His cane was sat on a bench outside the field.

Yet, with the anticipation turning his blood hot, he’d never felt more alive. The music started with a burst of fanfare over the speakers, and Oliver shot off across the ice. One moment he stood near the wall, the next he was gliding halfway across the rink. The music thrummed in his ears as he spun about and leaped like a ribbon dancer, coming down cleanly on a practiced, one-footed landing, only to bend back further than should be natural.

She laughed, unbridled glee shaking her apart as she threw her arms up, reaching for the invisible audience in the empty stands. She went with the momentum she’d built, flipping onto her hands. A twist, jump, and she was back on her feet, dashing forward and spinning. The music swelled as she reached behind herself and grabbed her leg.

She stopped in place and spun, spun, spun, one hand up, palm raised to the ceiling. As the music crashed into its climax she crouched and threw herself skyward once more, arms spread like she was flying, before she rolled forward into a flip and landed once more on her feet.

She couldn’t see it, but she could imagine her cape flowing out behind her, glimmering like fire as the warm colored glitter caught the spotlights. The gems and sequins on her uniform sparkled, setting her limbs aflame like the wings of a phoenix.

The music began to fade as they soared in circles, until the track stopped completely. They stopped, too, panting, and lit up at the scattered applause to their right.

“Well done, master Maddel, as always!” One of Oliver’s entourage called; the goldblood, from the sound of it. Oliver flashed her a charming smile and skated towards her voice, one hand out. Their fingers tapped the low wall around the rink and they grabbed it, coming to a stop.

“Thank you, darling, did you like that?” He purred, leaning his elbows on the wall.

“Yes, ma’am, that was spectacular.” Another troll chipped in.

“Thank you so much, my dear. It’s a little more basic than the dance I did earlier, but it won me a competition a few sweeps ago. Could one of you hand me a hydration cylinder, pretty please?” Oliver purred, her voice giggly and sweet. She heard a flurry of movement, then the cool metal of the soda can was pressed against her arm.

She took it with another sugary, “Thank you, darling!” and cracked the tab before taking a sip.

“When’s your next performance, master Maddel?” The goldblood asked.

“I’m afraid it won’t be for a while, my sweet, I’m all tied up in some other business at the moment.” Oliver told her forlornly, setting his soda down. “Speaking of, what time is it?”

“It’s just past midnight, sir.”

“Ah, then I’m afraid I need to get going, I’ve been practicing since the sun went down, and I have a video date with my precious morail I don’t want to be late for.”

“How will you video date if you can’t-” The goldblood began, only to be abruptly cut off; by the ‘smack’ sound, Oliver could guess someone had covered her mouth.

“Can’t see?” Oliver finished for her, before he chuckled, turning and skating for the nearby gate, “I don’t need eyes to hear my beloved’s words, do I?”

“N- no, ma’am, I suppose not.” The goldblood said meekly.

Oliver only chuckled again. The gate beeped, signaling he’d arrived next to it, and he pushed it open. Stepping out onto the rubbery ground, he carefully and somewhat awkwardly walked to the bench across from him. He sat, easily untying and removing the skates.

She flexed out her toes, relieved, and felt around. On the bench next to her laid her cane and purse, both of which she scooped up, along with her skates. “Good night, my loves!” She said cheerfully, shouldering her purse and headed for the locker rooms.

When they shouldered their way into their VIP locker room, they tapped their way towards the showers, stripping down as they went and dropping their purse and skates on a chair. A quick rinse, and they stepped out, grabbing a towel from the waiting pile.

He toweled off as he headed for his locker, scooping up his uniform as he went. He pressed his thumb to the scanner and it popped open, and Oliver traded their skates for their street clothes.

Binder, jumpsuit, cape, and white band were traded for bra, a band shirt, and skinny jeans. He tied an olive green band around his eyes before slipping a pair of pumps on his feet and brushing out his hair.

She sighed, relieved to be out of uniform, and pinched the collar of her shirt, pulling it up to her sniffnub and inhaling deeply. The shirt smelled like her morail’s cologne and detergent; probably because she’d stolen it from him. With a laugh, she grabbed her purse and cane and headed for the door again. She slipped out the rink’s front door, in time to hear the scuttlebuggy pull up.

“Good evening, master Maddel.” The driver said as they emerged from the buggy and walked around to open the door.

“Good evening, darling.” Oliver replied, hand out. The driver took his hand and helped him into the carriage, before shutting the door and walking back towards the front seats.

“Where to, sir?” The driver asked as they got in.

“Home.”

“Yes, sir.”

The scuttlebuggy started up and began to move, and Oliver opened his purse and dug out his palmhusk and a pair of earbuds. He slipped them into his ears and turned the screen on.

“Home screen.” The buds informed him, “Two new messages, four missed calls.” With practiced fingers, Oliver pulled up Trollian and pressed a button. The buds promptly began reading out the messages:

-HeavymetalMeowbeast began trolling SightlessFirebird!-

HM: HEY BABE!!!! HM: GUESS WHAT?!?! I FOUND SOMETHING I THINK YOURE GONNA LOVE!! MESSAGE ME BACK ASAP!! LOVE YOU!! <>

-HeavymetalMeowbeast is idle-

Oliver smiled softly, thumbing the speech-to-text option. They raised the palmhusk closer and began to speak.

SF: Hello, sugargrub~. What is it you want to tell me~?

They waited, and were not disappointed by the swift response, which the buds quickly read out:

HM: OKAY OKAY OKAY SO!!!! HM: YOU KNOW YOUR ANCESTOR, THE DEADSCAR DUDE?!?! FUCKING EPIC NAME BY THE WAY!!! ANYWAY, I DECIDED TO DO SOME DIGGING ABOUT MY OWN BLOODLINE AND YOULL NEVER FUCKING GUESS WHO MY ANCESTOR IS!!!!!!!

SF: Hmm~. You’re right, darling, I can’t guess~. Do tell, though~.

HM: HIS NAME IS DMITRI “THE HIEROPHANT” AKSHAI, AND HE WAS THE FUCKING FOUNDER OF THE BLACK HAND!!!!! HOW FLIP FUCKING COOL IS THAT?!?!?

SF: Very 7lip 7ucking cool~. Did you 7ind out anything else~?

Oliver smiled softly to herself; she knew her morail’s ancestry already, she’d just neglected to mention it to him. Why else would she have chosen him as a morail? As her second in command at the Black Hand? Well… that’s why she chose him at first, but he’d grown on her exponentially since then. Not that he needed to know that.

HM: YEAH I DID!! I FOUND SOME CONNECTIONS OF HIS!! GOOD NEWS FOR US, MOST OF THEM ARE ALREADY BACK!!! MAYBE WE CAN TALK TO THEM, SEE WHAT THEY KNOW??? OR, I GUESS YOUD HAVE TO, SINCE IM ON TOUR!! YOU DONT HAVE TO THO!!

SF: Well, it depends~. Who are his connections~?

HM: OKAY GET THIS!! I FOUND RECORDS OF NONE OTHER THAN HOUNDING, BLUEGILL, SOME GUY NAMED BRIGAN, A DUDE CALLED THE IMPERIAL ENFORCER, AND A DUDE NAMED BLADEPEN!!!! HOW FUCKING COOL OF A NAME IS THAT?!?! HM: ANYWAY, COULDNT FIND MUCH ON THE LAST TWO, THEY WERE BARELY MENTIONED IN THE RECORDS I FOUND!!! SOME KIND OF COVER UP??? NOT TOTALLY SURE!! HM: ANY OF THEM RING A DONGSHOUTER??

SF: Hm~… Yes, I believe several o7 those ring a dongshouter~. Well done, BB, I’ll dig around and see what I can 7ind~.

HM: OKAY!! WE STILL ON FOR DATE NIGHT LATER???

SF: Absolutely, my love~. <> You’ll see me in a 7ew hours~.

HM: LMAO, OKAY!!! PALE FOR YOU OLLY!! TTYL!! <>

-HeavymetalMeowbeast ceased trolling SightlessFirebird!-

Oliver purred, raising his head as he felt the scuttlebuggy come to a stop.

“We’re here, sir.” The driver said, parking the vehicle and getting out. Oliver nodded, gathering his things and getting out of the buggy with the driver’s help.

“Thank you, dear.” They told the driver, pressing a few bills into their hand before they tapped their way to their hivestem’s front doors.

He pulled a card from his purse and took a moment to locate the scanner, before pressing the card against it. The scanner beeped, and he heard the doors swish open in front of him. He headed for the vertical ascension box, thumbing the button.

His fingers drummed against the head of his cane as he waited, humming to himself. When the box pinged, signaling the doors had opened, he ducked inside. He felt for the panel and ran his fingers upwards, until he felt the correct number under his fingers and pressed it.

The doors shut, and the box began to rise. As she waited, Oliver clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, thinking. Finally, the ride ended, and the doors opened. Oliver stepped out, into her own hive.

