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snowdice · 4 years ago

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Folds in Paper (Chapter 6: You Try to Cut Her Wires)[Folds in Time Universe]

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Janus/Patton, Remus & Roman, eventual Logan/Virgil (maybe more)

Characters:

Main: Janus, Patton, Remus

Appear: Remy, Emile, Virgil, Logan, Roman

Summary: Janus, a disillusioned senior agent working for the Time Preservation Initiative, struggles to find meaning in a world where time travel could change everything about your life’s history in less than a moment. When time distortions start popping up, threatening the timeline and the fabric of reality as he knows it, it becomes a race against the clock to fix the damage before everything unravels. And the problem with time travel… you never how long you have before the clock strikes 12 and your time is up.

With a partner who has more mysteries in his past than Janus had anticipated and an enigmatic free agent time traveler mucking about time always with a clever pun or a time appropriate pet name on his lips, Janus will need to figure out what went wrong with time, and more importantly, how to fix it.

Chapter Summary:

You try to cut her wires but you're way too late.

-from the song “Time Bomb” by Iration

Notes: Time travel AU, mystery, enemies to lovers, alcohol

This is a fic I’ve been writing on study breaks that you have probably all already seen at this point. I’ve slightly edited it for wording and grammar, but not for content from my previous posts. Feel free to send in asks to direct it because I’m not 100% sure where this is going and you can help decide if you feel so inclined! You can see the process I went through to build this at this link.

I also have a playlist on youtube (because Spotify didn’t have one of the songs I wanted).

AO3 Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

“Really, Khalid,” Janus said, storming into his boss’s office before even sitting down at his desk that morning. “A yellow?” It had been about a week since the 1920s incident, and his incident report had finally been cleared. Sure, it wasn’t a red or a black and he wasn’t facing any reprimand, but it should have been a green.

She looked up at him, clearly unconcerned. “There was an incident,” she said. “You handled it well, but there was one. Therefore, yellow.”

“It wasn’t a time period incident! It was a rouge time traveler.”

“Janus, you helped me make these rules,” she said impatiently.

“Which is why I know this is bullshit,” he snapped.

She rolled her eyes. “If it was anyone else, you would agree with me. While you didn’t go against protocol and had no time related incidents, the fact of the matter is, you were still distracted by this ‘rouge time traveler,’ didn’t complete your mission, and were arrested.”

“He was good,” Janus said. “You can’t fault me for that. He also could be dangerous and you’re busy handing out yellows instead of working to track him down.”

She raised an eyebrow. “We are working on tracking him down,” she said. “We have done an analysis on the mask and found fibers dating to the 2010s and some DNA. Though it isn’t exactly a high priority.”

“We have no idea who he is or what he’s planning to do. Why is that not a high priority?”

“At the moment?” she asked. “Because we have reports of a time bomb being activated.”

“What?” Janus asked straightening up. “When?”

“New Years Eve going into the year 3,000 in Brazil,” she said. “Which you’d know about if you’d bothered to check your integration port this morning before storming into my office.”

“It’s my mission?” Janus asked.

“The incident investigation is over and your active again despite the dreaded yellow,” she said, clearly making fun of him a bit. “So, yes, and it’s a high priority mission, so it is our mission. I’m leading it.”

“Who all is going?” he asked.

“Other than the two of us, Remus, Lena, and Fred,” she told him. “We leave in three hours, so, you might want to run off to Rhi before Fred gets to her and ties her up for an hour on details.”

Janus nodded and got to his feet. He turned back at the door. “I still don’t deserve the yellow,” he hissed.

She waved him off. “I’ll see you in a few hours, Picani.”

He ground his teeth a bit about the dismissal of his worries, but his resentment was slightly soothed by the fact that she’d assigned him to go on such a high priority mission and with only other senior agents.

He took the advice and grabbed Remus from the office, noting Lena hadn’t been able to wrangle Fred yet as she was still at her desk, and they both headed off to see Rhi.

A few hours later, they were all in decontamination together, decked out in truly god-awful costumes. The turn of the third millennia had been a wild event, and the best way to fit in was to look like you’d grabbed something from every century in recorded human history, dyed it in neon paint, and rolled around in a vat of glitter.

Remus had opted to stick his head in a vat of thick glow in the dark green paint that costuming had offered them. It was so caked on that Janus couldn’t even recognize him on sight, and it wasn’t even going to be slightly disruptive to their covertness. In fact, costuming had frowned when Janus had insisted he not get his hair dyed and instead wore a bowler hat. They had required him to have flowers made out of glitter on it.

There were five people waiting for them when they landed 6 hours before the turn of the millennia. Three were touchdown agents, including Remy, and two were on location tech support. Usually it would be overkill to have that many people there just for support even with five agents in the field, but today the TPI needed to be cautious because they were planning on instituting a time lock.

Time bombs were dangerous things that would ripple through time if not contained. They were nests of anywhere between 10 and 50 bombs that were set off by one core explosion. This core explosion would punch through space-time and spew the multitude of bombs across different places and times. Beyond just causing huge explosions where they landed, they would also pose a danger to any time travelers that accidently traveled through them and they could cause disruptions in the timelines around the source and where each one ended up. Once they went off in their source time, there was very little one could do to stop the damage. Thus, the time lock. The time lock would make sure that even if it did end up going off (killing everyone in its reach), the damage wouldn’t extend outside of the city and, more importantly, the year it was planted.

Janus had only been in two time locks before, and he was one of the most senior agents in the TPI, outranked only by the founder: Lia Khalid. Time locks were designed to keep all time linear in a certain fixed time and geographical area as well as prevent any time travel in and out. Once it was engaged, all forms of time travel would not work for the duration, bar the pin device. Khalid was already switching out her regular timepiece with the slightly bigger one that was designed to support the time lock.

There was a failsafe back at the TPI that could be engaged in an emergency, which was why tech support was here, but other than that, the only thing that could break the time lock was that timepiece, and said timepiece would break the moment the time lock ended, making it impossible to return to the inside of the timelock.

As soon as it was on Khalid’s wrist, she looked up at them all. “Our information says the time bomb was planted in the costume of one of the ‘Millennium Birds’ who are the organizers of the different events,” she said. Janus had seen a photo of the identical costumes in the mission details. They were all robe like garments with giant fans of feathers coming from the neck that coalesced in a peak a foot above their head to hold a fake bird egg. At least they’d be easy to find. “There are 25 of them throughout the city. We need to find each of them. So we don’t double count, you’ll need to subtly,” her eyes touched on Remus, “scan each one you find for the bomb and tag them with a tracker if it’s not on them. You can view the already tagged ones, as well as the rest of us on your timepiece even once the time lock is engaged. When you find the bomb, call it in.”

They all nodded, and Khalid looked over at one of the techies. She nodded at her and then the techie flipped a couple of switches. “Three, two, one,” the techie said. There was a slight shift in the air that most people would disregard, but Janus, as a seasoned time traveler, could feel the change even before his wrist buzzed. He glanced at his timepiece to see it had a big red ‘X’ across its display. He tapped it and was still able to bring up the map of the city with 10 green dots on it all clustered together in their current location.

After that, he tested the scanner on his timepiece that he would use to search for the bomb, just to make sure the time lock hadn’t messed anything up with his equipment. He glanced up to see everyone else was doing the same.

“Keep in contact,” Khalid said before everyone split up. Janus and Remus started by going North while Fredrick and Darlene were to go South. Khalid was a floater who would tag any Birds she saw but was mostly there for backup and orders.

Janus and Remus stepped into the chaos of New Years Eve before the turn of the third millennia. The streets were already swamped with people and it would only be getting worse the later it got.

“Where should we start?” Remus asked.

“Let’s go all the way North to the games area,” Janus said. “We can work our way back here.”

“Okay!” Remus said. “I wonder if they have those fun little genetically modified goldfish as prizes. I’ve always wanted to eat one and see if I end up getting whatever design was on the fish on my body.”

Janus gave him a disgusted look.

“What?! People eat fish all the time!”

Janus shook his head. “We’re not playing the games anyway. We have work to do. Important work.”

“Boo,” Remus replied. Janus chose to ignore him.

A few minutes later, he spotted one of the Millenia Birds letting people into the gaming area.

They walked over towards the entrance. Janus got in range first and moved to subtly scan the Millenia Bird, Remus doing the same the next moment. After a second, Janus’s timepiece buzzed and lit up red, meaning the bomb was within range. “Well, that was easy,” he said. “It was on the first one we found.”

“Uh…” Remus said. “Jan.” When Janus looked, he was holding up his wrist to show his green lit time piece.

“What?” Janus asked. He quickly moved to rescan the Millenia Bird, and his timepiece came up green as well. Which, meant the bomb was not in range, even though the Millenia Bird had not moved. “But…” He and Remus’s eyes met, and they quickly both started turning in a circle to look at the crowd around him. No one looked like they’d just stolen a time bomb off the Millennial Bird, but then Janus’s eyes caught on a man.

He blended in perfectly to his surroundings. He was wearing the disgusting garb of the times, a large light blue piece that bubbled near his hips, and he had most of his skin covered in rainbow neon paints. Yet, something about him, the curl of his hair or the way he moved, drew Janus’s eyes to him. He recognized the man immediately even in a completely different dressing style. Yet, what cinched it was the moment Janus’s eyes met his, and they seemed to sparkle slightly in the afternoon sun. The next moment, the person Janus knew as Pat, turned to disappear into the crowd.

Want to read more? Click below!

AO3 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9

#sanders sides #janus sanders #patton sanders #remus sanders #moceit #time travel #adriana writes #folds in paper #folds in time universe #bomb mentioned #logan sanders #virgil sanders #analogical #roman sanders #creativitwins

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hazelenergy · 4 years ago

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How I Digitally Paint like a Scenic Artist/Designer

Aka: how I did this and put my degree to good use.

LONG POST WARNING

Step 1: Research.

First off, get to your image search. If you are going to be using Google, you may want to type “-pinterest” in the search to eliminate the countless boards.

I had to figure out clothing that is vaguely late 1800s. I found a multitude of reference images that were fancier clothes- but I wanted to find images of clothing for kindred across all social classes. Photographs from the era and paintings are your friend. They will more accurately showcase what was worn.

After Fashion research comes location research. The 1890s in America is known for the rapid industrialization. Factories were getting bigger and work days were getting longer. But, I wanted the moonlight to be cascading into the place, illuminating the scene. This means I needed to find a structure that had skylights or let sunlight in. And the best images I found? Slaughterhouses. Fitting, huh?

The same rule for fashion still stands- if you can find photographs or paintings from the era- they’re better. There are tons of places still standing today from the 1800s. But today, they look WAY different. Ya know, Abandoned! So just be sure to take this into consideration if you search “abandoned slaughterhouses” or go trespassing like I did.

Lastly, pose research. Finding the poses for a fight scene can be tedious. So, I enlisted some help from a few fight choreographers and stunt men. You can record their fights and play them back at quarter or half speed. You can also get a mirror and flop on the floor a bunch. I did both. This lets you see the action/motion lines you are going to replicate in the drawing. Heres how we initially did fina’s pose:

And sometimes you have to go back and get a clean shot. I ended up using this pose for the axe.

Step 2: Set up and Background!

When you open a new file, set it to the dimensions and resolution you want. I was working at 600. Usually, I’m working at 300-350. You can always reduce resolution. Its hard to prevent fuzzy lines if you increase it later.

I cannot stress the following enough:

You work background to foreground. Big Shapes and areas to little shapes. Work your way forward. What this means is you need to fill in as much space as possible first. Then build your details. I prefer working as follows: Big Solid tones, Soft shadows, Dark Shadows, Highlights, then final blend. Once you finish this, put an overlay on top. This knocks everything back and helps create the illusion of depth. See this at work with the video below or here

Step 3: Figure Drawings + Composition

Utilize that research and images you collected to pose your characters. I create subfolders for each set of figures. Organization is important here. This will help keep you on the right layer and prevent the eternal digital artist struggle of “Fuck that was on the wrong layer!”

Even after you move on to lineart and shading, Keep the sketch layer as a reference. You may need to see what youre original notes/ figures looked like as you do the lineart and shade. Don’t be afraid to move them around and alter the composition rn. You want to be able to make changes. Make notes! Detail light sources!

I’m about to through out some art jargon:

You want to think about asymmetric balance. The easiest way to achieve this in an eye-pleasing manner is to use the Fibonacci spiral. Yeah. This boi:

Place your figures and actions in a similar sequence to the spiral and the viewer’s eye tends to naturally follow it. This is sometimes called the Golden Ratio in the art world.

Doesn’t need to be perfectly on the spiral. You can break it- but its an excellent tool to plan how things move in the piece.

Step 4: Lineart

Once you got things sketched- its time to do the lineart. I’m using clip studio paint’s standard brushes. Nothing fancy. I often switch between the G-pen and the For Effect Liner. Mapping and Turnip are for thicker lines.

Usually I set these pens to a specific thickness depending on where I’m drawing.

My background figures are lined at 0.05 thickness, the midground is .1 to .2, Fina is .3 and the foreground is .4. I set my stabilization high to help keep my lines smooth. Stabilization 100 means there’s a significant delay between where the pen is and the cursor. I like the stabilization to be at 20 for freehanding and at 50 ish for outlining. Dont become completely reliant on the stabilization though. Good and smooth lineart is drawn from the arm not the wrist. Your range of motion is severely limited if you only move your wrist. Practice moving from your elbow and you’ll be surprised how much smoother your lines get.

Once I finish lining the figures, I usually go around it with an outline. This does three things:

1. Solidifies the figure and cleans lineart for paint bucket tool. More on that in the next step.

2. Its a stylistic choice. Helps give it that comic book feel with a heavy outline.

3. Pushes figures forward or back in the composition. Thicker outline helps denote that a figure is farther forward than another. My background figures have no outline to push them away

Step 5: Digitally coloring

For each figure you are going to select outside the lineart.

Create a new layer under the lineart

Invert the selection. Paint bucket. You should now have a solid shape of the figure under the lineart. Do not deselect.

Create a new layer above the one color. Title it solid colors. Paint in thick, solid tones. I like to use the mapping pen and turnip pen to color in my solid tones: skin, clothing, hair, etc.

After that, deselect. Create a multiply layer if you can. If your program does not have a multiplier function, Pick a tone you want to use for shadows and lower the opacity (usually 30-40% I like to use lavenders or blue tones). It will not be as vibrant, but you can edit it in post. Select off of the solid colors layer. I like to start with skin tones. Use the airbrush tool to create soft shadows. You don’t want to create harsh lines on this layer.

Then repeat this process with harsh lines.

Then knock it all back with an overlay. If you dont have the ability to create an overlay, you can again drop a solid color and lower the opacity, but you’ll have to mess with the color balance/ brightness/contrast to let all the hard work come through.

You’re going to repeat this for every single figure. Here’s a few color theory tips though.

Your overlay colors should be darker (not more vibrant) in the foreground and lighter (avoid using pure white) in the background. This helps with the depth of the piece. Things closer tend to be darker (not always true, depends on lighting)

You can choose to use color theory to aid your shadows. Instead of choosing black or grey for shadows, choose a complimentary color. I used a lot of green for this piece, I used red for really dark shadows. Its not that black drains color- its just loses some depth if not used carefully.

Keep your colors consistent. Helps unify the piece. You can strategically break the consistency to draw focus. For example, Fina is the only figure with a true blue overlay. This helps her stand out from the other figures who have reds and greens.

Step 6: Touch Ups and Final Renderings

Now comes the most tedious part. If you’re like me, your computer fans have been whirring for the last few hours trying to render this monster of a file. If you havent already, SAVE FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS GOOD

These are the last four layers I have for the entire piece. Here, I am trying to create effective and believable lighting. This kind of work I have only been able to achieve in clip studio or photoshop. You can do it with normal layers, but choose your colors CAREFULLY. Stay away from pure white. Carefully utilize your knowledge of light and shadow to create soft highlights. Harsh lines tend to be a stylistic choice for me. The final layer, subtract, dulls out harsh red tones. I used this as a final overlay to help put everyone and everything in the scene. Without it, things are a little too green and skin tones are a little too blushed for vampires.