Oliver’s hive was a vast, penthouse apartment near the top of the hivestem. From what he’d been told, it had a lovely view of the city on one side, and the mountains on the other. He had everything, from a large mealblock to a hot tub on the balcony, to an entire block converted into an aviary for his pets and lusus.

After dropping his purse on the loungeplank, he headed to the mealblock and dug leftovers out of his mealvault. Thin slices of sashimi, cooked just enough to sear a crust of spices along the edges, and a bowl of sugar-glazed scarabs.

Oliver hummed, carrying his dinner to his studio slash office, and set it down next to his husktop, which he boot up. Popping a scarab in his mouth, he picked up a small remote and clicked it. He heard a beep, and his audio-crate began playing music at a low volume; it was thundering, screeching heavy metal, with intense bass and drums. A moment later, Oliver’s morail’s voice started howling out lyrics.

Smiling to themself, Oliver heard their husktop beep to indicate it was on and ready. With the screen reader as a guide, they located the desktop Trollian and opened it.

-SightlessFirebird began trolling TheDecaying!-

SF: Hello, my lovely dear Brigan~! You do not know me, but I am a 7riend, in dire need of your assistance~. I need in7ormation~.

There was a pause, before the husktop pinged.

TD: Wh_ is Brigan?

Oliver frowned.

SF: You are, my dear~.

TD: I am wh_?

SF: You are Brigan~!

TD: I am?

Oliver sighed, beginning to wonder if this was a good idea.

SF: Yes, my love, and I want to know- have you ever heard of a man called the Hierophant~?

TD: Wh_ are y_u?

SF: I am a 7riend, as I said~. Do you know the Hierophant~?

There was another pause, much longer than the first. Oliver began to get concerned after several minutes ticked by; he’d nearly finished his plate of sashimi by the time his husktop pinged.

TD: I d_ n_t kn_w y_u. Th- magg_ts whisp-r y_u ar- n_t t_ b- trust-d. A blind bird dr-ss-d in flam-s will _nly b- c_nsum-d by what mak-s th-m pr-tty. Fir-s di- wh-n th-y ar- suff_cat-d. Th- Hi-r_phant fl-w _n wax wings, t__ cl_s- t_ th_ flint and st--l that lit y_ur f-ath-rs, and n_w h- burns.* *(I do not know you. The maggots whisper you are not to be trusted. A blind bird dressed in flames will only be consumed by what makes them pretty. Fires die when they are suffocated. The Hierophant flew on wax wings, too close to the flint and steel that lit your feathers, and now he burns.)

Oliver sat back, surprised, before he scowled.

SF: So you *did* know him~?

TD: Knew who?

Oliver took a deep breath, a frustrated growl rolling in her throat.

SF: Thank you for your help, Brigan~.

TD: G__dbye, Blind Ph_-nix.

-TheDecaying ceased trolling SightlessFirebird!-

-TheDecaying has blocked SightlessFirebird!-

That was a waste of time, Oliver thought bitterly, mentally scratching Brigan off their list. They tossed another sugar-scarab into their mouth and chewed on it ruefully, thinking.

“An evil god nestled somewhere in time, A bloody spider- no warnings, no signs. Judgement day and the rotten child arrives, Eventually, laid bare are his crimes.

The records went up in flames, no turning back, ‘Cause I just had to see, was the spider’s bite watching me? In the mist, the facts twist, and bones do snap, as I lay on your altar, bleeding, bleeding, bleeding.”

Oliver’s morail’s voice cut through their thoughts and they turned their head towards the radio, which was still playing one of their morail’s albums. Oliver knew that album; Spades of Revolution, their latest release.

“A bloody spider…” Oliver repeated aloud, tapping their claws on the desk, “And a rotten child…” A wicked smile crawled across their face and they turned back to the husktop.

Dismissing the failed conversation, Oliver pulled up a new chatroom.

-SightlessFirebird began trolling WacobaRanchOffical!-

SF: Hello, Mr. Bluegill~. My name is Oliver, and I am a huge 7an o7 your work~. I was wondering i7 I could ask you a 7ew questions~?

Oliver sat back and waited. Having cleared her bowl and plate, she picked them up and took them to the mealblock sink. She stopped by the aviary to feed her birds and lusus, giving them each a minute of attention- they’d get more later, before sunrise- before heading back to the office.

She tapped a button on the side of her mouse, but the screen reader only read back the message she’s sent. She frowned.

SF: Mr. Kappal~? Are you there~? I don’t mean to be a bother, my dear man, I’m just very curious about a 7ew things~.

Still, no response came. Oliver waited several minutes, which stretched onto hours. He went and showered, did his entire hair and skin treatment routine, and got changed into a comfy robe.

When he checked again, nothing, and the clock informed him it was nearly time for his video date with his morail. Nibbling on his lip, he sent a final message.

SF: Well, just get to me when you can, sir~! I hope to hear 7rom you soon~!

No response ever came.

Somewhere, far away, in a hive by the seaside, a husktop pinged three times over the span of several hours. Only one of the residents heard it.

But he couldn’t stop staring at the blood on his hands.

[whythinktoomuch]

Supercorp: Tomb Raider AU or The Mummy AU?

So, I took only one (1) plot point from The Mummy Returns, and ran with it. Like really, really ran with. Like, I’m on a whole ‘nother continent now, y’all, wowie~

The Mummy AU (Kinda)

Alex and Sam are gay, married, & deep sea explorers / anthropologists. 

They’re miles under water in the middle of fucking nowhere when they come across something that appears to be a sarcophagus of sorts. 

Cool! A mummy! But… here? Of all places? That’s weird! 

They bring it back to their lab and after some heavy duty tinkering, they manage to crack the locking mechanism, and the lid falls away to reveal a perfectly preserved mummy. 

But even for a mummy, it’s really, really well preserved. Like, almost too preserved.

Like, looking like a blonde woman caught taking a short but clearly restful nap kinda preserved. 

Then the mummy jerks awake with a heaving gasp, and everyone in the vicinity either screams or passes out. 

The mummy—if we can even call her that anymore—is very strong. She can overturn stainless steel tables like they’re pieces of cardboard, never mind the fact that all four legs had been bolted into the floor. 

She keeps everyone at bay with swinging arms, shouting in some unrecognizable, rolling sort of tongue… until Alex gets in between her & the crowd, using a gentle voice & calming hand gestures to convince the mummy that they mean her no harm. She settles down and hesitantly accepts a box of poptarts in lieu of an olive branch. 

After almost an entire hour of miming and saying “A-lex” over and over again, they manage to determine that the mummy’s name is Kara Zor-El.

It will eventually take Kara a couple of weeks to learn proper English, but by the second day out of her sarcophagus, she makes it very clear that she’s looking for people. By day five, she can specify that she’s actually only looking for one woman in particular. 

Alex and Sam try, but they can’t quite get Kara to understand that the person she’s looking for… might not be around anymore. In fact, everyone she’s ever known might very well be dead for all they know, especially considering that they’re not really sure when she was entombed in the first place. 

Kara’s culture seems to view time more cyclically, like a series of concentric circles that converge & overlap as Rao sees fit. So, the whole linear approach—How old are you? What year was it when you, you know, died?—doesn’t quite work out.

But either way, she’s definitely very old, no matter how well preserved she is, lol. 

After a few weeks of doing research and helping Kara get more familiar with present-day Earth culture, Alex and Sam announce that they need a date night. Just one (1) single dinner at a sit-down restaurant without a newly adopted mummy in tow.

“What’s date night?” 

“It’s a night where two people go on a date.” 

“What’s a date?” 

“You’re probably, like, 800 years old. How do you not know what a date is?” 

“…” 

“It’s (sigh)… it’s when two people like each other very much and go out and do something together. Like drink coffee or something.” 

“We like each other. We drink coffee together all the time. So, we did dates together?” 

“So not the same thing.” 

“We did many, many dates together then.” 

“No!”

But the AgentReign dinner date barely gets past the entrées before Winn—designated mummy babysitter for the night—calls them because apparently Kara is freaking out. 

So, Alex and Sam get their desserts to go and rush straight over to the lab, and… Kara is indeed freaking out. But not in a bad way. More like the overflowing with sheer excitement and blindingly eager hope kind of way.

“I found her. Winn, do the replay. Show them the replay!” 

Winn obliges her, and hits play on a televised press conference, and… 

“Uh, no, you didn’t,” Sam says. “That’s Lena Luthor, as in CEO and co-founder of Luthor Corporations? How could she possibly be the person you’re looking for?” 

“It’s her.” 

“But you don’t even remember her name,” Alex reminds her gently. 

“It’s her. I found her.” 

Alex and Sam arrange a meeting with L-Corp under false pretenses—exciting new investing opportunities for deep sea diving tech—and fly out all the way to Metropolis for Kara’s sake, only to find out that Lena Luthor is too high up the corporate ladder to handle such small potatoes. They’re escorted from the premises when it becomes clear that they were just lying about the whole investment thing. 

But Kara is persistent. She ignores Alex’s suggestion of loitering around the parking garage at the end of the workday and charges back through the metal detectors without warning. She rips tasers off her body and barrels past all the security guards, leaving Alex and Sam no choice but to chase after her. 

“Sorry, my dude,” Sam says, jumping over a groaning guard. “She’s not usually like this, I swear.” 

Kara gets all the way to the top, speeds past a startled assistant, and bursts through that final door… and comes face to face with Lena Luthor. 

The CEO looks up, eyes narrowing with confusion. “… Can I help you?” 

Kara excitedly starts chattering away in her first language and approaches Lena with outstretched arms, and Lena immediately jumps out of her chair and gets backed into a corner. 

“I don’t know who you are or what the fuck you’re on, but you better stay the fuck away from me.”  

Kara stops, her forehead creases. “It’s me. I am Kara Zor-El.” 

“Okay, and…?” 

By the time that Alex and Sam get to Lena’s office—a horde of security guards still hot on their heels—Kara is just sitting slumped in a far corner, eyes somehow even further away.

Lena dismisses the guards once Alex and Sam convince her that they’d be more than happy to leave peacefully. She keeps her gaze on Kara, who never looks up or back. 

Kara speaks up once during their flight home to mumble, “She doesn’t remember me” before falling silent once more. 

For the next week or so, Kara stays in her bunk, refusing to talk or leave or do anything that isn’t eating mountains of takeout & ice cream. 

Then… one day, Alex gets an alert from her boss that Lena Luthor’s private jet is requesting access to their roof helipad. 

When Lena walks into the room, Kara sits up with a start… until she remembers herself, lets her shoulders drop back down in defeat. Nonetheless, she stays polite. 

“Hello, Ms. Lena Luthor.” 

“…………… Hi.” Lena’s eyes remain slightly narrowed. “I’m sorry, but do I know you?” 

Kara just shakes her head. 

“But we’ve met before?”  

Kara hesitates, then shakes her head again. 

“Then why did you want to see me?” 

“I just wanted to look. And talk to you.” 

“Talk about what?” 

Kara kinda laughs and drops her gaze, one hand swiping at her eyes. Then she rattles something off in her native tongue and somehow, without hesitation or forethought, Lena rattles something right back. And Kara gapes at her for a long, long time… before bursting into fresh tears. 

“You know how to speak mummy!?” Sam says incredulously while Alex interjects at the same time, “What the hell did you just say?” 

“I don’t know, I don’t know!” Lena cries, taking a step back, seemingly just as shocked as everyone else is about this strange turn of events. “I don’t know where that came from.” 

[jbaileyfansite]

JONATHAN BAILEY Attending the Just Like Us Founders Circle Dinner (November 20, 2023) | 📸: justlikeus

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: Occasionally, when I travel to England I have a hard time understanding a person's accent.  Granted, I speak Californian, but I was wondering do you ever have a difficult time understanding a person with an American accent ? Thanks

Actually I don’t for the simple reason of how deeply embedded American popular culture is through the film and television shows that one can’t avoid. But speaking for myself I am well traveled and I have been in quite a few parts of the United States for work or vacation reasons - genuinely admire the genius of the American Founders (they were educated as English gentlemen and some were even educated as Classicists) and the landscapes are breath taking.

I love the cosmopolitan flavours of New York and the down to earth humour of New Yorkers themselves; I am charmed by the preservation of civility and manners of the South; I respect the indivudual and community frontier spirit of those in the Mid West. But I have to confess California remains a mystery to me. I know not everyone speaks like a stoned Keanu Reeves but I find it far too laid back for my tastes. That is not to say I don’t understand the way they speak because I do by virtue of having friends from there. The only time I had difficulty understanding anyone was in Boston when I went to give an academic paper there at Harvard. I just found the Boston accent terribly hard to follow.

This is ironic when you really think about the issue of English and the origin of American English began in New England.

The first English people to colonise the land that would become the United States came over in 1607, and they brought the English language (and accent) with them to New England. So most of us can picture the idea of the original Pilgrims talking like Benedict Cumberbatch only to have their future descendants talk like Keanu Reeves.

Except it’s not true.

Afew years ago I had a friend who was a Shakespearian scholar at Cambridge where we both studied and he surprised me once over dinner. He told me that the modern American accent is a lot closer to how English used to be spoken than the British accent is.

The main difference between the British accent and the American one is rhoticity, or how a language pronounces its "Rs." What you might think of as standard American (or "newscaster voice") is a rhotic accent, which basically means "R" is enunciated, while the non-rhotic, stereotypical English accent drops the "R" pronunciation in words like "butter" and "corgi".

Of course, there are a few American accents that drop the "R," too — Bostonians "pahking the cah in Hahvahd Yahd," for example, or a waitress in the South who calls you "Suga.'" And some accents in Northern England, Ireland, and Scotland retain their "Rs" as well.

But Americans didn't find a treasure trove of Rs in their new country.

Instead, British speakers willingly lost theirs. This is where it gets interesting.

Around the time of the Industrial Revolution, many formerly lower-class British people began to find themselves with a great deal of money, but a voice that instantly marked them as a commoner. In order to distinguish themselves from their lowlier roots, this new class of English gentlemen developed their own posh way of speaking. And eventually, it caught on throughout the country.

It's called "received pronunciation," and it even influenced the speech patterns of many other English dialects — the Cockney accent, for example, is just as non-rhotic but a lot less hoity-toity.

Meanwhile, English-speakers in the United States, for the most part, did not change with the times and kept the Rs in their speech.

Although pronunciation has changed on both sides of the Atlantic, some Americans began claiming that their particular regional dialect is actually the original English pronunciation, preserved for all time in a remote pocket of the country. Unfortunately, most of these claims don't really pan out. Indeed sholars now believe many have tis idiosyncratic speech as a result of isolation instead. One popular candidate is the Appalachian accent, which is distinguished by some archaic words such as "afeared," but otherwise doesn't seem to have much connection to the language of Shakespeare.

But on the topic of English speakers making a conscious choice to drop their Rs, there was an interesting blip in linguistic history around the time that radio became popular.

Like received pronunciation, the ‘Mid-Atlantic or Transatlantic Accent’ was deliberately invented to serve a purpose. You almost certainly don't know anybody who speaks it, but you've definitely heard it before. It's the voice of Cary Grant, Katherine Hepburn, and Pierce Brosnan (Bahnd, James Bahnd).

In the Transatlantic accent the Rs are dropped, the Ts are articulated, the vowels all softened to an erudite drawl. It's also an ambiguous combination of the British and American accents.

Taken together, all of the factors made it the perfect voice for broadcasting at the time. The unique pronunciation was easy to understand even on early audio equipment with poor bass frequencies and could appeal to listeners in multiple English-speaking countries. But it fell out of favor after World War II, and one of the first accents to be immortalised on audio recording was consigned to another piece of wartime nostalgia. Today it’s confined to British film stars who make their living in the US.

As an aside when I was a small child growing up in India my parents insisted we enunciated properly and spoke clearly that was the Queen’s English. And that is indeed how I speak to this day but I was helped by the surrounding Indian culture because they also spoke the Queen’s English. This was simply because they retained the English language textbooks from the days of the British Empire (even to this day). 

The rich irony wasn’t lost on me when I had a hard time going back to England because - outside of my boarding school environment and social circles - I just couldn’t always understand the many commoner regional accents in England that were now coming back in vogue. It’s everywhere now especially on the BBC. So in effect it is Indians (and Pakistanis) who are preserving what we have been burying for some decades now. I remember how shocked my well educated friends from India or Pakistan who came to study at Cambridge or Oxford to find the way they spoke naturally with the Queen’s English was now considered a quaint anachronism in this Age of championing regional diversity.

I think the erosion of the Queen’s English is a travesty as well as a tragedy. To speak ‘proper’ English is considered elitist and privileged. To me it’s just a sign of civilised discourse. Of course there is a place for regional accents and they should be preserved because it is part of the tapestry of our culture but I fear it has been at the expense of clarity of speech and the coherence of thought.

Thanks for your question.

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Hi for the smutty prompts can you do number 12 please. I love you're writing by the way 💕

Thank you, trio of anons!! I didn’t do a Halloween party as all my Halloween writing energy went into my 31 Days of Spideychelle. What these prompts did make me think of was Fight Club… so it’s a Fight Club AU!

Queens Club

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle)Rating: E/NSFW - warning: consensual violenceWord count: 3002

12. “Are you going to eye-fuck me all night or are you going to do something about it?”

43. “The things I want to do to you, baby.”

Warped is how it feels to live in a progressive city within a conservative country. MJ marches and rallies and volunteers her time with organizations whose goals she believes in. She looks around at these events and sees a youthful, diverse crowd hungry for equal pay, thirsty for renewable energy initiatives. She smiles, handing donated school supplies to underprivileged kids, donated canned goods to Queens’s homeless, donated fuck-yous from the disgustingly, ceaselessly rich to the people their hoarded wealth keeps poor. MJ wants to do more, so she does it, and things don’t change. Things. Don’t. Change.