The challenge here is I want to tone down the red, but not lose the vibrancy of the blood. So, shift it to a blue. This also helped reinforce the “nighttime” effect. Its only a slight change.

Final thoughts:

Whenever you finish something, its important to reflect.

1. I am so FUCKING PROUD OF MYSELF. This is easily one of the most complicated pieces I’ve done in a while- and I’ve made 16′ tall faux stained glass. Brag. Let yourself feel awesome cuz you just made something awesome.

2. I timed myself on the piece. I could have easily spent another 7 hours on it. But its important to know when to stop messing with it. Partially for budget reasons but also when you get down to the details you can make yourself go insane. Theres also a ton of detail work I lost cuz of overlays or its just too small to notice. Fina’s face? hard to see cuz its not close enough.

3. I needed to take frequent breaks for this piece. That was good. Resting and stretching was very important. That is one of the reasons why I was able to work so fast.

4. I started doing more digital art in April 2020. I have to say, practice makes perfect. I practice drawing and digital painting for at least 3 hours a day.

That discipline has allowed me to improve so rapidly. So- I don’t wanna hear shit about I can’t possibly get this good! Or I couldn’t even draw a stick figure! BULLSHIT. You can. Get yourself some free software like Krita or Autodesk sketchbook and start playing!

And thats what I got! Thanks for coming with me on this long post!

#digital art #my art #okay to reblog #how to #long post

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be-ready-when-i-say-go · 4 years ago

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They Don’t Know You Like I Do

This is a reupload, a throwback. It was originally written in 2019 and posted on my old account calumh-excess. I hope you guys enjoy.

In the same universe as We’re Outsiders.

Sandra should be out of his league. But with a good heart and an open mind, she gives Ashton a shot. That’s all he needs.

Greaser!AU.

Enjoy my masterlist.

Support me on Ko-Fi

_________________________

When there’s a knock at the door, Ashton’s a little confused. Though, knocks are more frequent now if he has to be honest. He racks his brain for who could possibly be at the door. It’s not Luke. He had to run some errands for his parents. It’s not Calum. He’s at work; left early this morning. Calum did agree to be at the race. And unless Calum forgot his keys, Ashton is sure that Calum wouldn’t be showing back to the house.

So Ashton finishes zipping up the boot and walks to the door. Cookie stands on the other side, grinning. Her siblings attached to her hips. He grins at the sight. It’s very common on Saturday mornings for her to show up at his doorstep, whether Calum is home or not. More often not, since Saturdays seem to have picked up at the shop and Cookie seems to be able to sneak away before the morning rush. “Know your boy toy’s not here right?”

She rolls her eyes, extending out the glass dish. “I know. I did talk to him last night.”

Ashton takes the dish; it’s heavier than he anticipated. It smells good though. He won’t lie. The deep inhale almost makes his stomach growl and his mouth salivate. “Thanks.” They don’t need to be taken care of, but it’s nice. She always brings enough for not just Ashton and Calum, but also Luke and Michael. “One of these days I’m gonna get that recipe.”

“Oh, hot stuff, we’d have to be married for that,” she teases laughing.

“You say that like I won’t snatch you up from Calum.”

His only acknowledgement to the tease is a smile. “Got one more in the car. Can they sit inside for a second? If you’re not busy.”

“Yeah, they can sit inside for a minute.”

Teresa, Cookie’s sister, taps Ashton on the leg on the way in. A game they seem to always play where he attempts to dodge it, but never seems to skirt out of the way fast enough. Ashton buckles a little at the motion, careful of the food he’s still holding, and drags himself to the kitchen table. “I oughta report this!”

Her brother, Curtis, settles onto the couch. He’s always been quiet. But he smiles at the exchange and settles into the cushions. Ashton leaves the dish out. He’s glad Cookie came by. He wanted to ask her for a favor and had planned to stop by her place or the diner before heading out for the race.

The door creaks open again and Cookie walks in, heading straight for the kitchen. She doesn’t linger long on the fact that there aren’t many groceries left. She just slips the glass dishes in and prays that they can get back on track soon.

“You know,” Cookie starts watching her sister and brother pick up the deck of cards at the dinning room table and Ashton stand in front of her. “I could get you in at the diner. My folks ain’t that bad.”

Ashton shakes his head. He knew long ago when he lost his job that Cookie could help him out. Somehow it felt wrong, felt like he would’ve been intruding. Besides, he wouldn’t be down for long. “I appreciate it. But I don’t wanna put your folks in a tighter spot. If I start working there and someone hits the roof, y’all take the hit. Not me.”

“World won’t be so black and white one day.”

“Sometimes I think I could be doing more. More than just surviving and more than just hoping for you.”

“If you got marching boots, I know how to get you in.”

It’s only a nod. They are silent, even as cards shuffle in the background. But Ashton knows, by way of the stirring in his chest, that he’s going to be asking about that march.

“Well, I ain’t mean to take up too much time,” Cookie starts, seeing the current round is coming to an end.

“Wait before you go, can I ask you a favor?” It’s not exactly the smartest thing in the world he’s done for cash, agreeing to a race.. Though he’s smart and never gets tied up for people that race for pinks. “I need some help.”

Cookie leans back into the fridge, the white Keds on her feet matching the tile as she crosses her ankles. “Help how?”

Ashton knew he shouldn’t have promised Sandra that Cookie would’ve been there without actually asking Cookie. However, by the time Ashton managed to get home, Calum had already gone to bed and Ashton for sure was not about to call up to her house at that time of night. He was just trying to get Sandra to see that he was just a guy, not the label that people had put on him.

“I have a race.”

Cookie nods. “If you telling me Teresa actually hit you that hard that you can’t drive no more, I oughta sign that girl up for boxing or something,” she teases.

Ashton has to laugh with a shake of his head. “God almighty, no.”

“What’s about this race and needing help?”

“I need you to tag along. I told this girl they were cool and I just need you around so she doesn’t flip.”

It’s a heavy sigh that expels from her lungs and Ashton all but slides to his knees as he grabs onto her hands. “Please, Cookie? Please?”

“These ain’t no family affair. I’ve got my brother and sister. It’s technically illegal.” While Cookie didn’t hold too fast to the rules that governed them, she was not about to act fast and loose in front of siblings. They have fast lips.

“I’ve never seen a race,” Teressa cuts in. She’s dealing out half the deck between her and Curtis.

“See!” Ashton says, lips rolling over as he pouts. “C’mon. Just the one solid. Please.”

“And there’s a reason you haven’t,” Cookie replies. If she gets in trouble on her lonesome is fine. Her parents will flip, they’ll give her a lot of noise. However, that was her fault. If she gets into trouble with her sister and brother around that’s a whole new can of worms. One she’d rather avoid. There’s so much pleading on Ashton’s face though. And of course it had to be a girl too. Races aren’t scary, but they can get nasty.“You ain’t racing for pinks are you? Hate to leave you stranded.”

He shakes his head. “No, I’m in no position to race for pinks.”

The house is in decent condition, but he’s between jobs and needs to find a new source of cash fast. His cars the only thing he’s got going for him. He was let off from his previous gig because the owner was worried about his rep. Not that Ashton wasn’t hard working and diligent at whatever he put his hands on. He busted his ass at work. The owner was looking at a ‘bigger picture.’ It’s bullshit if Ashton is asked. He didn’t throw a fit in front of the owner. He thought about it. He wanted to, but he didn’t want to ruin his chances. He quietly took the week’s pay and left the office. He’s got good word from this boss to another place. Ashton’s worried that his reputation is going to precede him all his life though.

Ashton finally continues, “Please, I need your help. I need the bread and she’s--she’s different, Cookie. She’s giving me a shot.” He’s totally smitten, but he wouldn’t completely admit that. Sandra didn’t exactly grow up on this side of town. None of the guys can help him out. Cookie’s his only shot.

It’s one of her few days where she doesn’t have to be on shift during the morning. She had really just wanted to hit the store to see if the hair grease she needed has been restocked and she wanted to just not think about anything until work.

“Look,” she points over to Teresa and Curtis, “y’all gotta keep tight ships on those lips.”

“Thank you!” Ashton shouts and her siblings chorus.

“And you,” she starts, finger singling him out. “I beat feet after it’s done.” Cookie agrees. “But if there’s any heat, I am not hanging around.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Ashton gushes, wrapping her up in a quick hug. “And I totally understand about the cops. I’d literally do whatever to shake your trail. You know that.”

“I know.I know. You surely know how to put a girl in a pickle.”

“It’s a specialty,” Ashton returns. His grin wide.

The kids continue their game of War before Cookie’s pulling out of the driveway first and waiting for Ashton to lead the way. Admittedly, Ashton didn’t tell Cookie that Sandra was a Soc, a Prep. But maybe she had figured it out by the way he talked about her inexperience with races. Most people would probably laugh at the fact he’s into a Soc. And he knows Cookie would never judge him, but sometimes even he felt a little shame in it. But Sandra is a saint and Ashton is in need of a blessing.

His logic isn’t flawed, but it is a little wishful. If he wins the race, Ashton can show Sandra his world’s not all that bad, it’s not all dangerous. It has it’s danger for sure. But if he could just get her to see the good, then maybe he had proven that the labels were unjust. And it’s twisted thinking he knows. Sandra already seems him as a good person, she already sees something in him. But it’s the outside world. It was always going to be the outside world it seemed that would be in the way. It reminds of how he was with Cookie and god, it makes him feel like an asshole. He could be the first person to admit that. He would be the first to admit that.

When they get the makeshift track, old back roads that lead to the deserted factory, Ashton spots the boys. They rush up from the dirt sides. Calum checked the car before he left this morning. But that was then and now it needs another glance, checking for holes in tires or rocks in the tracks.

Ashton finds her, Sandra, in her red dress with black polka dots. She waves, but doesn’t make a move closer from her car. She swore to Ashton she would find a way to the race. He insisted that they could meet somewhere, but when she looked down, biting the side of her lip, he knew not to push it. He walks over, cheeks lifting into a grin.

“I feel so overdressed,” Sandra whispers, tucking more of her hair behind her ear.

“Nah, I dig it.” It’s who she is and Ashton can’t stop the thundering of his heart.

“You sure this isn’t an issue? Like I thought pinks would be involved and everyone here looks,” she doesn’t finish the sentence. This isn’t her crowd. She knows it; Ashton knows it. Ashton’s sweet though. Always helps her grandmother with the bags to her car. He even referred them to a great car shop. One of his friends works there, always looks out for them and makes sure to work on their car exclusively. He’s for sure a fun time, always laughing at something, always making up a new gig when there’s only her in the store and the radio’s playing a good song. But this isn’t her crowd. She’s not sure how they’re going to accept her.

“Hey, my guys are cool. Stick with them and there will be no issue,” Ashton urges.

Sandra goes to speak, but then she notices a girl with a fro walking up to her, lips painted red. It’s a bold choice, but she wears it well. Ashton’s thankful that Cookie’s approaching. “That’s Cookie. Calum’s girl. The guy that works on your grandmother’s car. I told you she’d be here.”

Sandra nods, a smile lifting her lips. It’s a little bit more comforting to have someone else on Ashton’s side, that’s not a Greaser as company. She thinks the whole Greaser versus Socs is ridiculous, but she’s not naive to think that the lines don’t exist for everyone else. “You Ashton’s girl?” Cookie asks, knowing the true answer. But it’ll make both of them turn red and Cookie can’t pass up on that opportunity.

“Oh, no,” she mumbles as both their cheeks turn beat red. There’s a blashful glance between both of them. Ashton’s hoping Cookie’s teasing isn’t too much but he does like the sound of her being his girl. He needs to win this race, make a good impression and keep Sandra around. That’s all he wants.

“Alright, Ms. Red, you guys are just friendly. I get it. Mind if I borrow the pretty lady for a moment?” Cookie extenders her elbow, waiting for the gentle grip to move them out the way of the race.

The touch is light and they walk up to the side of the road. Cookie can feel the nerves off Ashton’s girl. She keeps looking over her shoulders. Like she’s afraid something is gonna jump out at her. “First race?” Cookie asks.

The girl nods, ends of her hair flying up in the wind. “Ms. Red? That’s a new one.”

“What’s ya name? Maybe you’d like that more.”

“Sandra. But I like Red better. You’re the one really wearing the devil’s paint better than I ever could.”

“Then Ms. Red it is. And nothin’ wrong with a little make up.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean it like that. I just--,”

“Don’t have a cow, sweetheart. Just kidding around.”

They reach Cookie’s car, her siblings eying the girl on her arm. They’re suspicious of every new person they meet. It took them ages to warm up to Luke, Ashton, and Michael. She can’t blame them. Every white person to cross their path has only ever spit on them. She’s praying that they don’t hold such skepticism in their heart all the time. “Teresa and Curtis, my sister and brother. Ms. Red.”

Both of them give curt nods. Cookie goes on to introduce the rest of the crew before hopping into the backseat of her car with her siblings, she sits on the edge of the door, feet planted on the seat. Curtis sits between her legs. Teresa right in front of him. “Take a front row seat,” she offers to Sandra waving to the passenger side seat. Calum leans up against her car, right behind Cookie and her siblings, his hands buried in his pocket of his work pants. The switchblade curled into his fingers.

Sandra doesn’t miss the tension. She looks up to Cookie, the fear flashing over her face. “They don’t bite. Well, for anklebiters, they don’t,” she assures.

“You’re going to regret that,” Teresa interject, lightly tapping her sisters ankle. “White people just never done us no good.”

Kids, they’ll always be honest. “Tes,” Cookie warns. The tension is still thick, but the engines roar and Sandra jolts at the sound. “Get in, Red unless you want dust on that pretty little dress.”

“Thank you.” She smiles, climbs into the car and then kneels on the seat to watch them. Another girl, from the opponent's side, stands in the middle of lanes, scarf in her hand. She holds it above her head. She holds it there for a moment. Ashton revs his engine, just get get under the guy’s skin. “The car’s a lot louder,” Sandra comments. It’s to no one in particular. Curtis climbs to the passenger side of the back seat and stands, looking over the door.

“Ashton’s engine is souped up thanks to Calum,” he says as the rumble settles. “Nothing illegal. Just gives him more speed from the start and he can maintain it for the entire race.”

“Hey, look at my man paying attention,” Calum laughs, holding his palm straight up for Curtis to slap it. They go about their handshake, a series of slap, pumps, and snaps.

Curtis looks up to Sandra. “We ain’t trying to be mean. We just...sissy, what’s the word? Scared, but like not scared scared.”

“Worried or maybe concerned,” comes from both his sisters.

“Concerned,” Curtis repeats to Sandra. She nods. It makes sense all things considered for them. They have to be cautious to some degree. It’s a matter of life or death. Cookie’s teasing and offering of her car makes Sandra’s less anxious though. She’s completely outside of her realm and needs an anchor. They’re nice. “Nice dress too,” he concludes. “Sissy has a skirt like it.”

Before she can express her gratitude, engines growl to life yet again and Sandra snaps her attention to the road. Ashton doesn’t press down hard on the gas; he, in fact, gives the initial lead away. He can come behind and cut to the inside on the turn. He’s not worried about a lead. He’s got a plan. He always has a plan.

Sandra grips at the door, heart thundering in her chest. “C’mon, Ash. Take him.” The words are falling from her lips before she’s even realized it. After the initial kick up of a dust cloud, she can make out Ashton sliding inside. The first turn comes up and he cuts to the inside. There’s a tap to his bumper, but he tries not to show it. Keeps a steady hand on the wheel to correct.

There’s cheering, but it’s hard to catch it over the rumble of the engines. Sandra can feel it bubbling in her chest as she wants to join in again. She wants to scream his name. She wants to let him know she’s rooting for him. As the second straight away comes up, Ashton falls back just a little. The noses of their cars keep trading places.