She wants to pick a fight.

It’s comin’ on winter―an even bleaker time than the manic-depressive Christmas Joni Mitchell alluded to―and the impact of the latest article MJ’s submitted to an online zine that always takes her pieces feels like it’ll last about as long as the first ashy snowfall. Where’s the passion, she wanted them to ask. Maybe they could grab her by her shoulders and shake until her neck snaps while they’re at it. Disillusionment wasn’t supposed to come this soon for the kid who wore Jeanne d’Arc Ts in high school. The ‘Girl Most Likely’ of teen revolution.

The city’s greyer this year, she’d swear to it. Wishy-washy shadows and sidewalks for sleepwalkers. Getting from work to home? Nightmarish, but in, like, a boring way. The tiny, chilly apartment MJ shares with some woman who seems to keep opposite hours isn’t enough to revive her. At least the drama of scratching ‘DO NOT RESUSCITATE’ into her bedroom door is something to contemplate on the walk. Tomato soup for dinner, just to see the colour orange.

Not everyone she knows falls into the two categories of ‘sparky do-gooder’ and ‘veritable stranger’ like she’d thought. Someone is interesting. Someone has felt her clenched jaw and understood her cravings. MJ flips over the card she found shoved beneath the apartment’s front door, but the back is blank. She peruses the front again, eyes down while she lifts her dinner and gulps the last of the soup directly from the bowl. It sloshes over her upper lip, so she licks it off, feeling… Feeling. That’s enough.

The card says, ‘Fight Club.’ It provides a date and time, a familiar street address.

She’s neutral about slipping inside Midtown Tech after midnight. Whoever did the breaking in left the rear custodial door open―the one that exits into a closet-room of buckets and rolls of rough brown paper towel. There’s no sign, not that MJ had been expecting one. It isn’t parent teacher night or the heavily-postered orientation day she attended when she started college. The lights aren’t on in the hall and when she sniffs hard (adjusting to the dry air), the sound is somehow too close. She has to get out of her own body.

What she’d pictured after the anonymous invite was a gathering in someplace a little grittier than the gym. Newly refloored, by the looks of it. She could rave about the skewed divide of school funds that favours athletics, the physical over the mental, even in a specialized tech school, but she isn’t here to champion the arts.

The things MJ might need tonight could be anything; she’s filled a decrepit duffle with a water bottle, towel, and two-thirds-empty box of band-aids. It sags pathetically and she chucks it against the wall to join the dozen people―mostly men―clumped together near the fold-away bleachers.

“’Sup.” She nods to the closest person.

How long have they been doing this? Is she the only new recruit tonight? When did it begin? Why use the gym at Midtown Tech? Who found her and how? The only thing she doesn’t wonder is what the point is. He doesn’t answer any of the questions in MJ’s head and normally she doesn’t like that―curiouser and skepticaler by nature―but the conviction in his powerful-looking shoulders and grounded posture is something she’s never seen before. The phrase is bullshit, except the air does change when he moves through the circle they’ve become without her noticing. Suddenly, MJ cares about presenting herself like she’s supposed to be here.

There are rules, blah, blah, blah, and his name is Spider-Man.

The spectacle engages her adrenaline; she has to remind herself that neither of the men swinging furious amateur punches is going to come for her. It’s the first match of the night and watching is part of what Figh―is what this is about. The noise of a nose breaking is something MJ knows now. The smear of freshly-escaped blood across both men’s knuckles is surprisingly orange. Briefly, remembering her soup, she feels a nauseated surge in her stomach.

This “Spider-Man” dude is physical. He hasn’t fought yet, but he pushes the fighters, grabs their arms and shoves them together, slaps them on the back and shrieks praise in their ears. He yanks his shirt off and when the fighters collide with him, they leave streaks from superficial wounds on his chest. Never his back, because he’s always facing them. His eyes are passionate. It’s a lot, when they land on MJ.

Two more fights and he looks at her every time he turns his head. He still hasn’t fought, but he’s jostled the crowd and the fighters enough to put a shine on his skin. When he pushes his curly brown hair off his forehead, it clings for a moment before flopping back exactly where it was. She smells him when he brushes by in front of her.

The fighters are not ‘gladiators’ because they fight for themselves, not for the approval of any authority. MJ can’t see how they can ignore the clear authority of the Club’s founder. She doesn’t bring it up.

Number four’s starting up and the guy beside her has an eye swelling shut when the shock of the evening finally numbs in her mind and she begins to get angry. All those tiny godfuckingdamn backpacks for kids who are statistically less likely to reach post-secondary because of their socioeconomic backgrounds. MJ could swear she’s handed out a thousand. And the politicians? And the rich? And the rich? Spider-Man slides by at her back, knocking into her and she whips her head around to stare while he stares right on back, moving away around the ring of Last Resorters.

Across from her―a trio beating the shit out of each other in between (it isn’t exactly the fish tank meet-cute of Romeo + Juliet)―Spider-Man stares, gaze so forceful it’s like he thinks he can yank her over there, make her step into danger like walking into traffic or off the edge of a cliff. He grins.

She shoulders through the others, circling. The action is deliberate and no one gets pissed, no one scoffs or swears or flips her off. The last person standing there between her and her objective MJ bodily propels into the fight. And she’s looking a little lower than level to lock eyes with Spider-Man. He crosses his arms, she grinds her teeth.

“Are you going to eye-fuck me all night,” MJ demands, “or are you going to do something about it?”

When he starts to laugh, voices roaring up around them after a wretched pop that could’ve been a shoulder, a finger, or a cheekbone (she’s still learning the chords for the music of injury), she slaps him hard across the face. He does react, head swinging sideways on her follow-through, but he smiles at her again.

“Never the flat of the hand,” Spider-Man instructs, leaning towards her. “But we’ll train you out of that. See, what you want… what you want is a nice closed fist.”

He makes one around her ponytail, arm shooting out before she has a chance to stop him―if she had any idea how to do that―and drags her by it, sideways into the combat space.

“MOVE YOUR ASSES,” he orders, kicking a guy in the knee who then has to limp to the observers. “You picked the match,” he says to her, winding MJ’s hair around his fist to heighten the tug on her scalp, “so fight me.”

Abruptly, he frees her hair and she hurls her shoulder into his chest.

“You fucking started it, bitch.”

MJ never says that word, not as an endearment for friends (like she has a lot of those) or to reclaim control of a term used to harass women. Holding it in her mouth has always made her sick. Guess she just figuratively barfed on Spider-Man.

He staggers, then pushes her back. MJ’s feet are completely wrong and she falls on her ass.

“Up,” he says, raising his fists in front of his chin, arms flexing.

Her sneaker squeaks―she hopes it leaves a scuff―and somebody’s damp palm is pressing between her shoulder blades to steady her to her feet.

He doesn’t direct her with his words anymore after that, although MJ falls again and again. Looks like she’ll be finding out tomorrow if you can bruise your ass. Instead, he’ll tap her shoulder to make her lower it, grip her elbow to tuck it closer to her ribs. She knows this muscular guy isn’t hitting her full-strength, but it doesn’t offend her. A trip to the hospital isn’t in her plans for the near-future and he probably doesn’t want to whittle down his group. If anything, it’s likely spreading. Hence her invitation.

Blood has run from her lip to her chin by the time they unspokenly end their fight, and her stomach hurts from the multiple times Spider-Man caught MJ straight-on before she figured out she should turn to the side to present a smaller target. For now, he stands next to her and performs fifth-rate doctoring: he wipes the blood away with his thumb.

Watching other fights, MJ hadn’t understood how two people who’d just been attacking each other could then stand together like pals, comparing bruises as they bloomed. But her anger has curled up to rest and Spider-Man’s presence, his strength, makes her press her arm into his. She looks him up and down and though he studies the current fight, she’s sure he’s aware of her gaze. His stance is good considering she kneed him in the nuts.

“Did you get it all out?” he asks without turning to look at her.

MJ rolls her shoulders.

“For now. You?”

Spider-Man snorts a laugh.

“The things that I want to do to you, baby.”

It sort of comes across like a threat of violence, considering all they have just done to each other, but she happens to drop her gaze and see the front of his jeans is looking as swollen as that other poor bastard’s eye. The jeans are slouching on his hips as it is. MJ can see herself taking them off. She can see herself punching his cheek instead of slapping it this time. She can see herself doing several things now that she’s discovered her self is a self that can challenge a man to a fistfight and do damage. It feels suddenly female, drippingly female, to have stared down this shirtless madman with the anarchic, archaic hobby and introduced his groin to her knee. The partial nudity, the sweating, the concentrated eye contact―obviously, the boner. What’s not erotic about this?

“Come and fucking get it then,” she tells him, striding through the circle and nudging a winded woman aside, headed for the girls’ locker room off the gym.

Spider-Man isn’t following her. MJ is leading him.

She bangs the swinging door open and it doesn’t have time to shut before he slips inside behind her. Turning her head quickly, she wonders about kissing and decides against it. She doesn’t want this man in her face―just in her cunt.

His jeans seem to have dropped even lower; she can see the taut white band of his underwear and a couple inches of cotton below the elastic.

“I’m asking,” Spider-Man says with an earnest yet heated gaze. “I don’t out there, but here… I’m asking.”

Only he doesn’t ask anything, not a hint of uptick. Just comes up behind her―with MJ still watching over her shoulder―and scans down the length of her back with his eyes, keeping a foot of air between them. He won’t touch her without permission, is what he’s saying.

“It’s MJ, by the way,” she tells him, gripping his forearm and pulling it towards her to make his hand caress up her hip. “I’ll be coming to more of these things, so you might as well know.”

“Good.”

And they both go for the fastenings of their respective bottoms. She thinks she’ll beat him, only needing to yank the tie on her sweatpants, but Spider-Man’s a quick draw on the button and zipper of his jeans. It can’t be more than a second before they’re staggering to a wall of lockers, with her shoving her underwear down and him reaching into his and stroking his dick gratuitously before jerking down the front of his boxers.

MJ glances back at how he’s taken himself in hand and begins to rub her clit, drawing wetness forward from where their fight a few minutes ago got her going. Her hips jump. Her other hand backhands congealing blood off her lip, then goes to the locker door; she jerks her head to encourage him. She doesn’t quit circling and massaging herself as Spider-Man adjusts her hips for angle. There’s the prod of his dick as he feels out his destination―like somebody ringing a doorbell. But this guy isn’t shy. When he enters her, it’s not rough, but it’s all the way. One stroke. MJ inhales fast.

She settles into him over the first half-dozen thrusts (the paint on the pale blue metal of the locker is chipping, MJ notices through hazy eyes), sticking her ass out for a shallower angle that brings his cock closer to her g-spot. Her breaths are huffed when he finds it and his hands land suddenly and heavily on her waist, sliding down to knead her hips. She works herself faster, dragging her clit side to side under slippery fingertips. Spider-Man must be able to see her arm moving or, if not that, then definitely feel her clutching at him from the inside. He picks up the pace and she can feel how wet she is, how wet they are together.

MJ moans and shivers, frantically manipulating her clit. It’s like her noise gives him another permission―to make sounds of his own. These are gravelly grunts. Not wasteful: one on each of the thrusts he slams into her g-spot. Her arm buckles at the elbow, which is the beginning of the end.

She closes her eyes and rocks her hips backward fiercely, receiving him, receiving him, receiving him. Filling herself up. She will be unbearably full. She will be a nation unto herself. She will be… hitting a pharmacy on the way home to buy Plan B. That’s fine because everything is tingling. Her thighs are quaking and it’s possible that his hands on her hips are what’s keeping distance between her and the speckled floor. She can hear the shuffle of his jeans (around his ankles) against her sweatpants (around hers). MJ pictures her fingers rubbing at light speed. Her teeth clench until a gasp forces them and her eyes open and she’s pounding her hips down onto Spider-Man’s. These are deep, brutal movements, but she and he are fighters.

He climaxes while she still is, so she finds out she can either have orgasms that last for ages or can get off twice if someone’s drilling into her g-spot like he should be living in her nightstand and running on batteries she had to buy separately. Whatever he’s triggered, it’s fantastic and MJ grinds through it for as long as the sensation lasts.

It’s a mess and a loss when he pulls out. In the move that surprises her more than everything else she’s seen tonight put together, MJ feels him touch his forehead between her shoulder blades. Doesn’t stay for more than a few seconds, but she feels weirdly consecrated. When he backs up to hoist his clothes into place, she gives her face a smack. Shit―immediate regret and a wince as the pain in her lip pulses. She gets herself redressed and strides to one of the stalls at the far end of the locker room.

Does she buzz by him because she’s embarrassed? Nope. She stands tall, it’s just that she can only continue to do so for a limited time, until everything he just shot inside her is coating her inner thighs. No thanks.

She pees, grabbing her stomach because those muscles don’t like her tensing to urinate after Spider-Man’s punches. As she’s folding toilet paper in her hand (it’s nicer than the stuff she has at her apartment and she adds that to Midtown’s offenses, beneath the gym floor), she hears quiet speech. It’s him, talking to himself nearby. Memory aid? Post-sex pep talk? MJ is no man’s ego-stroker, but if this guy, who comes across as otherwise supremely confident, needs a little reassurance about his prowess, she can honestly praise him on the experience of tonight’s fuck.

Preparing to be complimentary but not effusive, MJ flushes and begins to swing the stall door open when she spots Spider-Man with his hands braced on one of the sinks, leaning his face close to the mirror. The red mark on his cheek could’ve been a bruise if she knew how to throw a harder punch. He’s continuing to speak softly and she stares at the bunched muscles of his back, his tight upper arms. Would she do it again (with a condom)? Yes.

“Peter, be patient,” he’s coaching himself, loud enough for her to hear now. “There’s a plan. The Club will scale so fucking beautifully once everything’s ready.”

“So your real name’s Peter,” MJ’s about to confirm, when the man, eyes still locked on his reflection, says five more words.

“Ok, Spider-Man. I trust you.”

Fuck.

more smut prompts

[youthincare]

Every two weeks, a group of 50 or 60 men cram into a makeshift bingo hall in Vancouver's poorest neighbourhood, the Downtown Eastside.

They share a hot meal, play bingo, get free haircuts — then they get real about their health, talking about everything from prostate cancer to sexual abuse, in sessions led by doctors and nurses.

It's called DUDES Club, an acronym for Downtown Urban Knights Defending Equality and Solidarity.

"We have this phrase, 'Leave your armour at the door,'" said long-time club member Robert Chippeway, 54.

"You just leave all your toxic masculinity at the door, feel free and everyone's at the same level. And that's where the magic happens."

Chippeway was in rough shape when he first stumbled upon the group in 2010. After a decade of living in the Downtown Eastside, he was an alcoholic with a cocaine addiction, living with HIV and Stage 2 cirrhosis of the liver.

"My mental health was all over the place," he recalled. "I was powerless and I felt hopelessness."

But he was encouraged by the club's welcoming atmosphere, so he kept returning. He credits his fellow dudes for helping get him back on his feet again. "It's very important, crucial, to my recovery," he added.

The program is now fielding inquiries from community health providers worldwide who wonder if the key to improving men's mental health is as simple as good, old-fashioned male bonding.

Overcoming loneliness

The Vancouver Native Health Society started DUDES Club in 2010, after male patients at its HIV drop-in clinic repeatedly talked about being lonely.

"They all identified loneliness as their main mental health concern … it manifests in substance use, depression, anxiety, and PTSD," said Dr. Paul Gross, a family physician and co-founder of the men's health group.

"So, [we were] just trying to be a sanctuary, a safe space where men can come and connect."

In addition to the bi-weekly dinner and bingo, the men take outings to sports events and go camping.

But the backbone of the program remains discussions about health. Once a year, the dudes also gather for a wellness fair, where medical tests are offered.

Gross says the club's social aspects are essential to coaxing men to open up about health.

"There's an expectation, constructed over centuries, of what is expected of men. Stoicism and courage in the face of any suffering. And don't show emotion, don't show weakness. Don't ask for help if you absolutely don't need it," said Gross.

"That narrative has been responsible, we believe, for a lot of the trend over the past decades in terms of toxic masculinity, gender-based violence and harassment in the workplace."

Brotherhood of solidarity

About two-thirds of DUDES Club members identify as Indigenous.

Sandy Lambert, a member of Tallcree First Nation in Alberta and DUDES Club resident elder, says he's met many Indigenous men who avoid hospitals and medical clinics, even if they require urgent care.

"They just didn't feel any trust with the health-care system because of all the stigma and discrimination that happens. I thought, 'Well, maybe, as a human being, I can help my brothers out there.'"

Persuading men to talk is no "overnight fix," says Lambert, but he believes it helps to combine Western medical treatment with Indigenous healing traditions such as the medicine wheel.

"I know my people used to sit in the teepees, and the men and women would have their own talking circles. So, for generations and generations, we did that," said Lambert.

Research suggests that the DUDES Club model shows benefits. A three-year study by the University of British Columbia found that participants' mental, physical, emotional and spiritual health improves in the program's safe, non-judgmental environment.

"Part of what we try to do is to encourage men to move along the spectrum from curious to serious about their health and wellness," said Gross.

CROSS COUNTRY CHECKUP | What's preventing men from talking about their mental health?

'It's OK not to be OK': Mental health campaign puts the spotlight on men

Elders and cooks receive honoraria, but the group relies primarily on volunteers, including Gross, which allows the club to operate on a budget of approximately $25,000 a year.

The program's cost-effectiveness has led to the launch of satellite clubs in seven communities across B.C., including Kamloops, Smithers and Prince George.