Her pulse quickens, veins pumping against her skin. But Ashton looks so calm as they round in for the second lap. “Leave him in the dust! Burn rubber!” Sandra screams. It feels good to let the primal shout leave her lips. Louder shouts from Cookie and Ashton’s group start to cut through the rumble. The entire side of the road is almost as big of a roar as the cars themselves.

Ashton slips in front and hauls ass, pressing harder onto the gas. It kicks up another sputter of dust. As the last straight away comes up, Ashton keeps the car going as fast as it can. He doesn’t even stop until he blows past the start line. “Yes!” Sandra cries, pumping her arms into the air. As the drivers meet, shaking hands and exchanging cash, she climbs out of car and rushes over to Ashton.

“That was incredible,” she gushes. Her heart is still racing. He notices the childlike awe lighting up her eyes.

“Aw, shucks. It won’t nothing,” he replies, cheeks warming as her compliment. That was admittedly a tame race. They can get uglier, there can be scraps. But it’s a relief it didn’t happen. He didn’t want to show her that. He’s careful to stand in front of some of the nicks on the car He knows they traded taps on the course.

“It was pretty amazing to me.” The rest of them walk over, to congratulate Ashton. Cookie, much to her word, leaves after giving her cheers. Calum follows directly behind her, wanting to make sure she gets home safe.

“We ought to celebrate!” Sandra grins, brushing her hands over Ashton’s. She notes the rings adorning his fingers and plays at the pinky ring. “My treat! I’ve got a little of an allowance. What do you say?”

Ashton, flustered at the feel of her fingers over his, nods. “But I can cover myself.”

“Nonsense, you just won! No need to spend the earnings already.”

“I can’t.” He can pay his way through the world and he for sure doesn’t want to seem like he’s too willingly to take advantage of her niceness.

“Ice it. You’re getting a treat! And don’t think you can run off either,” she warns, walking back to her car.

Holding up his hands, Ashton knows he’s a goner. Hook, line, and sinker, there’s nothing he can do to save himself. The smile rests on Ashton’s face makes his whole body warm. “I’m listening. No runnin’ from me, ma’am.”

The rest of his guys cheer on his victory but soon it’s wrapped up and he climbs into his car, preparing to follow behind Sandra. Down the streets, Ashton realizes that he’s going further north. The anxiety starts to hammer at his chest and his fingers tremble. God, he doesn’t need trouble. Not right now, not after such a great victory.

Staring up at the sign of the parlour, Ashton’s takes a moment to exhale. He can’t afford trouble. He won’t get into trouble. He won’t. He’s going to just go inside, get a quick treat and then go on about his day. He parks right next to her, climbing out of the car. Eyes are already burning holes into his skin. He tries to swallow that bit of panic that his chest.

The leather jacket feels less like an accessory anymore. It’s armor. He wears it so they know. So they don’t start shit. He wears it so when his shoulders fall, the bulk keeps them wide. Even if he’s not looking for a fight, it looks like he’s ready to scrap.

“What’s your poison?” she jokes as they walk in together. “Stud like you maybe it’s chocolate.”

Ashton laughs softly, shaking his head a little. “I’m actually pretty square. Vanilla’s my vice.”

“Mr. Big and Bad goes for vanilla.”

“He does. Can’t tell anyone though.”

“Secret’s safe with me,” she winks, walking up to the counter to order the shake and even a slice of something for him as well. It’s as she leans against the cool material that she notices the distinct sneer on one of the waitress’ face. It dawns on her. She’s brought him to her side of town. But they don’t know him like she does. So she juts out her chin, reaching into the pocket of her dress. She plays at the bills and finally they girl walks down.

Sandra doesn’t let her open her mouth. “Vanilla milkshake, two straws. Slice of chocolate cake if there’s any left.”

“Anything else?”

A shake of the head no and she turns around to see Ashton, smiling up at her. He digs into his pocket and finds some change before walking over to the jukebox. He looks through the selection. He could be a sap. But right now he feels like making a little scene. He slips in the coin and presses for “The Twist”. Ashton snaps his fingers to beat, looking over his shoulder to her. She leans against the counter, laughing, hair flying in the ponytail.

Ashton starts tapping his foot, shuffling closer to her. People, he’s learned, are always staring at him. He’s gonna give them a reason to stare now. Sandra is beside herself, watching him singing along, while twisting himself side to side. The only thing that matters is her smile, her laugh. Ashton likes being a bit of a goof. He likes to have fun. He knows his life has never been easy, but there’s no reason not to smile. He makes it a goal to make someone smile each day. They deserve, everyone deserves a bit of kindness in the world. He thinks himself to be lucky to give that to anyone. Sandra admires that in him. This drive to give everyone a little piece of happiness.

When Ashton slides his way up to her, holding out his head, she doesn’t hesitate to give into his antics. They dance in the middle of parlour. She holds onto hands, bending her knees. It’s easy to twist her torso side to side. She’s never been able to do this before. To just let herself go. It’s normally so much emphasis on being a lady, being prim and proper. She’s never really ascribed to you, in a way that she wholeheartedly believed. But she was well aware of the society she was in, the role she was told she had to play.

But she didn’t have to play games with Ashton. She didn’t have to pretend. If she wanted to swear, which she never did anyhow, she knew she could. If she wanted to let her hair down, she could. If she wanted to sit unladylike, she could. She was not restricted with him. And that freedom, the vulnerability, made her fall even more in love with him. God, was she in love with him?

“Uh, you want this shake or not?” the girl behind the counter shouts. “Been waiting for forever over here.”

Sandra walks over, sliding the cash across the counter. “Sorry. Just havin’ some fun.” Another set of hands slide in around her and grab the glass and the plate. She immediately notes the slender fingers, the rings.

“Just a little dancin’ sweetheart. No need to get heated,” he says before going back to their table. He notes one shake and the two straws. “Bold, are we?” he teases, handing one to her.

“What can I say? I’m livin’ on the wild side.”

Ashton brings a piece of the cake to his lips while speaking. “Yeah, so wild your hair’s still up.”

It’s not a challenge, just a tease. But Sandra brings a hand to her hair, untwist the elastic around her hair. Her hair falls down over her shoulders as she shakes it loose. “Anything else to say, Stud?”

No, he’s got nothing else to say. That’s the thing about her, behind her button nose and blue eyes are a curiosity, a yearning to live life the way she wants to, not the way she’s been told to live it.

Outside at their respective cars, Sandra slips her hair tie from her wrist. The bow sells it, makes his heart warm more than he’s willing to admit as she slides it onto Ashton’s wrist. “Something to remember me by,” she grins softly.

“I’m always thinkin’ about you. So it’s not hard.”

“Smooth talking there.”

Ashton brings his fingers to her cheek before tucking just a little bit of her hair behind her ears. “When can I see you again?” Tomorrow’s her grandmothers doctor’s appointment. She starts her new job the day after. He’ll be okay even if it’s just for a quick moment to enjoy her company.

“I’ll ya a ring, okay?”

He nods, “Okay.”

_______________________________________________

He knows Sandra’s grandmother’s car when it pulls into the gas station. He managed to snag this gig at the gas station. It’s not a lot, but it’s something. He doesn’t quite want to go into the factory just yet. He knows it’ll make him the most money, but he’s gonna clean up his act before doing that. She smiles at him, as he closes in on her hair. She’s still has her driving gloves on. “What can I do for ya, Ma’am?” Ashton teases, opening the gas cover.

“Fill her up.”

“How was work?” She’s a secretary at the firm in town. Not a lot, nothing to write home about but it helps out. Every cent does now for her and her grandmother. Her grandmother’s not sickly. Just getting up in age, requires a lot more attention.

“Long, just glad it’s over.” There’s a moment of silence. “Grandma wants to meet you,” Sandra says. Her voice is soft.

Ashton’s been dreading this. Her grandmother isn’t fond of people like him. Though she smiled in his face when he carried her bags, Sandra tells him that always sneered at home. Always said boys like him were no good. “Thought she hated me.”

“She likes you. Likes the man that makes me smile. But she doesn’t like how she’s never met you, according to her.”

“But once she finds out it’s me, she’s gonna blow her top.”

“No, she’s not. She won’t. I promise.” He finds that hard to believe. He wants to believe her. She seems so earnest. But Ashton knows that older people are set in their ways. He finishes filling her tank, taking the change from her fingers. “Hey, hey,” she urges, gripping his chin. “She’s gonna love you. Because you’re incredible and she just hasn’t seen that. All she’s seen is the leather jacket, the hair. She’s only heart stories. But she’s never sat down with the real you.”

“Most people don’t need to sit down with the real me to judge me.”

“She’s gonna love you.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“I can.” It hurts to see him pull his chin from her grasps. It’s not hard, not a jerk, just a soft turn to his head until her fingers fall from around his skin.

“How?”

“Because she don’t know you like I do. She’s gonna love you because I love you.”

His heart beats against his ribs. They’ve been seeing each other, including tucked into dark corners, for only a few months. But to say that she loves him, that’s a whole new thing. “You love me?” The question exhales from his lungs so softly she barely catches it.

With a nod, she grins. “Yeah, yeah I think I do. I know it’s only a few months, but call me young and dumb--,”

Ashton interrupts her with a kiss. “No, be young. Be dumb. We only get this shot once.” The words press against his lips. He should take his own advice. “I love you.”

Lip tucked between her teeth, she looks to the ground before glancing back into his hazel eyes. “So, my house. Saturday. 6:30?”

“Your house. Saturday. 6:30.”

________________

When Ashton stares up at the door, he swears for a hot second he might vomit. He tries to keep it down. These are his good penny loafers. He’d hate to ruin them. But there is just something in his gut that tells him that this dinner is a bad idea. It takes him another minutes to finally lift his hand to knock. There’s a moment before the door cracks open and Sandra is standing there, in a powder pink sleeveless dress, hair pulled back from her face.

“Oh is that him, dear?” Her grandmother calls, the voice far away.

It takes everything in Ashton to step through the threshold. When she finally rounds the corner, her smile falters. There it is. There’s the passing look of judgement clouding her face. “Hi, ma’am. How are you?” He asks, extending his hand.

She doesn’t reach for it. “Good, thank you.” Her gaze lands on Sandra. “Sandy, can I speak with you? In private?”

The two woman walk down the hallway and Ashton stands, right near the door. He could bolt. He could leave it behind. But he stands there, knowing the hushed whispers being exchanged are about him, are about her and him together. The voices get a little louder. He caught “not good�� amongst the hurried murmurs. He knows he shouldn’t interject. It’s not his place. He steps through the living room. They’re huddled together.

“Ma’am, I don’t mean to be rude,” he starts. “But I care deeply about your granddaughter. I know the reputation that I have. And I earned it. I won’t lie.”

“You say that like I should give you a shot,” her grandmother snips.

He shrugs. “I’d like one. I’m not the type to make excuses for myself.”

“I know about boys like you. You’re scared and you’re angry. And you take it out on anyone that looks at you the wrong way. You hang out with all those other boys too, all they do is drink and get into fights. Even the girls they associate with get into trouble too. You’re kind are no good.”

“Yeah, yeah maybe I am scared and maybe I am angry. Yeah, I’m a lowlife in your eyes. But I’m the lowlife that carried your groceries to your car for a year. And I’m the lowlife that that keeps the tank full even if Sandra can’t afford it at the time. I’m greasy and not the goody two shoes you’d want for her. Yeah I’ve been in my fair share of fights and yeah I’ve put some people in serious hurt. But I’m not so bad. I’ve been you, okay? I’ve been on the other side of this conversation where you’re so worried about what others are going to think. And all you can see is the trouble I’ve been in.”

He continues after wiping at his nose with the pad of his thumb. He’s riled up. He feels like an ass. Is this how Cookie felt? He can’t change that. He does right by her. He gets her now. “I know the bad I’ve done. But I know the good too. You think me heartless. I wish I was heartless. I wish I didn’t give a shit so much about so many things. Took a friend in because his parents abandoned him. I was barely scraping by for myself, but I took him in. He needed to finish school. I didn’t. I dropped out. Had to. But him, he’s smart. He deserved a second chance. And his girl, she’s brilliant. I mean, the mind on her- I wish she could go to college. But she can’t. Her heart’s too tied to her family. Oh, and she’s Black. So it’s not like anywhere is going to give her a second chance.

“And my friend, Mike, man’s a wizard at the guitar. I mean, that man is bad at the guitar. But he hates playing in front of a lot of people. He could’ve been gone. Luke, Luke’s got some pipes. But he won’t sing unless Michael plays and because Michael doesn’t play all that often, they’re both here. They got families they care deeply about. They got families that they gotta provide for. So you can think of us what you want. You can think us all bad. But you don’t know us. You think you know us. You only know what others have told you. I really don’t mean any disrespect, Ma’am. But I just want you to consider that. Consider people are more than what you know of them.”

He looks to Sandra, who’s wearing a smile on her face. This is the Ashton she knows. Not one to hold back his tongue, one to always fiercely protect the ones closest to him. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I’ll be staying for dinner.”

She watches the way he pops the collar on his polka dotted button up. She’s know sure where he got it. But it makes her immensely happy to know that he matched a dress of hers. His shoes are silent over the hardwood floors. Sandra turns back to her grandmother. “You always taught me to be kind to everyone, to keep in mind everyone has their own story. But you couldn’t even take your own advice.”

“I was kind,” her grandmother retorts.

Sandra shakes her head. “You know what I mean.” She hoped her grandmother would change, she thought she could get the opinion to change. But maybe her grandmother would destined to always be stuck.

“You can’t keep seeing that boy. He’s no good.”

The words mean nothing to Sandra. Her grandmother relies on her. She’s not a child. Holding on finger up to her grandmother, she races outside, finally hearing the car engine roar to life. The evening has a slight chill but it doesn’t stop her from racing to the driver side door. Ashton rolls down the window. It took him forever to even gain the courage to turn over the key in the ignition. She’s probably come out to tell him this is it.

“You didn’t have to come out to tell me. I know,” Ashton says, staring straight ahead.

“If you thought I came out here to tell you it’s over, you’re wrong.” Her voice is soft. She reaches through the window, playing at the collar of his shirt.

“What?” He’s positive he didn’t hear her right.

“She’s older. She doesn’t know you like I do.”

“But that’s your--,”

Sandra cuts him off. “I know who she is to me. But I’m an adult. I want to be with you. And she can’t stop me. Give me a minute, alright? We’ll go somewhere else.”

When her lips brush over his cheek, Ashton can only nod at her request. She walks back into the house. Her grandmother sits at the dining room table, hands clutching her cane. “You can’t keep seeing him. I forbid it.”

“Grandma, I love you. But since you refuse to sit down and have a conversation with him, I don’t think your advice is the most well informed. Now,” she starts fixing her grandmother a plate. “You’re gonna eat. I’ll be back to clean the dishes. But you just relax.”

“Where are you going? Not out with that boy, I know.”

“His name is Ashton. As I’ve told you before plenty of times.” The plates makes a soft thud on the placemat. “Eat. I’ll be back.” She puts the rest of the food up. Her grandmother watches, shouting at her that he’s no good. But no one’s perfect. And she if wanted perfection, she’d never find it. Maybe that was part of her grandmother’s problem. She craved perfection so bad, craved to fit in, to not shake the table that she never saw how unstable the table was in the first place.

“Enjoy your dinner!” Sandra shouts, throwing a sweater over her shoulders and grabbing her keys. Ashton is still waitin in the car. She climbs into the car. “Let’s drive,” she giggles.

“I got a destination in mind. Bit of a tradition. Hope it’s not too square.”

“You? A square? Never.” The drive isn’t very long. The skating rink comes into view and Ashton spies Calum’s bike still around. They still have a little bit of time. They have to go to the rink on the West side. Too many people stared at them, a group of white boys hanging around and friends with folks like Cookie and Calum. And it’s not to say they didn’t get looks on this side either. It’s not to say that Cookie’s unfortunately gotten into with a few of her own, but it’s generally safer.

“When we’re not supposedly running a muck of the town, we’re skating,” Ashton says.

“How’d you know I was a great skater?”