'It reconnected me to my spiritual being'

Robert Chippeway still marvels at how the brotherhood helped him clean up his health, recalling a critical moment in his recovery that took place one evening at DUDES Club.

"I stood up there and said, 'Hey guys, this is really good for me. I'm actually one-year sober today.' The whole group applauded … I was super proud."

Chippeway has been sober for nearly four years, and he's managing his HIV with medication. He also began exploring his Ojibway heritage, which he'd long felt alienated from.

"I'm more involved in singing and making drums and going to sweats and stuff like that. It reconnected me to my spiritual being," he said.

Chippeway also reconnected with his family, eventually moving to Coquitlam to live with his brother, sister and father.

He was recently named a DUDES Club Champion, which means he helps organize dinners and plan outings for the men. Though he no longer calls the Downtown Eastside home, Chippeway still makes time for the dudes.

"Just the bonding, being in a room full of men with men, the messages from the doctor … it's just amazing," he said.

[talltalesandbedtimestories]

Temporary Ideal (Part 1)

The Beach FanFic (Leonardo DiCaprio) - Written decades ago. (uff!) Can find in entirety on Wattpad. May add additional parts if it ever gets some likes/reblogs.

~~~~~

The shade from the palm made the dampness of the air around me more palpable.  I could feel the condensation on my arms, face and lips.  I shivered in the early dawn, waiting for him.  Waiting and thinking.  This spot, near Bugs’ bridge, was the unofficial entrance to the village. It was where I had laid eyes on him for the first time.  I remembered it clearly, like it was yesterday.  Recalling that moment, surrounded by the soft rays of a new day, it was hard to believe it had been six months since the “Three Musketeers” had backpacked into our community.

~~~~~

It happened right after Vera had thrown me the last of the bed sheets.  I had taken the worn nub of the last remains of Unhygenix’s homemade soap, and rubbed it lazily against the sheet draped over the granite slab.  I hated laundry duty.  Even though Vera moaned and groaned when we had the garden shift, I would gladly trade in my pruned fingers for dirt strewn ones.  There was the quiet that was only disrupted by the buzz of an insect or the occasional tears of dead leaves. The hope experienced planting seeds for the new crop. Picking the ripe fruit and sneaking a taste of one, delicious pear before the rest of the community.  My innate green thumb surprised me.  I wouldn’t have looked twice at a cornfield or row of tomato plants in my “other” life. Here, though, things were different.

“Oh… my… God!”  Vera’s faux valley girl inflection had taken over for a moment.  Alarmed, I froze, staring down at the water flowing past my bare thighs.  The last time Vera had voiced that exclamation while doing the wash had been when she had a spotted eel wrapped around her calf.  We never were sure if the eel was very friendly, very horny or very tired of intruders in that particular spot of the lagoon.  She had grabbed that sucker and smashed it against a rock like a bullwhip.  Poor thing never knew what hit him, or her, or it.  I made a mental note never to sneak up on Vera after that.

“What?”  My focus shifted to Vera’s line of sight, which hadn’t been the water.  My mouth opened slightly, feeling the dryness that had suddenly appeared.  I’m sure everyone in the community had the same feeling at that moment.  There they were, walking over the bridge, entering our territory.  Keaty led the way.  His tour of duty by the waterfall had turned out to be the most eventful one in two years.

“Three.”  Vera waded toward the bridge.  My mind had quickly processed the total.  My attention was all on the person following six steps behind Keaty.  I could tell immediately that he was American.  I’m not sure what gave him away first, but the quick nod of recognition he gave Vera solidified it.

American.  Even though I felt fear and uncertainty at their presence, I still smiled.  There was another one of us.  Four now.  And there was another reason I was smiling.  That flight of butterflies that had remained dormant in my stomach for what now seemed like an eternity, was performing aerials I couldn’t remember ever experiencing.  It may have just boiled down to the fact that there was new meat.  Available meat.  It was obvious, the solitary way he strode ahead of the other man and woman, that he was alone.

He was tan, lean and long.  Everything about him screamed California boy, kissed by the sun from his golden-brown strands to the shine of his skin.  He tightly gripped the end of what looked like a trash bag over his right shoulder, eyes darting this way and that, taking in the entirety of the environment.  He passed over me as quickly as he had everyone else.  I was too far away to make out the color of his eyes, but his stare was intense enough for me to feel he meant business.  They hadn’t just stumbled across our paradise.  This had been a quest.  And I was pretty sure he was the one who had been in charge for most of it.

Vera looked over to me after they had passed.  “Let’s hurry this shit up and get our asses back to the longhouse.  I don’t want to miss Sal’s face when she sees this.”  I nodded in agreement, and then shook my head at the thought of Sal’s expression. I hoped I would be able to get some prime seating.

~~~~~ 

We slipped in after the impromptu “family meeting” had already taken place.

Sophie stood in the darkened corner and motioned quickly to both of us as soon as we came in.  We huddled together for catch up.

“They have a map.”  Sophie nodded her head toward the middle of the longhouse, where the majority now congregated.  Sal was in full mother-hen mode.  I spotted the paper in her hand.

“To the beach?”  Vera asked and Sophie nodded.  My eyes canvassed the area.  I saw the back of blonde boy.  “Who are they?”  Vera questioned again.

“The couple is French.”  I looked over at Sophie in time to see a slight smile.  It would be an addition to the already large French line.  “Etienne and Francoise.  The other one is Richard.  An American.”

Richard.  I let the name dance in my head a few times, unable to hide the vindication that my guess to his nationality had been correct.  I didn’t need to hear any more from Sophie.  I walked around the circle, just outside the radar of being noticed.  Blending into the background had always been my best skill and too much was going on for anyone to pay attention to me anyway.  They were all fixated on the visitors.  I could spot rage on some faces, fear on others.  But Sal would not let these new arrivals leave.  I had known her long enough to realize that fact.

I sat on my bunk thankful Richard was on the exact opposite end.  My legs crossed.  I could hear the buzz of conversation around me.  All of my senses besides sight had dulled, been drowned out, by the activity occupying me.  Taking in every aspect of this man was now top priority.  Boyishness graced his face, but the dominance of the man emerging was putting up a fierce battle with that appearance.  In his 20s definitely, but as to which end of the scale he tipped closer to was still up in the air.  The beauty and symmetry of his face elicited one word into my mind.  Perfect.  The shadows of late afternoon, however, didn’t allow a peek at his eye color.  The somber, stuffy atmosphere of the hut matched the mood of its inhabitants.

My hearing tuned in at the sound of his voice, answering a question from Sal.  I let the pitch and tone of his words flow inside.  Even his words felt right to my ears.  “It was on my hotel door one morning.  I’d had this weird conversation with a guy staying next door to me the night before.  He kept talking about this beach.  So when I found the map, I figured it was from him.  The guy who drew it…”

“Daffy.”  Sal finished his sentence for him.  The name jarred memories and haunting images of the rift that formed right before Daffy had left the island.  The friction between Daffy, Sal and Bugs had become unbearable.  I wanted to ask about Daffy, but the question only screamed inside my mind.  There would be no disruptions while class was in session, at least not from the well-behaved students.

“Yeah, he’s dead.”  My mouth dropped open, hearing that cold, factual sentence from Richard.  That sentence did not come from one who had spent countless nights listening to Daffy’s stories around the fire.  Not one who had ventured back with him to the mainland at least a dozen times for rice runs.  And not one who had seen the love for something pure turn into an obsession to protect it.  I tried to let the realization of Daffy’s death sink in, but I knew it would take forever to finalize it.  I saw the whispers and stunned expressions take over the group.

Someone, I think Dale, exclaimed, “No way!”

Richard continued.  “Yeah, he cut his wrists open in a hotel room on the Ko Sahn Road.”

Gregorio stared in horror at Richard.  “You have seen this?”

“Well, I came afterwards.”  There was no easy way to break this kind of news to a family.  It was like a police officer knocking at a son’s door in the middle of the night to tell him his parents had been killed in a car accident.  Empathy is a hard feeling to fake.  You just don’t know until you have been there.  I guessed Richard had yet to experience a close death. 

“Well, that’s sad news.  He was one of the founders of our community.”  I spotted Vera, still in the corner with Sophie, listening to Sal.  I hoped she had sense enough to hold her tongue.

“Oh.”  Richard nodded his head slightly.

“But he became depressed.”  There had been a clearing of the throat, somewhere from the crowd, after Sal’s addition.  My stomach tensed up.  It was amazing how fast people forgot all the good.  Most of the bad feelings toward Daffy were present because of Sal’s talks and speeches since he had left.  How he had become a liability, an acceptable loss for the protection of our community.   

I saw Richard survey the reaction quickly.  He had felt the bad blood and my eyes narrowed as I watched him try and feed off of it.  “The police didn’t know what to do with the body so I guess they’re going to like incinerate him or something.”  His smile and sudden laugh felt forced, out of place.  He immediately realized his mistake, turning his head to the side to avoid the eyes of the community.  He scratched the back of his head.

Sal took no note of it.  I knew she was concerned with only one thing.  “Do you think he gave a map to anybody else?”

Richard stared at her for a second, shaking his head in doubt.  “Ah, no… I don’t think so.”  I noticed relief on his face, thankful that the attention had been shifted from his foot-in-mouth display.

She looked at Etienne, Francoise and Richard, one by one.  “And you, have you shown this map to anybody?”

They answered one after the other.  “No.”

“Good.”  She handed the open map to Richard.  I felt another example coming on.  She grabbed Bugs’ lighter and smiled, “We value our secrecy.”  She lighted the map at the bottom as Richard held it.  I heard the clapping begin.  With that, our new members had been baptized.

~~~~~  

After dinner, the nightly ritual of bedtime began for all in the longhouse. The newly arrived were given their sleep locations. I quietly prayed to whatever Thai god had whispered in Sal’s ear and placed him an easy glance across the floor from me. It was a beautiful change of scenery.

Keaty was filling him in on how things ran daily in the hut when Sonja stood up. I sighed. It was a language class tonight. She politely requested everyone’s attention and began her translation prompt.

“Listen up, everybody.” Her blonde bob shook a bit as she scanned the room. Linguistic learning was mainly someone reciting a line in English – which everyone on the island spoke – and expecting a translation in the teacher’s native tongue. In Sonja’s case, we’d be regurgitating the phrase in Croation. I always cursed Sal when it was time for this, as it had been her bright idea to begin this ages ago.  I enjoyed poetry night so much more. I didn’t have to worry about getting called on to speak in front of the class.

“OK. Tomorrow I will travel for many miles on a bicycle.” She nodded her head towards the right of the hut. “Um, Vicki.”

Sitting just off to Richard’s side, Vick stopped in mid hit. I was curious if she had spoken to Richard much upon his arrival. She was a California girl. If my assumptions about where he was from were right, they might have a lot to talk about. She took just a second to contain her smoke before beginning. “Uh, sutra cu potovati mnogo milja bicicklom.”

I watched Richard listen intently before looking to Sonja to see how well Vicki had done. “Great, very good.” Sonja went on to her next victim. Though I should have been paying attention in case I was called, I was spending more time studying Richard.

After Helene, it was Keaty’s turn. In typical fashion, he stood up proudly. “All right. It’s far too easy, though.” With little effort, the words flowed freely out of his mouth. Cockily, he continued the rant. From what I could tell, his bicycle ride was going to be in the park after he ate a big breakfast. I shook my head, laughing at his pompous behavior as the rest of the group jeered. They eventually drowned him out. “There’s more, you know.” Before he sat down he took over Sonja’s duty and called out the next name. “Richard!”

There was an immediate hush. The newbie looked around and cleared his throat. To all listening, he choked out the words in a broken fashion; but, still surprisingly correct. Keaty yelled out in admiration, “Richard, you’re represented, man!” As was customary, the rest of the community applauded in sign language with their hands shaking while raised above their heads. I joined in on the compliment.

Richard grinned from ear to ear as he looked around the room. I felt that hiccup in my chest again as his eyes fell on me for a brief second. His eyes sparkled in the lantern lights. It was time to curse myself for being such a sucker for blue eyes.

~~~~~  

Six months later, he was still only someone I studied from afar.  There was the occasional friendly or duty-related chit-chat.  But he had assimilated quickly, making a name for himself in the process.  He still had a while to go, still only the second-string quarterback of the island.  I, on the other hand, was hardly in the running for head cheerleader or homecoming queen. 

He had become chummy with Keaty.  I had gotten most of my information on Richard through him.  The one thing I didn’t need explained to me was the crush he had on Francoise, the French girl that had accompanied him on the journey.  I wondered if Etienne’s ignorance to his friend’s feelings about his girlfriend was simply a show.  The looks Richard gave Francoise were just a bit too long.  I hoped my crush was not as obvious to everyone else.

“Beth!”  Keaty strode up beside me on the way back from a day of tilling in the garden.

“What’s up?”

“Have a question for you, love.”  I always grinned when he said that.

“Shoot.”

Always the gentleman, he took my shovel, and leaned it against his right shoulder as we walked.

“Triple A’s.  In short supply.  Got any I can borrow?”

“God, Keaty, what have you been doing with them lately?”

“Not me only, Richard’s been hogging my GameBoy as well.  We’re thinking of starting our own group.  VGAA.”  I stared at him curiously.  He smiled explaining, “Video Game Addicts Anonymous.” 

I laughed, shaking my head.  “Well, I don’t know if I should be a facilitator then, supplying you with the means to continue this addiction.”

“Ah, but the first step on the road to recovery is admission, which I’ve already done.  Can’t stop cold turkey, right?”

“I’ll have some for you after dinner.”

“Thanks, Beth.  You are a life saver, have I told you that?”

I nodded.

“Well, you are.  I’m not the only one that knows it, love.”

“Enough sucking up, I already said I would give them to you.”

“Right.  How about trying a game of cricket with me tomorrow then?”

“That’s OK, I prefer watching.”

“I’ve noticed.”  I slapped his arm after that comment.

“Don’t hit me over the truth.”  We both laughed, approaching the clearing to the beach.  I didn’t spot Richard until Keaty had called over to him.  “Richard, my man, we are back in business!”

Richard turned upon hearing his name.  He sat on the beach with Christo and his fishing spear in hand.  He nodded, smiling.  “What Keaty!?”

“Got our dealer right here!”  He placed his free hand over my shoulder.  “Kong competition tonight!” 

I felt myself blush with his attention on me. “Cool!  Thanks Beth!” He waved over to the both of us.

I nodded and freed myself from Keaty’s grasp and grabbed the shovel back. “Gotta wash up, Keaty.”

~~~~~

I’d settled down in my bunk after a satisfying meal of rice and catfish, accompanied by an unexpected salad.  I thought about the crop we would be working on the next day and couldn’t wait for the tomatoes to ripen.  They’d be a great addition to Unhygenix’s menu. 

I searched in my satchel for the book of poetry by Thoreau.

“Beth?”

My eyes looked up to find Richard towering above me.

“Yeah?”  I smiled despite myself.

He bent at the knees, lowering himself to my eye level.  “Don’t mean to be a pain, but Keaty and I,” I stared into his blue eyes a bit longer than I should have.

“Oh!”  I mentally slapped my forehead.  “The batteries.”  He smiled, nodding.  “Sorry, I forgot all about it.”

“No problem, just didn’t know how much longer Keaty and I could last before we experience withdrawal symptoms.”  He chuckled, leaning his forearms against his knees.

I laughed, reaching over to my cigar box, my little treasure chest.  “What are some of the symptoms?” 

I turned back to see him hunched over, eyes wide, with his thumbs rapidly pressing invisible buttons.  “Nothing too severe.”  He started twitching his head.  He continued the act.  “Jump…  Right… Punch”.  I waved four batteries in front of his face, grinning.  He relaxed immediately, opening a palm for the alkaline gems to drop inside of.  “Whew, thanks.”  He winked, and then smiled, as his hand clutched them tightly.  “Could have gotten ugly.”

“Glad I could fix you up.”

“I owe you.”

I smiled, thinking of a few ways he could pay me back.  “Don’t worry about it.”

“Night.”

“Good Night, Richard.”

I watched him stand up and turn, ready to make his way over to Keaty’s corner.  I was about to resume the search for my book when I saw him turn back out of the corner of my eye.  “Beth?”

“Uh-huh?”

“I was wondering… well,” he knelt down once again, “if you could help me with something?”

I nodded.

He looked around, I guessed to make sure no one was paying close attention.  I noticed him lingering his gaze in Sal’s direction before continuing, slightly above a whisper this time.  “It’s about Daffy.” 

It had been months since I had heard anyone utter his name.  “Daffy?”

He nodded.  “It’s just that… ever since we came here, I’ve had a lot of questions about him.  I mean he’s the reason we’re here.  But, no one talks about him.  I’ve asked Sal once, and Keaty a few times, but they just clam up or change the subject.  The only thing I got out of Keaty was that you were close to him.”

“I guess you could say that.”

“Could you tell me something about him then?  Tomorrow maybe?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll meet up with you after fishing duty.”

“OK.”  I smiled.

“Thanks.”

“Good night.  Again.”  He smiled, walked off.  I lay back, placing my hand under my pillow.  That’s where Thoreau turned out to be hiding.  I pulled the worn book out, inspecting it.  Thoughts of curling up with a few of his verses were now long gone.  I had someone else to dream about.

[jfpctter]

-- JAMES F. POTTER

BASICS

NAME: james fleamont potter

AGE: twenty-seven

PRONOUNS: he/him

OCCUPATION: officially, he works at potter oil company, but since it’s his dad’s company, he barely does any actual work. unofficially, james is the founder of the marauders & bootlegger.