“You might’ve mentioned it once or twice.” She’s mentioned it more than that actually. But it’s not like Ashton’s keeping count. It’s not like he goes home and gushes to Calum probably too much about Sandra.

The pair walk inside and grab some skates. It takes a moment of wondering before they spy the rest of Ashton’s friends. Cookie spots them first, smiling. “What happened to the red, Ms. Red?”

“Let him borrow it for the day,” Sandra returns, rushing over to help take the pitcher from her hands. The table cheers, noticing the pair.

“Thought you had a fancy dinner?” Michael questions as they settle and tie up their skates. Ashton shakes his head. Michael catches on to the sour expression. That topic is canned without hesitation. They all knew about Ash’s concerns. They’re not really shocked, if they’re honest, that things went sour. It sucks nonetheless. They had hoped for Ashton Sandra’s grandmother wouldn’t be such an issue.

Ashton gets to his feet first and takes her hand. They step out onto the floor and she glides off. Ashton’s not a terrible skater, but he’s not the best either. She turns around and sees him pushing off hard. “Alright there, tough guy?”

He laughs. “Keep yappin’ that’s fine!”

As they come around a second time, the song shuffles. Everyone recognizes the start to Put Your Head on My Shoulder. People start pairing off. Ashton spies Calum and Cookie finally coming back out. Sandra slows into his side, fingers brushing over his. “You look as coordinated as a baby giraffe,” she teases.

“Keep talkin here, just keep on.” There’s a moment of quiet between them as the laughter dies down, gliding next to each other. A little slower than the rest of the crowd, but neither of them cares. “Sorry about being frosted back there. I just--people don’t understand. And sometimes they don’t want to. Which is frustrating.”

She nods. “I get that. I’m sorry she refuses to listen. I wish I could get through that thick skull sometimes. She means well, but sometimes she can do harm.”

Ashton stops along the wall, pulling her gently into him. “It happens. But you chose me. Over everything.”

She shrugs. “Easy choice, if I’m honest.” Ashton cups her face, fingers gently brushing over the soft skin. He’s lucky to have her. He’s lucky she chose him.

“Aren’t you worried?”

“I’ve got a lot of things to worry about. But not you.” Ashton leans in, just a smidge, lips capturing hers for a brief moment. His breath leaves him. He’s sure time is either paused or sped up but he doesn’t care. There are some wolf whistles that pass by. And both of them know it’s his friends. Sandra buries her face into Ashton’s shoulder, the heat flooding her cheeks.

“You guys are assholes,” Ashton laughs, watching Luke, Michael, and Calum pass by. The song fades out. Something more upbeat turns over the speakers. He coaxes her out from his shoulder. “Don’t mind them.”

“I mean, kind of hard not too.”

“But you got me, baby. You got me.”

Her eyes twinkle and she cups his cheek before kissing him. She does have him. That’s a comforting thought, one that makes her feel safe. As their lips part, Sandra exhales a bit breathy. “C’mon now before your knees knock and you fall.”

“You got jokes now,” Ashton hollers after her figure, skating away. “Now you got jokes. I see how it is.”

The evening is filled with too many orders of cheese fries to be healthy, too many refills for Cokes. They sing along to the speakers and Sandra laughs, hooking her arm through Ashton’s. “You didn’t tell me you could sing.”

His smile is bashful, face turning red. “You ain’t ask before.”

“The four of you ought to start a band or something,” she concludes. She’s heard the stories of Michael’s historic guitar playing. Stayed over at night, once, to listen to the four of them act a fool, singing until the wee hours of the morning.

“Good luck with that,” Cookie interjects. “All of ‘em hardheaded. Mine especially.”

“But you love it anyway, doll,” Calum returns, kissing her temple.

The group decides as the twilight is swallowed up by night to turn in. Outside, they split off in various directions towards their cars. “Make sure you get your red back,” Cookie hollers, trailing behind Calum. “You look betta in it anyways!”

The group howls at the comment. “Nah, baby, it’s a team effort.”

In a flash, Cookie runs up, laughing, leaving Calum to wait at the bike. “I know that’s right. Good seeing you again,” she adds on sincerely. “I mean it, too.” Since the race, Sandra’s tried to talk to Cookie more, tried to ease the tension that inevitably may not disappear completely. But they can try. “Mrs and Mr. Red,” she laughs with a wink.

“See how she put Mrs, first,” Sandra grins.

Ashton nods. “Yes, yes, I most definitely did.”

Ashton pulls into her driveway, staring back at the same doors that shut him out. It’s okay. That door need not ope, he concludes. Sandra stretches across to give him one last kiss. It deepens when Ashton takes hold of her face. It’s not a kiss that conveys the passion that’s brewing in the both of them. It’s not a kiss that’s light and airy. It’s a kiss that spells how desperate they are for the other to know, deep down, this is real.

As they part, Ashton pulls off one of the main rings he wears and plucks the necklace off from around her neck. Threading the chunky gold metal onto the dainty chain, he rehooks the necklace around her neck. Sandra drops her hair around her shoulders to take a look at it sitting over the powder pink to her dress. “Something to remember me by,” he explains, from his wrist, she can see the hair tie still. How did she miss that?

“I could never forget.”

She climbs out of the car and he watches to make sure she gets inside. As the door closes behind her, she grins to herself. Making choices is scary. She knows her grandmother will not be quiet about her stance. But this is the first choice that was solely hers to make. And she’s proud of it.

#ashton irwin #ashton irwin fic #ashton irwin fanfic #ashton irwin imagine #ashton irwin blurb #5sos #5sos fanfic #5sos fic #5 seconds of summer #5 seconds of summer fanfic #5 seconds of summer imagine #5sos blurb #h writes #greaser!AU #calum hood #luke hemmings #michael clifford #5 seconds of summer fic

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kinetic-elaboration · 4 years ago

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December 2: 1x26 Errand of Mercy

Errand of Mercy is truly a trip. I’m swiftly losing my ability to be coherent because I need to go to sleep but here are some attempts:

First of all this is, of course, a straight-up, pure, unfiltered Kirk/Spock episode with a tiny bit of unrequited Kor/Kirk on the side. Like, we’re not even going to pretend to find stuff for the rest of the crew today. I see you, Gene Coon.

This is the first Klingon ep. I just... the actual Klingon-centric episodes ARE good, but the Klingons in general are pretty boring and I legit don’t understand why they became the standard Star Trek villain. (DC Fontana apparently thought that it was because their make up was simpler v. the Romulans, acc. to Amazon trivia and....I’ll buy that.)

Is the “cultural scale” called the Richter cultural scale? I seem to recall another scale with the exact same name....

I get why there would be such a scale but they are dead wrong about where the Organians fall on it.

Anyway not to harp on this yet again but @ fanom this isn’t the military right?? Lol

Oh, no, it’s Code One! No idea what that means but the music tells me it’s a big deal and it’s bad!

“Curious how often you humans manage to obtain that which you do not want.” He’s talking about war but I can think of some other things that fall into this category.

I think it’s pretty funny that Kirk records his Captain’s logs in public.

CAPTAIN SULU.

“There’s a war happening, so Mr. Spock and I will just leave the ship... together.”

“You’ll get out of here, Sulu, and leave Spock and I... alone.”

“You’ll fall back to rendezvous with the rest of the Fleet in the Laurentian system.”

Why do these people show no interest in us beaming down into their village? Hmmm, I wonder. If the Organians really were what K and S think they are, beaming down in that way would be uh a bad idea.

Spock seems much less awkward at gesturing than Kirk does.

Finally, by the end of the season, they’ve figured out the context for the Enterprise: Starfleet, the Federation, etc.

I wish the Organians were our alien overlords and taylor.

So the Klingons are a military dictatorship.

Kirk finds them so frustrating. I feel like this ep falls into the genre “Kirk is frustrated by hippies.” All this generic peace talk and faultlessly chill attitudes are just not him.

“I’m a soldier, not a diplomat.” That’s why Spock likes him so much.

The Organians are trying to follow the Prime Directive but Kirk is making it SO HARD.

“Space vehicles.”

I know the Klingons are actually supposed to be in yellow face but you know what it looks like black face to me and I RE-ALLY wish they had not done that.

They look good in those Organian outfits. Love that they kept their command and science colors lol. I feel like this is the sort of outfit AOS Kirk wishes he had in that boring ass closet of his.

Mr. Spock does not look like an Organian.

I MUST know more about these “not uncommon” Vulcan merchants. “Dealing in kevas and trillium.”

KOR IS SO INTO KIRK. This flirting is the least subtle. “You’ll be taught to use your tongue.” “Where is your smile?” “You’re a ram among sheep.” “I need your obedience.” “You seem to be in command.” Is all of this supposed to sound sexual or...?

Right up there with “a stallion must first be broken.”

Whereas Kirk is so not into this. That expression says, “Don’t even think about talking about Spock’s tongue.”

The mind sifter is actually a crazy advanced sci fi machine and STID wanted us to think Klingons don’t have warp usdfsf go fuck yourself.

Kirk is so turned on by Spock’s mental strength.

Every spare moment of this ep is given over to K/S flirting. They legit act like an old married couple. “I thought you were going to fight that guy.” “I just might.” Or whatever.

I love that Kirk’s method of fighting is to literally launch his WHOLE BODY at enemies.

Whereas Spock’s there just running awkwardly in the background. He is Not coordinated friends.

Kirk’s speeches ARE admirable. He is lacking context here but in general if they WERE an oppressed people, this should be inspiring.

“For some reason, he feels as though he must destroy you.”

This Kor and Kirk scene... Kirk literally canNOT stop himself from flirting. His default smile is Charming. “Nothing...inconsequential [was destroyed] I hope...” Flirty smile, wink.

GO CLIMB A TREE I MEAN WHAT THE HECK WAS THAT.

We are the same species...tigers...hunters

Is this not the same cell they always use?

I feel an “and there was only one cell” fic coming on...

The Organians are actually kind of hilarious. They’ll basically let these rando aliens do whatever they want, as long as they do no violence. That’s it, that’s the one rule.”Your captors planned to do violence to you, and to that I said...naw.”

THIS is real Pacifism @ Commander Spock.

Kirk ready to go out in a blaze of fire for a bunch of annoying hippies like “I’m going to white savior you now, ungrateful Organians.”(I say this with love; I love him.)

Can you believe Kirk and Spock are about to die in an unwinnable fight of 2 against Lots of Klingons, and they’re using their last moments to FLIRT AGAIN?

Gene Coon loves writing dialogue in which Spock calculates statistics and Kirk is turned on.

Also can you BELIEVE he just pulls Spock along by the arm? Any excuse to touch him.

Okay the Organians are officially tired of your bullshit.

Too hot! Hot damn!

“We find interference in others’ affairs most disgusting.” Prime Directive! Like I said!

This is basically the plot of A Taste of Armageddon except in that ep Kirk was the Organians.

“People have the right to handle their own affairs.” Is he wrong though??

The Organians are like “okay, we all had our fun here, now get out. Seriously.”

Can you imagine how fucking weird it would be to just randomly see this alien dude materialize in the White House, or, like, Starfleet San Francisco HQ, or wherever the “home world” of the Federation is supposed to be? Just a little throwaway line in there.

By the end Kor is just straight up hilarious. He’s giving off real Ian McKellan in Vicious vibes when he says “I can handle them.”

“I guess that takes care of the war.” Yep! Very efficient!

The “it” in “It would have been glorious” is DEFINITELY not the war lol.

Good game, good game.

“I was furious with the Organians for stopping a war I didn’t want.” I’m sorry but could not THAT have been the plot of STID?

“Spock, your math was wrong the whole time.” And now Spock and Kirk can BOTH sulk lol.

Those were all of my liveblog thoughts and it’s late but.... I had so many additional thoughts on this episode... Like a lot more.

First, I love when humanoids turn out to not be humanoids, that’s one of the best things.

Second, I think this is a very gutsy episode to air at the time, and that it would still be a gutsy episode to air now. I feel like it’s one of the peanut gallery’s favorite criticisms of ST nowadays to say it’s “colonialist” but this ep makes it pretty clear it’s not--that’s the opposite of the lesson of this story.

To attempt to explain better: I completely and unironically love Kirk but I do recognize that like all 3 dimensional characters he has flaws. In this ep, I thought that while his speeches and general point of view and strategic plan were definitely right for situations a population is oppressed--that people do have the power to fight back against dictatorships, even when the odds are bad, and that it is worth it to have the courage to fight back against such oppression--he was ultimately shown to be wrong in this instance because he wasn’t actually coming into that situation. He didn’t understand as much as he thought he did. He thought he was going to be the savior here: taking control for peoples who didn't know better, saving them from oppression, and then gifting them with technology and advancement as he understood it. The Federation wouldn't have enslaved them, but the Federation did want to use them. But the Organians really truly didn't need help--the native people understood their own needs better than the outside people. That's the lesson I took from the episode. Your intentions can be good but if you're coming into a foreign situation looking to control it, without understanding the actual people involved, you’re not being a true friend or ally, and you're likely to do no more harm than good. Opposition to tyranny has to come from the source, the oppressed peoples themselves.

When he refers to “weak, innocent people” standing in the way of superpowers in the beginning--he’s not attempting to derogatory, but that is a pretty demeaning characterization.

I also thought it interesting that the Organians can take any form they want and put their society at any stage of "advancement" they want and they chose a basic agrarian aesthetic. Cottagecore rights.

Kirk really had a confirmation bias when it came to the Organians. He had an image of them--innocent, weak, oppressed--and he only took information that fit with that characterization, rather than listening to them and what they were saying.

My mom and I also discussed whether this was IC or OOC of Kirk. I’m of two minds, myself. I think Kirk at his best is much more open-minded than this. His core morality is good faith, peace, friendliness, and care for all life forms, and there are plenty of examples of this (Charlie X, Mud’s Women, and The Corbomite Maneuver all immediately come to mind.) But he does have a blind spot that I think comes up often enough to be canonically part of his character: if something is threatening or killing his crew, or his people more broadly (the Federation), then ALL he cares about is neutralizing the threat. Rare alien? Possible scientific discovery? Might not have the full details of the situation? Doesn’t matter. I’m thinking The Man Trap, The Devil in the Dark, Arena. He wants to protect aliens, but not if the alien is killing his crew. He wants to make overtures of friendship, but not if the new being has already been aggressive.

I mean like I said... a part of me is like "no he is better than this!" but another part is like... well he does have that 'soldier' side of him, he is intensely loyal to his people. The “evil” Kirk of The Enemy Within. I think he just sometimes gets these blinders in certain situations when he's just sure he's right, which is very human.

Also although he's between McCoy and Spock on the continuum of "an objective right thing exists for all people and in all situations and we should always follow that morality" and "morality itself is relative, we should be respectful of alien ways of living even when we don’t understand them" I think in general Kirk and the show is more like McCoy. There IS a right morality here. (I’m thinking of The Apple or even A Taste of Armageddon.)

I also maintain that to say in 1967 "the very personality trait of being warlike is a common denominator between enemies at war" is a dramatic statement.

My mother suggested that Kirk was “strangely appealing” in his desire to save the Organians, with or without their help, and I do agree... I think that’s the complexity of the episode. The overall thrust of the plot is that Kirk was wrong--he’s left embarrassed at the end. I stand by what I said above. And they certainly go out of their way to show that the Klingons and Federation have something in common--namely, as I said, their very capacity to wage war, and interest in waging war.

BUT, as much as I get the point that they have certain similarities with the Federation--and I think this concept of 'these war-worthy disagreements seem trivial to an advanced and neutral species' is interesting, and even more so in comparison with A Taste of Armageddon which, as I said, is this same scenario from the Organians' POV essentially--at the same time it's a bit irritating to hear the democratic Federation compared to the oppressive dictatorship of the Klingons. Like yeah, okay, none of them are light beings and they both wanted to destroy each other--point taken. But would the Federation park itself on a random planet and kill 200 people the first day? I think not. So in this sense Kirk IS right. The Klingons are an adversary worth fighting, just not over the Organians.