AFFILIATION: marauders

PERSONALITY: decisive, optimistic, ambitious, selfish, greedy, stubborn, bossy

SEXUALITY/ORIENTATION: bi/pansexual 

PARENTS: fleamont and euphemia potter

SIBLINGS: none

(brief and unorganized) HISTORY tw. infidelity, alcohol.

born an only child to fleamont potter, a ridiculously wealthy oil company owner and euphemia potter. truth is, neither of the potters really wanted a child but maintaining the image of a ‘happy family’ was beneficial for the business and their reputation as a whole. 

james always wanted a sibling but his parents obviously were not very interested in raising kids so he had a horse instead when he was younger that they kept on their manor. he was raised mostly by his nanny, carmella, and he probably has a stronger bond to her than he does to either of his parents. 

to be honest his family is not warm at all and his father cheats on his mom and there’s a lot of family issues but the potters are obsessed with seeming like the Perfect Family. and james also does worry about that and he never talks about his family problems or even his own problems to his friends because he doesn’t want to put a dent to their reputation, either.

still, he grew up very comfortably -- he had nearly everything money could buy. he got so used to everyone pandering to his needs and people only getting close to him for money that he grew disenchanted with the lifestyle fairly quickly. when he was of age, he went off to college to study business and came back, and he spent a few years post-college wasting money and wasting time until he decided he needed to make something more of his life. 

so when prohibition rolled around, james heard stories here and there of speakeasies popping up and alcohol being moved around, but it wasn’t until he met sirius that he thought he should actually get in on that action. he and sirius met at a dinner party and they connected - mostly because james thought he saw a little bit of himself in sirius. and eventually he offered sirius a way out of the black family & they formed the marauders with peter and remus. 

now, he’s getting greedy. at first, all of this was to help remus and he loves the marauders with all his heart, but there’s something more to bootlegging for him than just getting money. money is something he already has, but this sense of power and control and excitement is what’s been missing all his life and it’s damn near addictive. they’re doing okay moving a little bit of alcohol and making deals with evelyn, but he knows they can do something much bigger and the opportunity is there, right around the corner -- why wouldn’t he take it? 

WANTED CONNECTIONS

no. 1: someone who runs in the same Rich Elite Kids circle as he does -- they can be on friendly terms or they can be mortal enemies, but in general, james probably thinks you’re just another boring rich kid unless you’re doing something exciting like he is. ( open )

no. 2: someone james has fucked over in the past because he seems like the type to do that? maybe it was something to do with bootlegging, maybe it was something before that when he was younger. in either case, this person hates james’ guts and he honestly has never apologized for what he did. ( open ) 

no. 3: someone the potters want to marry james off to??? like he’s 27 now and in their mind he should start thinking about marrying a nice girl and starting a family of his own soon. he has no interest in this but he’ll probably still meet with her like once a week just to have tea and hopefully be polite. ( open )

no. 4: the one person that isn’t part of the marauders that james is actually really, really soft for. around this person, he doesn’t seem to be his usual loud, obnoxious self and he would give his limbs up for this person for whatever reason. they could be childhood friends, or maybe someone james just feels really comfortable around. ( open )

[dual-of-the-sexes]

EXCLUSIVE BACCHANALS

 Glenda Prey said:

Our society idolises the rich and the famous, but if we knew what really goes on behind closed doors we wouldn’t be so proud of them. Nowadays, high-end society enjoys sex parties. Silicon Valley CEOs, famous actors, sports stars etc. Apparently they are willing to pay yearly fees of €75,000 euros to be part of Exclusive Bacchanals. These high-end sex parties are organized in secrecy. The participants receive personal emails with instructions to be part of those abominating reunions. Women don’t have to pay to participate. They have to provide naked pictures and sworn secrecy. The women, in exchange, are able to meet the rich and powerful men that might change their lives for the better. Unfortunately, that is not always the case. So, even in this case women are humiliated and used by rich and powerful men.

The sex, drugs and rock and roll parties start as any high-end elegant dinner. They are all very well dressed. Great food and the best wines are served. The evening unfolds in a beautiful environment. Usually, they are received in luxurious villas rented out for the occasion. After midnight, when everybody is drunk and heavily high on drugs, the scenario changes completely. At that point, the orgies begin.

After the revolutionary counterpart Emma Sayle endured a negative experience with a boyfriend, she decided to create “Killing Kittens”; a company based in London which nowadays counts 70,000 members throughout the UK. The purpose of “Killing Kittens” was to empower women sexually. Women are dealing the cards during the events. The members attend the parties masked. They are put through a severe scrutiny and they all have to sign a non-disclosure agreement before signing the membership. Emma invented the name “Killing Kittens” from the expression contained in her book, “every time you masturbate God kills a kitten.”

What happened to decency?

It is obvious to me that women instead of refining the pigs have decided to turn into pigs themselves. They call it “empowering women”. That is not revenge or a way to get even. Men like to be used for sex and they love casual fucking. The all point is that we don’t like it or at least most of us don’t. We don’t get to be equal doing the same shitty things men do.

Are feelings out of date?

People practice sex unconsciously. No feelings are involved. Personally, I find it sad! They think of sex as if it was just a game. I am not saying that we shouldn’t be playful when we have sex with our partner but exposing our naked bodies to crowds while practising sex, or doing it with more than one partner, is really disenchanting.

Is love out of fashion?

Nowadays, we are demanded kisses and sex on the first date. If we refuse to comply, men get offended and at times even aggressive towards us. We can kiss on a first date, if we feel like it. It shouldn’t be forced up on us. No more sense of belonging, no more romanticism. In some circles monogamists are considered antiquated. We are punished for having feelings. As if monogamists where abnormal people or just brainwashed by society. I am a monogamist not because I was thought or imposed to be one but because I feel that way. It’s my natural way of being.  I am not willing to accept pressure from a bunch of dirty scumbags. Why do I have to be considered archaic because I am sexually attracted to one person at a time?

These people are not capable of making love to themselves. To fill up the void of self-love they practice feeling less sex and pay a lot of money for it. I would rather “Kill kittens” than mix myself with that rich-trashy crowd.  

 https://www.standard.co.uk/lifestyle/london-life/the-orgyniser-how-killing-kittens-founder-emma-sayle-turned-an-ibiza-shagfest-into-a-sex-party-9498650.html

  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bacchanalia

 https://www.vanityfair.com/news/2018/01/brotopia-silicon-valley-secretive-orgiastic-inner-sanctum

 Exclusive Sex Clubs and High-End Brothels: A Civilised Form of Debasement

 Markus Hunter said:

Many of us think of sex clubs and brothels as situations which only occur in far-off countries or the less developed nations of the world.  On the contrary, these establishments can be found in major cities.  Often catering to the “elite” and upper-class members of society, much more occurs here than initially meets the eye.  The word slavery often comes to mind due to the fact that women are debased to what can only be called a form of 21st century slavery due to the fact that in many cases, they represent nothing more than a sexual distraction for the evening.  Whether as the result of drugs, alcohol or a combination of both, the fact of the matter is that the term “decent” certainly has no place within such an environment.  However, there are some other dark secrets which might come as a bit of a surprise.

 All About Economics and a Strange Form of “Female Privilege”

 Some of the most private and exclusive sex parties may cost more than $75,000 dollars to attend; a hefty price tag for what can only be called a one-night stand.  It is therefore no surprise that these events are often populated by politicians, judges and similar “pillars” of the community.  However, these fees ONLY apply to males.  In the majority of cases, women do not have to pay a thing after wilfully undergoing a thorough screening process.  In other words, no one is forcing the females into such positions. Should they attend, they have done so of their own accord (and at their own risk).

 What About Respect?

 We need to keep in mind that attendees of high-end orgies and sex parties are often forced to adopt rather strict rules.  Any and all activities must occur with mutual consent. This is a far cry from the Hellfire Club that was pervasive in England during the 18th and 19th centuries.  As all members are also vetted in terms of their criminal background and similar history, it can even be argued that such orgies are safer than the average strip club or even your typical Saturday night at the local pub.  While the term “respect” seems strange to use here, the fact of the matter is that all of the individuals involved are well aware of what they are getting into.  In other words, a female who claims she was “treated like an object” or “felt uncomfortable” should have left those feelings at the entrance.

 A Justification for Satisfying Carnal Instincts

 We live in a politically correct society which often shuns such behaviours.  The notion of swinger clubs and similar events will cause many to blush in shame. However, we need to keep in mind that the notion of “anything goes” is hardly the case in regards to the majority of high-end orgies.  For some attendees, the simple concept of being observed by others is a turn-on in and of itself.  Before we judge, let's remember that those who live in glass houses should not throw stones.

So, is a high-end sex orgy moral?  Ask the attendants what they think.  I sincerely doubt that a man who is willing to pay upwards of $75,000 dollars has any moral compunctions in regards to what he is about to experience.  Additionally, there are plenty of more depraved acts which take place in the average home that we will never hear about.  At least a high-end orgy represents a much more controlled environment. As for me, I would rather spend $75,000 dollars on something rewarding and beautiful.