I don’t know what I would think of his position if the Organians were being harmed but were also just...actually sheep. Like I guess I would say "well they have to have a reason.” And in fact they did--their bodies cannot be harmed, so they really don't care if the Klingons pretend to harm them. But I just can't comprehend people being like really honestly okay with that level of oppression, as opposed to too scared or too beaten down or too brainwashed to fight it, which is different.

...And from there we went into a discussion of curative v transformative fandom and yet more on what’s wrong with AOS sdfasfjsaldf it’s past 1 am I can’t be stopped BUT I SHOULD BE STOPPED.

#star trek tos #the year 2020 #2020: fandom thoughts #2020: star trek #omg this is long

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fipindustries · 4 years ago

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The ludomancer

So you heard of parahumans fans using their own lives to come up with triggers and create their own fan capes? well, that is more than well trodden ground so i figured lets take it an extra notch and figure out my own fan practitioner, my own fanctitioner! (disclaimer: many of of the personal details here were either exagerated or fabricated for dramatic effect)

backstory

i had open heart surgery when i was 6 months old, and if niccolette belanger is anything to go by, having big openings in your flesh at a very young age is free real state for persky spirits. Just imagine this giant entrance direct to my chest, leaving my heart ridden with holes and openly exposed.

Now this was in a very modern hospital in and incredibly sterile enviroment so is not like there were a lot of grisly phantasmagoric spirits crawling all over the place, you i was covered head to toe in technology, multiple wires and tubes and god knows what else all poking out of my chest, back in those days i was more machine than human. So with that in mind i like the idea that perhaps some fairly young spirits of electricity, technology, science and artificousness got inside me.

nothing too wild and powerful considering these things were all relatively recent by the standards of the practisce, but enough to have an influence. The general result is that i would be naturally inclined towards STEM fields, mad scientists, math and engeneering as a kid. I would constantly find myself getting involved into these enviroments (even when i didnt want to) such as going to a course in robotics, going to a high school soecialized in mechanics, studing computer science in college, etc.

my life would go on more or less like normal, the spirits slowly growing inside of me but always kept in check by my own essense and sense of self. Until...

Awareness

i changed careers and went to live at a college dorm in the middle of nowhere, five kilometers away from the nearest city, a small oasis of technology in the desert and the central hub for the Wi Fi of my state. As the years went by i became more and more isolated, my Conections grew weaker, my own sense of self got thinner and thinner (exacerbated by me finally questioning my gender identity). my prescence on the world was almost non existant, spending most of my time in my dorm in my computer not interacting with anyone, browsing ever incresingly more niche or obscure websites.

in this oasis of technology in the middle of nowhere, with my personal conections and sense of identity growing weaker, the spirits within me started to grow stronger and stronger, starting to screw with my very perception of reality, pushing things so that i would start to go down weird rabbit holes online, reading strange texts in impossibly formatted websites that would introduce strange ideas about the nature of reality, some times even downright attempting to posses me (i would try to rationalize these episodes where i would experience derealization as just panic attacts).

The spirits of technology would introduce me to forbidden ideas online, dangerous memetic cognitohazards, basiliks that would force me to perform obscure rituals to summon demonic entities from lost planes of reality, not aligned with human values. They would try and convince me that reality was a simulation and coax me to pierce the veil and see the true subyacent reality, that subatomic particles were capable of experiencing suffering, that i could be tortured for eternity if enough people were kept from getting dust specks in their eyes. If things had gone like that for much longer i would have probably ended up summoning or becoming an Ex Machina and probably an entire wing of the college campus would have been condemned.

Luckly in my college there just hapened to be a young dabbler who got wind of my situation. They took notice of me and were kind enough to put me in touch with an online community of witch hunters who specialized in cases like mine (the dabbler didnt take care of it themselves because they didnt want to accidentally reveal to me more than strictly necessary about the magic world, the group of witch hunters had a lot more experience solving this problems without the karmic burden of awakening someone)

The witch hunters were a fairly niche group within the larger community of witch hunters. They specialized in bayesian techniques. Using the tools of rationality to dispell illutions, glamours, mind tricks and half truths. They established firm rules for thinking and percieving the world so that Others wouldnt be able to decieve or manipulate them. Calling bullshit on the impossible. Their organization, the Magical Interference Restriction Institute, coordinated the efforts to develop safe protocols for the practisce in the digital age.

They exorcised most of it, gave me a few basic mental tools and rituals to keep the spirits in check and recommended me to try and forget about the whole affair. But fat chance about that, by this point my eyes had been opened.

The awakening

When i finished college and moved to a different city i did everything in my power to enter in contact with the practitioner world again. Walking around the city, reading craiglist adds, looking into different organizations. Of course i wasnt acting blindly, i was guided by some of the things that i had picked up during my posessions, the things the spirits had revealed to me, the forbidden texts that i had read and some of the advice the witch hunters gave me.

Eventually i managed to follow conections and came across a small cabal of practitioners who put the front of a board game club to recruit people and have a place to reunite while looking legitimate and not arising suspicion from the mundanes. The way the club would work was that on the front it was a normal place to play things like Catan, Carcassone, king of tokyo, etc. But on the back room they would “play test” new “games” between the senior members of the club. when in reality they would workshop new rituals to perform.

They would focus on a fairly recent branch of magic caled Ludomancy. Focused on the idea that any boardgame is in the end a ritual. it would be this communal activity with rules and mechanics, supported by the illution and the beliefs of the players who would manipulate symbols and idols across intricate diagrams.

they saw my experience with rules, logic and technology applied to magic and saw enough potential in me that they allowed me to join. Their awakening ritual is a bit different than most since they customized it based on their findings and experiences with rituals. Instead os sitting in a circle the circle is inscribed in a board. The piece that you use to move through the board has to be carved by you and has to be composed of elements that represent you and that are meaningful to you and it has to hold within a couple of drops of your blood.

You throw the dice and move across the board and depending on what places you fall in on of the cards will be drawn from the multiple decks. These cards will either give you challenges to overcome to prove yourself, make declarations and impositions on the kind of practitioner you will be once you awaken or just be criptic messages and riddles that wont be relevant or mean anything to you until many years down the line. You have to overcome the challenges, answer the questions posed by the cards and most of all, play the rules cleverly so that you can make your piece reach the center of the board and scream jumanji to complete the ritual. Now the rules of every awakening playthrough change and they can be incredibly intricate and complex, it can take a lot of cleverness of a lot of luck to finish this ritual but once you do you find yourself in a much firmer and powerful grounding than most begginers do.

the practice

i would probably focus on shamanism, collecting spirits here and there, slow and steady accumulation of a power base. i would like to get into constructs, acumulating spirits, helping them grow, give them a bit of my own power to help the process along, like sacrificing one drop of blood every week, or establishing small rituals of worship, and then mix and mashing them together to build more complex spirits, also i would probably offer small favors to the local practitioners in exchange of tibdits, trinkets and sources of power, always keeping it low profile and not too ambitious, something like helping with a ritual here and there, being a pair of extra hands, mostly giving help establishing magic circles and drawing diagrams, running small errands, sending messages. it would help let other people know that im not too much of a concern and hopefully they would let me be

if you need help or want to make an exchange with me you could come to my house and i would offer to play a game (usually one i made up) and in the process of playing the game i would perform the magic that you need or arrange the cosmological and quintessential pieces inside and outside of you according to your request.

My implement would be a set of D&D dices that i can use to make a bit of augury, affect probabilities, dictate outcomes and, in times of need, cheat at my games a bit. the rest of my equipment would be booklets and notebooks filled with my own designs, rulesets and texbooks, lots and of graph paper and one actual RPG supplement that i would use to bluff some of the more out of date Others by claiming that i have tomes filled with arcane spells and a full compendium of magicl creatures.

eventually i would try to diversify, focusing more on crafting and building, going more for the angle of the toy maker rather than game designer. I would build complex structures in papercraft, small mechanisms with cardboard, intricate contraptions with some clockwork and some springs.

i probably wouldnt get a familiar, i just dont see my self commiting to a life long companion. i would desperatly try to establish a demesne but that would also be rather complicated since i dont see my self owning property any time soon either.

#pale #pact #parahumans #wildbow #fan art #fan fic

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queennicoleinboots · 4 years ago

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Office Woes, part 1 (Michael the Great Arc Angel POV)

It was yet another day amidst a pandemic of the Coronavirus and spiritual warfare. It was my appointed task from Ahayah, the true creator of this world and all worlds, that I was to protect and serve the people of Gwinnett County, Georgia. I also was appointed to protect the people of Walton and Clarke Counties by Xara Nahara Campinelli. I am honored to be Michael the Great Arc Angel.

Once again, I spent my morning flying over people who had no concept of how to drive. They were going the wrong way through the intersections, shoving their cell phones in their butts while driving, and playing rap sounds. Rap is not a form of music. It offends me and Ahayah. When I hear it, I burn the source of the sound with laser eye beams. If I hear the "Ooh shit! You Got Coronavirus" song one more time, I plan to stomp on the vehicle where the car is coming from and of course spare the life of the son of a bitch who played that song.

In other news, a goat in a suit and tie was jacking off while he drove. He looked like Paul the Goat, the same goat who helped with quality control of produce in Kroger later that day.

At least Gwinnett County drivers weren't as terrible as those in Conyers, GA. It was truly the city of apes. Every time I fly over that city, my Intelligent Quotient drains from my mind and soul. I have to walk tall among the apes because my large angel wings don't work there. I question my angelic nature when I am there. I am the man on the fence who shrugs his shoulders. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. So I acted like an ape until I could fly again. I'm still in therapy with Ahayah about that issue. I go twice a month.

I arrived at the office in my majestic splendor. The cops and I saluted each other as I walked in the building. Goats, humans, arc angels, and bears were processing paperwork and bitching at the pigs who did dispatch. I had to process the paperwork, call Paw Patrol, a series of small dogs who were good at life, if any social services were required, and sing if any babies or mothers were upset at or around each other. My baritone voice calms down the general populace.

"Good morning! Good morning!" Ned, a short goat with glasses, brown curly hair, and a white shirt with a pocket protector, shouted. He bleated.

"Good morning. What's the situation?" I asked as I walked with strength to my desk.

"Gwinnet County hasn't burned to the ground yet. Melissa is late for work. La Bamba in Walton County is running a special of five tacos for five dollars. Ricky Valens hasn't been brought back to life to sing 'La Bamba.' Satan still thinks he is going to win the spiritual war going on outside. And BLM hasn't been summoned yet. CERN is still at large opening portals to hell. Edward Snowden is alive and in prison. We still have no access to the Vatican's telescope on Mount Graham in Arizona," Ned took a deep breath before continuing. "And the son of a bitch delivery boy from Grub Hub spilled my drink on the desk."

"Very good. I authorize a pardon for Melissa's lateness. She is at a meeting with Ahayah. I think it's about female stuff," I spoke, but then shouted. "WHY THE FUCK HASN'T RICHY VALENS been brought back to life? He is supposed to sing a cover of 'Earth Angel' at NOON!!!"

"I'm sorry. The pigs at Dispatch are fucking up the resurrection spell!" Ned shouted.

"AAAAHHHH!!!! Ahayah, guide me! I need the voice of Richy Valens! I need to practice singing so that the 'Earth Angel' can bless Georgia," I shouted.

All of a sudden, I heard "Oooooooh Donna!" come out of my mouth in Richy Valen's voice. I sang "Donna" to calm the pigs at Dispatch and to the children who needed Child Protective Services.

Melissa the Great Arc Angel flew through the door. Her brown hair flowed in the air as she descended into the office. Her blue eyes showed fury in them. "Sorry I'm late. I would have been later if Richy Valens wasn't singing. Thank you, Richy Valens," she said in a strong voice as she went to her desk. "When are we going to lunch? La Bamba is running a special on five tacos for five dollars, and I'm ready to get my dance on?"

"No problem. This beats working for the Angel of Death for seven years. Those stories are still great to tell at parties. Unfortunately, I had to steal the soul of a Richy Valens fan one time. Did I mention that I was the one who stole the soul of Courtney Love? Her music was okay, but she needed to stay off the drugs," I said as I printed documents for the pigs at Dispatch to deal with. I would hate to be those sons and daughters of possible bitches. "Also, I think lunch will be after the singing of 'Earth Angel.'"

Melissa the Great Arc Angel laughed loudly. "I took the soul of Kurt Cobain. I was singing Nirvana songs for weeks afterward. I'd like to talk about it at lunch," she said as she sent faxes to the Gwinnett County Fire Department. She added a snarky office chuckle.

"Good riddance. Eddie Vedder has a much better voice. I'd rather hear those stories," I said. "Why couldn't you take his soul?"

"Excuse me! Ahayah required him to live!" Melissa the Great Arc Angel said vehemently. "Would you like to talk about our back story to the new hires?" Her blue eyes and smile sparkled.

"True. But still, Kurt Cobain? How about the son of a bitch who is the lead singer if Smashing Pumpkins. That mother fucker is talented," I said. "Also! Back stories are NEVER to be discussed with new hires! George Lucas specifically made that a rule! Those are strictly for the break room!" I slammed my fist on my desk.

"Billy needed to tell his life story on the Joe Rogan show, and NOT to the new hires on set. Sorry, Michael. He and I both have the same question. Is making music really something that has to involve signing your life away to these record labels?" Melissa the Great Arc Angel asked.

"He had no idea what he got himself into until it was too late," I said before the printer jammed. I looked at it before I said, "You son of a bitch I don't have time for this shit!"

The printer was jamming up and malfunctioning.

"Yes, you asshole, you already printed this page," I said to the printer.

The printer then started printing in Spanish.

"Do any of the pigs in this office read Spanish?!" I asked. I understood Spanish, but it wasn't my job to deal with these notes.

The pigs were oinking up a storm as they called the police, firemen, rent-a-cops, sanitation workers, other dispatch offices, and churches.

I sighed. I took the notes to the pigs. Fuck it. They can figure it out.

A female pig linked and looked at the notes. "Ay caca! Otra vez de los hijos! Mama y papa estupidos hijos de las putas!" She started swearing in Spanish at Child Protective Services. Those kids were forced to wear clown suits and make videos to entertain the country clubs in Gwinnett County. I was hot with rage.

"THOSE BASTARDS HAVE PLENTY OF ENTERTAINMENT!!! CHILD CLOWNS ARE NOT ACCEPTABLE!" I shouted. The son of a bitch printer was still jammed.

What I read next was astounding. And I quote:

"An irate woman called the sheriff's department, the fire department, CNN, Fox News, and Todd from Myspace.com. She reported that Publix had moved the 'Whole Golden Kernel' corn 30 feet down the aisle from where it had been for over 20 years. The whole customer base was an outrage and wanted to beat the store owner's ass."

I screamed. "WHY THE FUCK DID THEY MOVE THE CORN????!!!" I shouted. I was so angry at all of this bullshit that I ripped the printer out of the wall and started beating the hell out of it with the sword.

"WHY THE FUCK WEREN'T THE POLICE CALLED FIVE MINUTES AGO?!" a bitchy pig from Dispatch asked.

"Michael the Great Arc Angel is beating the hell out of the printer!" Ned answered the bitchy pig.

"WHY THE FUCK IS HE DOING THAT?!" she asked.

"I DON'T KNOW! LET ME ASK!" Ned shouted. "MICHAEL THE GREAT ARC ANGEL, WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU BEATING THE PRINTER?!"

"I'M FIXING IT!!!" I shouted. "Goddamn mudder fudder..." I spoke in tongues at the printer as the reel ended up on the other side of the office. The black ink covered the dark green carpet which had ugly pink spots. The ink improved the carpet.

Miraculously, I fixed the printer and had it in working condition. Now that's what I call Imformation Technology! Orders were backed up, so the papers sprouted wings and flew to their respective desks. Everyone in the office was swearing as they tried to file paperwork. The pigs and bears were using the extra copies of the documents to wipe their asses.

Gabriel the Great Arc Angel burned his extra copies to relieve stress and anxiety. He also hired Peter Griffin for midday beer runs.

A call came in.

"Hello!" I shouted.

"Excuse me, sir. Are you sexually frustrated?" the caller asked.

I sighed and transferred that call to the pigs.

I was filing paperwork and checking E-mails before another call came in. "HELLO!!!" I shouted.

"Hello. Guiseppe would like to speak to you regarding business with the Mafia, Atlanta Chapter!" a guido sang to me.

"GODDAMMIT I TOLD YOU TO NEVER CALL ME ON THIS LINE!!!!" I shouted as I stood up and shot death lasers through my eyes at the wall in my cubicle that permanent permanent burn marks. The roof became temporarily detached from the building.

Ned came in and threw a cup of coffee at me before he galloped out of the office for a break.

I caught the coffee and drank it as I stared at that burn mark. The Guido transferred me to over to the Atlanta Mafia. The leader was a bear who was growling at me.

I growled in fluent bear and explained that there was a restraining order in place, and that those Italian bears were not to contact me. I faxed the documents proving that my loans were forgiven by Ahayah.

"SORRY! I WON'T BOTHER YOU AGAIN! THANK YOU!" the leader bear shouted as he hung up.

"YOU SON OF A BITCH BASTARD!!!" Melissa the Great Arc Angel screamed. "Send the fax to the Gwinnett County Medical Center you son of a bitch! PEOPLE'S LIVES ARE AT STAKE!!!" She was beating the desk near the fax machine.

I sighed, took a deep breath, and did what any responsible Great Arc Angel would do: rip the fax machine out of the wall and bang it against the top of my head several times over.

A black pig who looked like Mr. T just stared at me and asked, "What the fuck are you doing now?!"

"FIXING THE FAX MACHINE!" I shouted before the phone rang in my office.

Everyone else was too busy cussing at whatever to answer my phone. One exceptionally large male pig even screamed, "YES I AM SEXUALLY FRUSTRATED! WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT IT???!!!" So I walked over to my phone while I was still beating the fax machine against my head. Melissa the Great Arc Angel was singing "Part of that World" in Ariel from The Little Mermaid to someone on her phone line.

I answered the phone and started screaming and continued to beat the fax machine against the top of my head.

There was a pause at the other end of the line before a goat bleated.

I bleated, "I'm sorry we haven't faxed over the instructions to the EMTs at the Gwinnett County Medical Center. Our fax machine needs fixed."

He bleated, "That's some bullshit. A man is liberally being suffocated by COVID-19!"

I bleated, "Couldn't I just text the instructions over?" I was all the while beating the fax machine on my head.

He bleated, "I wish. Group texts never work. OH SHIT THE SONG IS PLAYING!"

I beat the fax machine to the rhythm of the "Ooh shit You Got Coronavirus!" song. I even added a dance as I finished beating the fax machine against my head. The damn thing was fixed, so I plugged it back into the wall near Melissa the Great Arc Angel. She was now singing "Poor Unfortunate Souls" in Ursula's voice. I think she was talking about everyone on Earth.

I bleated, "I'll be right over!" I then hung up the phone and flew the fuck out of the office at the speed of Superman. I used to be Superman until an orange female cat named Kissy meowed a great meow and called upon the Heavens in Swamp Business. Ahayah appointed me to answer the call of Kissy Anne Campinelli and gave me the title Great Arc Angel.

As I flew out of the office, a pterodactyl flew in and started screaming her head off. A goat spilled coffee and bleated swear words. That was a typical day at the office. My wings beat against the wind and rain outside. I sighed and flew over cars that were hydroplaning.

One of the cars was playing DarthSydePhineas nerd rap, and as much as I hate rap most of the time, this mother fucker is talented. I can see why Xara and Count Colonel Mac listen to this guy. I wanted to get on the ground and dance, but I had a life to save at the Gwinnett County Medical Center.

Some dumbass in a piece of shit sedan ran a red light in the middle of this storm. He was playing "Yeah!" by DarthSydePhil as he was speeding on the stream road: https://youtu.be/aZ7iZrpB2Lc

"No. Fuck this guy," I said as I sounded like DarthSydePhineas and swooped from the sky and lifted this guy off the road.

He screamed like the little bitch ass bitch he was.

I screamed back. "That's what I think of you. You damn near ran into that 2000 Toyota Tacoma who was rightfully trying to turn left. You're a bitch," I said.

"Am I going to hell?" the bitchass young kid driver asked.

"Not necessarily. It isn't my choice," I said as I flew his ass to the Gwinnett County Medical Center.

"I Spawn, I Die!" by DarthSydePhineas started playing from his radio. I agreed with the lyrics of the song: https://youtu.be/gVq03wz6DeA

"Where are you taking me?" the bitch ass bitch asked.

"To Gwinnett Medical Center. I have lives to save there. I am required to sing "Earth Angel" by Harry Waters, Jr. and Marvin Berry," I said.

"Who the fuck are they?" he asked. DarthSydePhineas was now talking bullshit about Fall Guys, a new video game in which everyone looks like a minion from Despicable Me.

"Musicians," I said before I threw that piece of shit sedan into the heavens. DarthSydePhineas's voice was fading away as his car flew the fuck into the sky. The last thing I heard DarthSydePhineas say "Oh shit. I got screwed!!!"

I descended into the Emergency Room and sang in my full baritone voice "Earth Angel" to an elderly couple that was close to death. It was then noon.

"Earth angel, Earth angel, will you be mine?

My darling dear, love you all the time.

I'm just a fool, a fool in love with you.

Earth angel, Earth angel, the one I adore

Love you for ever, and ever more.

I'm just a fool, a fool in love with you.

I fell for you, and I knew

The vision of your love's loveliness.

I hope and I pray, that some day

I'll be the vision of your hap, happiness.

Earth angel, Earth angel, please be mine.

My darling dear, love you all the time.

I'm just a fool, a fool in love with you.

I fell for you, and I knew

The vision of your love's loveliness.

I hope and I pray, that some day

I'll be the vision, the vision of your happiness.

Oh, oh, oh, Earth angel, Earth angel, please be mine.

My darling dear, love you for all time.

I'm just a fool, a fool in love with you."

The elderly couple ascended to heaven. Everyone was emotionally moved by this Code 1 situation, in which sirens and lights were sounding on cop cars around us.

The goat bleated and cried. "Thank you, Michael the Great Arc Angel," he said. "We are distraught. Can you sing songs to calm our nerves so that we can deal with living with this miserable world?"

A goat doctor announced, "They died from Covid-19. We get $8,000 from the federal government, but this situation is still sad."

I sang "Amazing Grace," "We Shall Overcome," "Like A Shepherd Who Feeds His Flock," "One Bread One Body," and "Ave Maria."

After my last note in "Ave Maria," a disgruntled pig called me.

"What code?" I sang in my booming baritone voice.

"CODE 1! A grass monster is attacking Dunkin Donuts in Snellville!" the pig screamed before he snorted and hung up.

I flew out of the Gwinnett County Medical Center and to Dunkin Donuts. A church choir was singing in the sidewalk. I sang a few notes before I damn near ran into Aladdin and Jasmine on the magical flying carpet. I sang a few notes before saying, "This fly zone is for government officials only!"

The grass monster was eating the donuts as he terrorized the customers of Dunkin Donuts.

I flew down in splendor as I flapped my large white wings for effect. My eyes were blue with rage. I stared at the grass monster. "Did you pay for those donuts?" I asked.

"YES! They fucked my order up. They forgot to add the corn to my cornbread donuts. Sons of bitches!!" the grass monster yelled as he ate the top of the restaurant.

"THOSE BASTARDS!" I shouted. "Did you kill anyone?"

"Not yet. Most of those assholes ran out of the building. Fuck them," the grass monster said as he ate the building.

"Good. Fuck them indeed. Anyway, I am heading to a better restaurant for lunch, care to join?" I asked.

"Hell yes. Where?" the grass monster asked.

"La Bamba," I answered.

"Ooooh. I love Mexican!" the grass Monster shouted.

"Let us go!" I shouted as I picked him up and flew out of there. What was left of the Dunkin Donuts building somehow became on fire. It was time for my lunch break. I didn't give a fuck. That Dunkin Donuts was horrible anyway.

We flew up so high in the sky that no one saw us. The grass monster was shouting with joy as we flew in the sky. Our descent was a bit rough. Aladdin and Jasmine were flying in the correct zone on their magic carpet.

"Excuse me! We're trying to get to La Bamba!" I shouted.

"Oh God! We always eat there! I'm trying to find a decent Middle Eastern Cuisine!" Jasmine shouted.

"Dilja Cafe Lounge in Decatur, GA," the grass monster said as we continued our descent into Loganville, GA.

"Thank you! Some asshole grass monster devoured the one we used to go to!" Aladdin called.

"The building tasted better than the food!" the grass monster called back.

We descended in the Loganville Crossing parking lot near La Bamba a few minutes later. I put the grass monster down before I brushed myself off.

He went in the restaurant. After flapping my wings to ensure no grass blades were on me, I walked in the restaurant.

Richy Valens was brought back to life. He was singing "La Bamba" in La Bamba! I hope to Goodness no one was going to say "La Bamba in La Bamba!" PeeWee Herman would be all over that.

Richy Valens's face was deep-faked on Melissa's body. Deep faking is a technology in which someone else's face can be programmed on your body. It's basic, really. I deep-faked Illidan's face on Grom Hellscream's face so many times when I played World of Warcraft, a popular multiplayer massive online roleplaying game.

I ordered the five tacos for five dollar special. The grass monster ordered the loaded nachos. He ate like crazy.

Richy Valens then returned to Heaven after he sang the song using Melissa the Great Arc Angel's body. Her face had returned.

"I'm starving!" she shouted as she stole one of my tacos.

"I PAID A DOLLAR FOR THAT!!!!" I shouted. The roof accidentally flew up from the restaurant. It then returned to its normal state.

"Sorry," she said as she finished her taco and ordered 50 tacos for $50. She WAS hungry.

"You will pay me back by not MENTIONING a back story on this restaurant," I said.

"I wasn't-" Melissa the Great Arc Angel started to say.

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mirkwoodshewolf · 5 years ago

Text

Chapter 2; Avengers Assemble

*Author’s note*

Like I promised, more chapters still to come. Here we are with chapter 2 ya’ll so I hope all of you are ready to buckle up and prepare yourself for the upcoming rollercoaster ride I’m about to put you guys through, this is just the start of the rising action (speaking as an English major here lol) Now I just have a specific request for all of you, I have linked a video to listen to as a scene is playing, can you all please listen to that song, it will definitely put you all in the scene, thank you all so much. Enjoy this next installment chap.

Taglist:

@psychosupernatural

@plethora-of-things

@ixchel-9275

@waddles03

_________________________________________________________

I felt a stroke of my head and when I opened my wolf eyes I saw Wanda kneeling beside me. My tail wagged softly, and I licked her cheek and she said to me.

“We’re here”. I stood up and looked out the window and saw a place that I had not seen in over 2 years.

The Avengers facility.

It had gotten some upgrades since I was here, but it was still my old home after the whole Ultron fiasco. I phased into my human form and said out loud.

“God in a way I’ve missed this place, this was my first real home in so long”.

“Mine too Wolfie, mine too” she said as she stood beside me.

“Come on you two, we’re heading in” said Nat as she peeked up at us from the bottom of the ramp. Wanda and I walked down and that’s when Sam piped in.

“And sleeping beauty awakes”.

“Shut up Birdbrain, I’ve been planning a wedding for the past several weeks and barely had any sleep doing it. When it comes time for you to find yourself a girl and tie the knot, I’ll be saying the same thing to you”. I said as I punched Sam in the arm with my metal arm making him cry out in pain.

“Alright you two, calm down. We’re heading in and we may not be the best people to see right about now” said Steve. We all then walked inside and walked towards the conference wing to see Rhodey on virtual comm-link with the man that started all this bullshit between the Avengers, Secretary Ross.

I walked between Steve and Natasha as we all piled in and Steve said.

“Mr. Secretary”.

‘You’ve got some nerve, I’ll give you that’ Secretary Ross stated as his hologram walked up towards us.

“You could use some of that right now”. His attention then turned towards me and he said.

‘And you—you’re still alive?’

“Surprise bitch. Throw me to the wolves and I’ll come back leading the pack” I stated smugly with a grin but also showing him my wolf eyes telling him that I was done playing by his rules. If he hadn’t come in with his fancy suit and law-making small talk, telling us we were a danger to the world, maybe all of this could have been prevented before it even started.

‘The world’s on fire, and you think all is forgiven?’ Ross said as he walked up and stared down Steve.

“I’m not looking for forgiveness, and I’m way past asking permission. Earth just lost her best defender, so we’re here to fight”. He then walked right up to Ross and finished, “And if you wanna stand in our way….we’ll fight you too”. Ross then turned to Rhodes and said plain and bluntly.

‘Arrest them’.

“All over it”. He then swiped Ross away and soon the table of pointless diplomats and generals disappeared from our sights as the computer beeped. “That’s a court-martial” he said. But in the end, he shrugged it off and said as he held out his hand, “It’s great to see you, Cap”.

Steve walked down to Rhodes and the two of them shook hands as Steve said.

“You too, Rhodey”. Nat soon joined in and the two of them hugged each other and soon Rhodey’s attention came onto me.

“And look at you She-wolf, nice suit”. I smiled at him and walked down the steps and hugged the man I looked to as an uncle.

“Ohh Rhodey I missed you, how are your legs?”

“Ahh you know, at least it was just my legs and not my life. But Stark took care of it with these,” I soon took notice of the devices connected to Rhodey’s legs and that’s when he noticed my arm. “What happened there? That didn’t happen in Siberia did it?”

“No, no. Well long story short Klaue blew it up with his sonic canon arm as I was trying to save some boys, then my mother killed him in vengeance. Was depressed for weeks until finally I decided what the hell give me a metal arm like my brother Bucky”.

“Klaue did that to you?” asked Steve.

“Yep, but like I said he’s dead and been dead for 2 years now thanks to my mother”.

“Your mother? Wait I thought your parents died when Hydra invaded your village?” asked Sam.

“Not my birth mom, there’s this woman whose an old friend of T’Challa’s, she trained me, taught me some mystic arts, helped Bucky with his trigger words and long story short I call her my mom since she became like a mother figure for me while I was in Wakanda. You may have heard of the Jaguar, that’s her”.

“Wait that name rings a bell, yeah in South America the Jaguar once stopped an illegal trade of Hydra intel and experiments, that was her?” said Nat.

“Yep, that’s my mommy”. After that exchange of stories, Rhodey then piped up as he got a look at Sam, Wanda and Vision.

“Wow, you guys…..really look like crap. Must’ve been a rough couple of years”.

“Yeah, well the hotels weren’t exactly five star” teased Sam.

“Uh, I think you look great”. We all turned around and soon coming out of a room was Bruce Banner.

Wow, I had not seen this guy ever since Sokovia, he had disappeared supposedly when he tossed Ultron out of the quinjet and then we never heard from him since, but now here he was alive and well.

“Uhh—Yeah I’m….I’m back” he stammered softly. With one sniff of the air, I could smell the awkwardness as Nat stated at him and she said softly.

“Hi Bruce”.

“Nat” he nodded softly at her. Silence rang through the air and that’s when I heard Sam whisper.

“This is awkward”.

“You’re telling me, you should sniff the air” I muttered back to him.

We now stood in the conference room with an image of the two aliens we had just fought. Bruce had explained to us exactly just who these guys were and who we were going to go up against, a mad Titan named Thanos who wanted to destroy half the galaxy once he got all six Infinity stones.

Bruce said that he had already killed half of Thor’s people just shortly after them escaping Asgard from some war with his sister and he didn’t know whether Thor and Loki were still alive or not.

“So, we gotta assume they’re coming back, right?” asked Rhodey.

“And they can clearly find us” stated Wanda.

“We need all hands on deck, where’s Clint?” asked Bruce.

“After the whole accord situation, he and Scott took a deal. It was too tough on their families. They’re on house arrest” explained Nat.

“Who’s Scott?” asked Bruce.

“Ant-Man” answered Steve.

“There’s an Ant-man and a Spider-man?” I rolled my eyes remembering that little punk kid from the airport. He seemed charming but due to us being on opposing teams, I couldn’t really like him. Plus, he was a showoff. “Okay look, Thanos has the biggest army in the universe…and he is not gonna stop until he gets—Vision’s stone”.

“Then we have to protect it” I said.

“No, we have to destroy it” Vision spoke up as he was leaning against the back door. We all turned to him and he continued, “I’ve been giving a good deal of thought to this entity in my head about its nature. But also, its composition. I think if it were exposed to a sufficiently powerful energy source…something very similar to its own signature, perhaps….its molecular integrity could fail” Vision now stood in front of my sister.

“Yeah and you with it. We’re not having this conversation” Wanda stated firmly.

“Eliminating the stone is the only way to be certain Thanos can’t get it” Vision tried to reason with her.

“That’s too high a price” my sister said. Vision cupped her head gingerly and he said as he stared into her eyes.

“Only you have the power to pay it”. Wanda looked at him before walking away and not looking back on him as she stood beside me. I took her hand in mine and squeezed it comfortingly as Vision continued, “Thanos threatens half the universe, one life cannot stand in the way of defeating him”.

“But it should,” said Steve. “We don’t trade lives, Vision”.

“Captain, 70 years ago, you laid down your life to save how many millions of people? Tell me, why is this any different?”

“Because you might have a choice” stated Bruce. He walked up to Steve and Vision and said to Vision, “Your mind is made up of a complex construct of overlays. Jarvis, Ultron, Tony, me, the stone. All of them mixed together, all of them learning from one another”.

“You’re saying Vision isn’t just the stone?” asked Wanda.

“I’m saying that if we take out the stone, there’s still a whole lot of Vision left. Perhaps the best parts” explained Bruce as he turned toward my sister.

“Can we do that?” asked Nat.

“Not me, not here” said Bruce.

“Well you better find someone and somewhere fast. Ross isn’t just gonna let you guys have your old rooms back” said Rhodey.

I looked down at my metal arm as well as my suit and turned toward Steve who was already looking at me. I grinned at him and it was then Steve spoke up.

“(Y/n) and I know somewhere”. I smirked softly, and I hopped off the table and said.

“I’ll make the call”. I then walked out of the conference room and walked down the familiar hallways towards my room to get something I knew no one would think of importance.

My essence.

Play video

I picked up as many as I could and then quickly raced outside. I set the four large essence sticks representing a compass before closing the gaps with stones that I could find. The rest of the team came out and Bruce said.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just give them a call?”

“Spiritual communication is the faster way to reach the one person I know who can get to T’Challa”.

“Your mother?” asked Wanda. I nodded then I said.

“Now I need you all to step back and try not to disrupt my concentration, what you are about to see will be—intense”. I then raised my hands up in the air and chanted out in Cherokee.

Graceful winds of the spirit world,

I beseech thee, hear my howls.

I slowly lowered my hands and made a few more hand motions.

The Wolf Messenger seeks to you.

Carry her message with your might.

Carry my message in your spirit arms.

Send my soul to the one I seek.

I picked up my hand which held some dust and soil at the palm of it and I slowly blew on it, sending it into the wind. Around us, the wind slowly began to pick up and suddenly a light began to shine within me and my eyes went pure gold.

I let out an exhale and soon coming out of my was an aurora that almost resembled the Northern Lights and soon it began to take shape in the air until it formed a beautiful blue and purple wolf with stars for eyes.

*3rd Person POV*

The Avengers stared in pure awe at what was happening before them. Once the wolf took full shape and stood just as tall as (y/n)’s wolf form was, Wanda spoke up.

“(Y/n)? Is that you?” The wolf nodded once before letting out a proud howl and soon shot up like a beam of light before shooting across the sky.

Out in space through the night sky, (y/n)’s spirit ran through the sky, trailing and creating the Northern Lights as she raced across the sky towards Africa. Even in the daytime, the Northern lights shined proudly just as they would if it had been nightfall. She continued to race through the skies with great speed until finally she reached just where she needed to be.

Wakanda.

In the palace, Okoye and Morowa were discussing the plans for the upcoming war that was to come when Morowa felt a strong, magical presence heading her way.

“What is it?” asked Okoye.

“Don’t worry nothing bad” answered Morowa. She then saw the Northern lights suddenly appear in the sky and that’s when a voice cried out to her.

‘Mother. Mother’. She turned around and there standing just a few feet away from her was a giant spirit wolf. Her spiritual tail gently waving almost like wind was blowing against it and the fur around her neck was doing the same thing. Okoye suddenly went on the defense holding her spear outward when the wolf spoke again, ‘For someone who always prays to the ancestors, you’d think you’d know magic when you see it Okoye’.

“(Y/n)?” she asked. The wolf nodded before turning back towards her mother.

“What’s wrong (y/n)?” asked Morowa.

‘Nothing in particular, I just need to ask T’Challa and Shuri something, where are they?’

“I will get them” stated Okoye before leaving the room. The two waited for a moment when she finally came back with the King and Princess of Wakanda.

“What is it (y/n)?” asked T’Challa.

‘Well for one thing I have to ask this, what army are we looking at so far to fight this war?’

“The King’s guard and the Dora Milaje have been alerted. Those that are left of the Border tribe, the Jabari and of course the chimeras” stated T’Challa.

‘Good, now remember how I told you about the stone and Vision?’ she said. They all nodded. ‘Well we’ve come to the decision to try and remove the stone from Vision, but we can’t do that in New York. Shuri do you think you can do it?’

“Hand over the droid that I seek, and I’ll see what I can do” she stated.

‘Good. And of course, since we’re technically made of up wanted criminals I will need the King’s permission to enter Wakanda’.

“You and your friends may enter; how soon can you get here?”

‘We’ll leave immediately as soon as I get back to my body’ (y/n) said. Suddenly a bright light shone in the room and (y/n)’s wolf spirit disappeared and was immediately back in her physical body.

*My POV*

My astral wolf form soon entered back into my body and I let out a wide gasp before panting softly. Steve came up beside me with a hand to my shoulder and I waved him off telling him I was fine.

“I’m fine, I just never get used to the reentry”. He helped me stand up and I said. “Fire up the quinjet, we’re going to Wakanda”.

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holy-mountaineering · 6 years ago

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This spread is for @welcomedmachine

Thanks for the donation and being cool about this taking a week or something!

Tonight you’re getting the full Qabalistic Tree of Life Spread that I do and here you are. What I’m going to do is go through and briefly explain each card, its position on the Tree, and then I’ll give you a summary/synopsis of the spread as a whole.

Think of this spread as a sort of quantum map, or even the land of a regular map, everything is happening at once, in each place. It’s important to think of yourself as moving “through” the map but you are also simultaneously everywhere at once. For the sake of this specific experiment, think of this as a map.

Where we’re starting the journey from is Kether, the monad, the first sign of creation. We’ll call this your hometown, since it is where you’re from originally. Here we have XV The Devil OR The Lord of the Gates of Matter, Ayin, Capricorn.

The Goat-Fish who is half in the mountains and half in the deeps of the oceans, high places and the deep. This guy gets a REALLY bad rap that is very unwarranted. All The Devil is trying to do is Incarnate or materialize by Higher methods.

The card is a giant cock with faceless little white people in the balls looking like they want out, again, possibility trying to take hold and become a physical thing. The Devil IS a trickster (“you little devil” and assorted shit sayings like that) so that worries some people. Those people are squares and probably have bad taste in music.

Manifest your potential and figure it out when it’s “real” and not just a passing thought or whim.

In Chokmah, which is like your freeway getting you out onto the road out of your hometown is the 9 of Cups, Happiness.

I call this ‘mutually beneficial relationships’ or expanding influence (Jupiter) going or being pulled both ways (Pisces). Each cup has its own source but everything is flowing into each other down to the base of the 3x3 structure. There is a lot of water and all it represents and it hasn’t reached its peak yet and is still driving upward and outward. Cultivate relationships and connective feelings that aren’t lopsided or just giving/taking. Keep building you’re not done yet.

In Binah, which is ruled by Saturn and for the sake of this reading we will call the first stop on your roadtrip. You haven’t really arrived anywhere but you’re stopping and getting a chance to repack your car in a more efficient way. Sitting in Binah is VI The Lovers.

These Lovers aren’t about romantic love as much as it is the ‘Love unites the divided.’ This is the ceremony part of the alchemical wedding or the announcement of the intention to dissolve duality. Coagula.

All inverse and adverse elements of the card are brought together under the blessing of the Initiator who is giving the sign of the enterer. This is to say he is blessing your entering into this union of your shadow and conscious self. You have some work to do on making a more unified you. There are issues that once brought together and balanced make more sense. Bring opposites or aspects of yourself you’re not familiar with/comfortable with together in your life to make a more complete whole. Set intention to do this, maybe even formally.

In Chesed which is ruled by Jupiter and again for the sake of this experiment we’ll say involves your influence and benevolence in your current trip is XIX The Sun, Resh, Sol.

The Sun is The Lord of Light and Life, the center of our little Solar System. Everything in the fairly large gravitational pull of the Sun is affected by it which pulls everything to it. This more or less self sufficient little nuclear reactor in space gives life and light but also pulls small things which cannot maintain an orbit around it in for the final burn. bright and full of life and light but deal not with bullshit trifles.

Center yourself but be aware of what you effect and how.

Across the Tree in Geburah, which is Mars Town, where you find your drive and what you’re trying to accomplish/conquer is a big one and one that linearly follows the next card also, XX The Aeon, Shin, Fire.

Think about where you are now and how you go about doing things in general. Do you remember a time before this point in your life when you acted differently and didn’t have this kind of understanding of the world? The Aeon is a new understanding and thus a new way of acting in your life.

Harpocrates giving the sign of silence has to do with the meditative process of accepting this new law of life. You must truly grasp the meaning of this change in order to act in the new “spirit of the age” if you will.

You are being born anew through fire and blood, you are emerging from the egg in the background and coming forth. What you take away from this will be with you forever but one day will also be improved on and brought to a new level.

In Tiphareth, the Sun and center of gravity holding all this in place, the heart pumping the blood through this, your heart is the 2 of Cups, Love.

Like all the 2s the deuces of Water is building towards completion. This is the ever becomingness of love. Love never dies it is simply transformed like any other energy. Love isn’t a competition or something you can measure. You never stop loving someone/thing because you have “reached maximum love levels”, shake hands and walk away from it. There is no end-game to love and that’s why it’s scary and makes people act like idiots sometimes. Astrologically, Venus in Cancer can be interpreted as nurturing your emotional growth.

Build on what you’re feeling and don’t try to think about anything too concretely emotionally or intuitively. This is a building process so try not to focus on the final outcome but work with what you have now.

In Netzach, Venus town, where you have the realization about how this is going to change you as a person with a personality is XIV ART, Samekh, Sagittarius.

This is the process of the actual Art of Alchemy, the taking apart, putting back together, and purifying. Duality is being dissolved and it’s being used as rocket fuel to project you outward into the Universe. The hermaphrodite alchemist takes the substances at her disposal and works them to make a purer more useful creation. The cauldron has a momento mori that symbolizes that death or real change is a key to dissolving.

You have to change yourself, burn away the bullshit. Break things apart to their various components so you can use the parts to build them again to be useful.

In Mercury Town Hod-ville, where all the Universities are and everyone has real intellectual shit going on is the Ace of Wands

The root power or source of Fire, action, motion. The Ace of Wands or Fire is the big bang of impetus to action, every other motion afterward is spawned from that moment. In practical terms this is the initial event or action that in it’s uncontrolled state causes a series of reactions. The first drive toward an end or event, the force that sets things in motion. The explosion that brings things to life might be a really messy ordeal. This is all the subtlety of a burning baseball bat with ten flames for nails. Regardless of the problem of stagnant things getting burnt, the Ace of Wands causes shit to happen and Will to drive forward. Remember that this is a tool, the Wand of the Magus and should only be profaned in useful and/or hilarious ways. You wouldn’t use a flaming baseball bat to get a moth off of your curtains (probably) and so the Ace of Fire can also be related to brute force or overreaching the necessary force.

On the Moon in Yesod, the receptive and reflective place that is alot about the feelings that you’re picking up from all this is the Knight of Cups, the fiery part of Water or acting on feeling.

Ideally this is the drive to seek higher connections and feelings and being driven by intuition and love. Just don’t fall for illusions and false ideals. This is the love that brings you closer to connecting with everything, recognizing connection and it’s drive. This is the Arthurian tale of chasing the Holy Grail *Insert Monty Python joke here* simply to have a true connection to their god. Seek love like that.

Act on what you feel and truly intuit but only to the ends of unselfish almost worshipful Love. Do things that get you really really feeling.

Down here in Malkuth-istan, the everyday life mundane, waking up pooping, and going to work world is, wait for it, VIII Adjustment, Lamed, Libra.

These are the scales of balance in the higher order of things in your life. The scales are naturally balanced, but it is when we add things onto either side of the scale that it becomes tricky. To return to balance you have to remove things or add on things. Such is a balanced life.

The person who is the beam which the scales are balanced on is not blind justice, she wears a mask, not a blindfold. She carries the Sword of the Magus, which is to say she uses her reasoning powers to cut away imbalance.

You are the crux, balance your mind in higher regards. Add things or take away according to the balance it creates.

So, I feel like you already know what this is about but let’s look further. You’ve got the need to manifest your Will in a real tangible way that balances out both your relationships outside and inside of yourself. There is a need to blend these dualities that’re fucking you up. You know how to, you might not want to, but you know how to.

Speaking of that, you’ve gotta reorient yourself to being about you again. It’s not bad to think “it’s all about you” because, while you’re in that skin, you are you and so it IS all about you. And all this is important because there are big changes in the way you understand what’s what in the works, you’re already feeling that. And remember, love isn’t a contest, self love is a marathon and you’re the only one running it.

In how you see yourself and your progress, you gotta take the time to do the work to make the changes you want. It is as simple as putting your mind to it and beating it to death with a flaming baseball bat, because, that is what is important to you. You cannot live one more godforsaken day not seeking what drives you, what is good and pure and makes life worth living.

“Thou hast no right but to do thy will. Do that and no other shall say nay. For pure will, unassuaged of purpose, delivered from the lust of result, is every way perfect.”

Ta Da!

Hit me up with any questions!

#tarot spreads #welcomedmachine

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lyricalt · 7 years ago

Text

[ovw] House Rules (1/??)

Rating: T Characters: Jesse McCree, Gabriel Reyes. (More cast to come.) Summary: An AU where McCree joins Blackwatch after Genji. Everything is mostly the same, just a little bit worse.

Thank you, Eddi, for suggesting the AU and then when I said “I don’t think much would change”, responded with a single DM that kind of destroyed me? Anyway, to quote her, she wanted something like “[…] seasoned blackwatch agent genji under orders to whip an older but no less bratty deadlock mccree into shape”. She also asked me if it was hot or not. Maybe..? Maybe.

Happy (early) birthday, Eddi. Fiend.

Notes:

Ages are the same, only Genji has seniority over McCree as an agent.

Genji was recruited to Blackwatch at 20. He is now 25. (edit: with Retribution canon released, I’m throwing up my hands and following Blizzard’s example with being super vague about dates. Genji is still 25. McCree is 27.)

I’ll try to update once a week, or more. I have written… a lot of it. I’ll move it over to AO3 once I’ve got… hopefully… more chapters.

[part 1 | [part 2] | [part 3]

It was McCree’s own fault that he ended up in Blackwatch. Twenty-seven years old and thinking he was all subtle cleverness when he demanded to see whoever was in charge, and in came Commander Gabriel Reyes without a smile.

“You wanted to see me?” asked the Blackwatch Commander. He sat across from McCree, the little room bright with white walls and a soft light that wasn’t too harsh on the eyes. It felt more like an office than a cell for prisoners.

McCree shifted his hands, chained to the table where he rested them. Of course, most offices didn’t have furniture with metal fixtures and bolts, and a door made from both steel and hardlight. He took stock of Reyes, making a judgement call to keep his face as serious as possible. It wasn’t going to be like bargaining with the other lowlife gangs where McCree could get away with a cocky grin and a hand to his gun. Reyes didn’t look the type to respond well to humor.

“I’d like to make a deal,” said McCree, confident but not desperate. Like he knew what was what, and that his offer wasn’t just some panicked grab for freedom.

Reyes snorted, expression still unsmiling but there was a spark of amusement in the way his eyes crinkled. “You’re in no position to do that.”

“Whoops. ‘Scuse me, guess I worded it wrong. Believe me, I know I’m in no position to make any demands, but I figured I throw out an offer anyway,” McCree said, ducking his head a little. Made him look contrite and embarrassed for the most part, and in a way, he partially was—though he kept other tics to show for it.

“I see. Well, since I’ve got so much time on my hands,” Reyes said, voice a slight drawl to indicate that he did not, in fact, have a whole lot of time on his hands. “Let’s hear it.”

McCree inwardly winced, knowing somehow there were going to be repercussions for him if he ended up wasting Reyes’ time. But repercussions didn’t mean shit when he was already cornered and bookended. He had been too high up on the Deadlock chain of command to get off scot free, and too old to go anywhere but prison. He thought of Joel, who was seventeen when the raid caught them, and after asking around found out the boy was going to be tried as a minor. McCree felt a little relieved at that; Joel hadn’t killed anyone, was only a runner boy when it came down to it.

It was a shame now that McCree hadn’t been in the same boat; he had killed at least a dozen of Overwatch’s agents during the raid before a stray bullet had caught him in the chest and he’d blacked out with a sudden sharp pain between his eyes. As for the rest of Deadlock, McCree assumed most of them were dead or half a step away to rotting in prison like him.

He leaned forward, ignoring the way the tacky bandages shifted across the wound over his chest.

“I’ll be honest, if this doesn’t work out, you can count that I’ll go to court, guilty as charged. I ain’t stupid enough to think I’ll get away with anything,” McCree said. He threw Reyes a considering look, calm settling in his bones. He wasn’t as good with his words as he was with his gun, but the leveled feeling was the same. “And I’ll serve my time for that good long while, for everything I’m convicted of. Quiet and meek as a mouse.”

Commander Reyes’ eyes narrowed. “You have information.”

“Sure I do. I’ll tell you everything related to my trial, of course. I know what I’m guilty of. I’ll cooperate.”

“You have no choice but to cooperate with us, but I appreciate the willingness.”

McCree figured Reyes for a smart man. The commander knew how to negotiate between the lines and it showed in the way he was conscious of allowing McCree to speak obliquely. He trusted the white room to be monitored, though he wasn’t sure what kind of hold Reyes had over the bureaucratic end of Overwatch—and McCree did believe Overwatch had a hand in with Blackwatch. And Blackwatch, he knew, was just as legal as Deadlock, only with a bit more funding and friends in the right places.

“I do love to be useful,” McCree demurred.

No legal organization would fight the way Blackwatch did during the raid. His heart ticked upwards, remembering how they painted the Deadlock walls red with blood.

Reyes didn’t answer him right away, but neither did it look like he was contemplating it very much.

Unable to help himself, McCree raised an eyebrow. “Now you’re just wastin’ your own time here.”

Reyes didn’t seem pleased by his comment but he wasn’t baited. “I’m just wondering how useful you’d be.”

McCree let out a short breath. He’d been holding it, and Reyes’ gaze flickered, ever observant. Damn.

“Tell you what, I’ll give you an example right here, right now,” he said, pushing forward. No use holding back now. “I happen to know that Deadlock had a planned shipment with Los Muertos sometime later this week. ‘Course, they’ll know that Deadlock’s outta the business by now, but play your cards right and you might be able to catch some of ‘em hanging ‘round their safehouses nearby.”

Reyes’ started to look a little more attentive, which McCree thought was already excessive. The man had eyes like a hawk.

“Locations,” Reyes said, with all the ease of a commander used to giving orders. It certainly hadn’t been a question.

So McCree gave them.

“I’ll see you in a week,” he said, once Reyes got up from his seat.

“Don’t hold your breath,” Reyes said, and left McCree to wait in his cell once more.

It was two weeks before McCree saw Reyes again. By then McCree was bored out of his mind and halfway to being stir crazy. Prison was going to be a downright bastard of a time if he couldn’t bargain his way into Blackwatch.

“So? How’d it go?” McCree asked, bored enough to have the suicidal impulse of acting cheeky. He was back in the white room. Same table but no cuffs. He took it as a good sign.

“You are useful,” Reyes said, sounding so surprised that McCree could only assume he was being condescending. He dropped a tablet in front of McCree, reports and images projecting into the air between them.

There were pictures of bodies, lists of inventory, and a roster that seemed to imply casualties on the Los Muertos’ side—plus a few names that rang familiar in McCree’s mind, though he could’ve sworn they had belonged to other gangs. This was more than a few safehouses, more than what McCree had told Reyes two weeks ago.

“No bullshit this time. I’m gonna speak plainly,” Reyes said. “Your information was very good. We were able to extrapolate a few more locations from other sources, using your information as a guide.”

McCree shrugged. “Figured you guys might. And?”

“Ruthless, aren’t you?”

“Useful,” McCree corrected with emphasis.

For some reason, Reyes didn’t look too satisfied by the answer, only more wary. “You think you can keep being useful?”

“Even more so, if you good folks are recruiting.”

“We might be,” Reyes replied blandly. “You got any terms? I want to make sure we’re on the same page here.”

“Wouldn’t dream of making demands,” McCree murmured politely. “I’d be happy to just not rot in prison.”

To his surprise, Reyes stood up from his chair.

“I thought so,” Reyes said. He motioned to someone outside the cell, and the hardlight door flickered for a second, allowing a duffle bag to be tossed into the room. Reyes picked it up and let the whole thing drop into McCree’s lap. “Get up. Put on the jacket.”

McCree clutched at the bag, unable to move. “What?”

“The jacket’s in the bag,” Reyes said patiently.

McCree unzipped the duffle bag and pulled out the jacket, the Blackwatch symbol pressed to one sleeve. He stared.

“I thought… maybe this would’ve taken another week,” he tried, glancing back up.

Reyes scoffed. “I was planning to recruit you two weeks ago when we first met, but you started talking all on your own. Didn’t think you’d be an informant at the time.”

McCree could feel his blood run cold, hands gripping over the Blackwatch uniform. His new uniform.

“I like your initiative though,” Reyes added, though it was like pouring salt on the wound. “And you are very good with a gun.”

The shock was wearing off. McCree knew he ought to be grateful, but instead he was angry. He glared at Reyes. “So I’m in? Just like that?”

“Well, you didn’t have any terms, and I did ask. Lack of negotiations tends to speed things up,” Reyes said. To his credit, he didn’t laugh or look too smug about it.

McCree opened his mouth, wordless, and then snapped it shut. It wouldn’t do any good to state his terms now. He’d been so focused on trying to not go to prison, he hadn’t thought beyond getting into Blackwatch. And it had been that easy, at the high cost of his pride.

Reyes must have noticed his furious silence. With something that sounded suspiciously like sympathy, he added, “Word of advice; next time, don’t try to mess around so much with Overwatch. You’re a gambling man, yeah? So go ahead and play your cards right, but you should know by now the house always wins.”

More silence. Reyes waited.

McCree pulled the jacket over his shoulders.

[part 1 | [part 2] | [part 3]

#jesse mccree #gabriel reyes #blackwatch #overwatch #fic: house rules

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sebtheromanianprince · 7 years ago

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A Night With No Moon

Pairing: Sebastian x Succubus Reader

Words: 2062

Warnings: Some language, considerations of murder/kidnapping.

Summary: You’re a succubus from a powerful line on the prowl for your next victim when one night, a chance encounter changes the dynamic between the hunter and the hunted.

A/N: This is my first time posting my work so I’d appreciate some feedback! Not sure how many parts this is going to be but I hope you all will stick around. It WILL get NSFW real quick and there well be dub/con so please be careful. (All mistakes are mine. I tried to edit.)

It’s not always the unique smell of arousal and longing that attracts you to your victims. On occasion it will be the forlorn call of a sincere heart. The beat of such a one is like a dog whistle to your heightened succubus senses. Paired with heartbreak, it’s the most delectable kind of treat for the damned. This particular mix has a name among your kind: mors amoris, death of love. In your several hundred years of existence you have only had the privilege of taking two such morsels, both gone before your thirst could be sated. The thought makes you smile. There has never been a succubus that could be satisfied by a mortal for long. At most they are an ephemeral pet and at the very least, a snack.

Your belly gives an uncomfortable twinge to remind you that you haven’t eaten in a while. Succubus don’t need to feed often, but like every other pleasure it is one that you love to indulge on a whim. This is why you are most likely to be encountered at a nightclub. A dark venue crowded with people and their lowered inhibitions is your preferred hunting ground for various reasons. You can take as little as a few sips in a corner or bait your meal to a more private place. Sometimes the club will be owned by a fellow succubus or her thrall. In that case you needn’t go far to clean up after yourself.

The club you currently find yourself in is run by humans. It has a spacious dance floor, with a bar on one side and a raised platform on the other, both spanning the length of the room. On the ends are stairs leading up to a second floor filled with black semi-circle couches, small tables, stools, and various nooks half hidden with decorative ceiling-to-floor cloth. The hot press of bodies is delicious. The smell of sweat and skin has you licking your lips as you move through with the crowd to the beat of the music vibrating up from the floor. Hunger makes your senses more acute.

A particularly tantalizing scent makes your head turn to its source: a tall, dark haired man. His jawline is sharp, curving towards a dimpled chin. Dark eyelashes shadow steely blue eyes as he watches a long-haired woman dance seductively with another man. Even from a distance you can see his full lips become a hard line. You make your way forward, nose sampling his smell as you note his expression become more and more pained. Under the pounding of the music you hear it, the halting beat of a breaking heart. The sound sends shivers down your spine, making you quicken your stride.

At this point you are near enough that you are immediately hit with his new scent: mors amoris. The undertones of unfulfilled desire have your fangs growing in your mouth, and not a moment too soon. Three other succubae have caught a trace of the fragrance and are making their way towards the man even as he knocks back a shot with closed eyes. Before they can advance any further you stake your claim, lips curling back from your teeth. At a decibel too low for humans to hear, you growl out a warning, eyes flashing in the near darkness of the club. The demonesses stop and lock glowing eyes with you, sizing you up. Whoever this man is, he is too much of a delicacy to just give up without a challenge.

You watch them begin to circle, their forms becoming immaterial to move easily in the crowded venue. With your back to your chosen prey, you adopt a defensive stance and use your last remaining option to stop the fight before it begins: your bloodline. Digging your sharp nails into your palm, you draw blood and hold your hand aloft. Red pools in the cup of your fingers and with it the sharp aroma of power and age. You are a daughter of Eisheth, the third queen of demons, and as such outrank them by a wide margin. The force of your authority compels them to bend to your claim. You answer their glowering faces with a smirk as they slink away into the shadows, unable to break the chain of rule that governs your kind.

A slight tingling blossoms in your hand as your flesh knits together, removing any trace of blood from your skin. You turn in time to catch a man with dark almond shaped eyes sling a friendly arm around your target’s broad shoulders.

“Hey Seb! You gonna have some shots with the rest of us or are you getting shitfaced all by yourself?”

You casually take a seat at a table near the bar as you listen to their conversation, throwing up a glamour to subtly repel any unwanted attention. You don’t need common blood pestering you while you analyze your prey.

Seb gives his friend a halfhearted smile as he rubs his neck in a tired fashion. “I was thinking of calling it a night actually.”

“What? Old age catching up to you already, brotha?” He breaks the one-armed hug only to gently punch Seb in the chest.

He laughs softly, but with no humor. “More like the shots are going to my head. I need to get back while I can.”

The other man quirks a thick black eyebrow. “What are best friends for if not to drag your drunk ass home? You have me after all!”

“And I’m grateful, Charles- “

“Ah shit.”

“What?”

“You called me Charles.”

“That’s your name isn’t it?”

“You only call me that if some heavy shit is happening. What’s wrong, man?” Charles crosses his arms against his chest, a concerned no-bullshit expression on his Asian features.

“Nothing,” Seb replies, glancing towards the dance floor.

The catalyst to his heartbreak is now wrapped up in the arms of the man she had been dancing with. Her honey curls obscure her face as the two kiss passionately. It’s an obvious gimmick, the kind that attention seekers employ to make an ex flame jealous. You fight the urge to roll your eyes at such a blatant display. Seb on the other hand, quickly looks away to the shot glass he’s twirling in his hand. He sets it down with more force than necessary on the bar’s glossy countertop.

Charles places a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “How about we get outta this overrated club and marathon some Game of Thrones at your place? I’ll even order us some pizza.”

You hold your breath as Seb considers the offer. The well-meaning friend is throwing a wrench in your plans to taste your newfound treasure before sunrise. If he is to be yours completely you must take him tonight. The risk of another snatching him up is too high given how fine a specimen he is, how rare. You need every hour before daylight to have him under your thrall. If it comes to it, you will not hesitate to remove this irritating obstacle permanently.

“Thanks man, but I’m not gonna be good company. I need some time to myself,” Seb says apologetically.

Charles nods in understanding and pats him once on the back before letting him go. “Just don’t you shut yourself away, alright?”

“I won’t,” Seb reassures him. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Hang in there, Sebastian.”

With a final side hug, the two part ways. Skirting the mass of moving bodies, Sebastian makes his way to the club’s main doors, a stern look on his handsome features. He doesn’t spare a second glance to the woman still wrapped around her new lover, unaware she is no longer the center of his attention. You follow closely behind him but still watchful of any threats, your body now immaterial and blending with the shadows in between the flashing neon lights.

The night is a breath of fresh air when you both make it outside. Your glamour still holds and you are overlooked by the passerby as you tail Sebastian down the street. He walks with purpose, his strides long and unfaltering as he leaves the nightlife behind. His right hand clenches and unclenches repeatedly, an outward sign of his emotional turmoil. Your steps make no sound as you round a corner, hot on his heels. With no one around that you can sense, you allow yourself the luxury of another of your abilities and float up off the pavement as if gravity itself has willingly relinquished its hold on you.

You rise higher in the air until you are hovering several feet above Sebastian. This affords you a bird’s eye view of him, which is why you catch the sudden jolt of surprise his body makes. He stops and whirls around, his eyes searching his surroundings like a startled animal. You drape yourself in the air as if it were a particularly comfortable bed, watching him struggle with the primal instinct of being hunted. Most humans in this era are so oblivious that their survival instinct gives no warning to impending danger until it is too late. It’s unusual that he should sense you, but you are in a way pleased.

Seeing no sign of anyone, he continues down the road. You allow yourself the luxury of hanging back only to watch his anxious looks and quick steps. Both hands are balled into fists and you have no doubt his pupils are wide to see more clearly in the semi darkness. Your sensitive hearing picks up his heart beats. They’re coming slightly faster, his lungs also working to keep pace with his heart. Sebastian’s scent grows a note of fear that makes you smile widely, fangs protruding in want. You can’t help yourself from making a hungry growl deep in your throat, low enough to be felt more than heard.

The effect is abrupt. The small hairs at the back of his neck stand on end and he whips around again, eyes wide. You glide on your back above him, craning your neck to see him trying to figure out if he heard someone or if his mind is playing tricks on him. Sebastian walks backwards, still searching for any sign of movement or a suspicious sound. Playing cat and mouse amuses you so much that you continue to float on past him, admiring the back of his head and tense shoulders as you go. He turns on his heel once more and you get a full view of his scared face as he begins to jog. You quickly realize he is heading to a brightly lit main street where cars and people can be seen going by in the distance.

You weigh your options carefully as you begin to slow your effortless drifting. You could incapacitate him here, right now, and take him to your hideaway. It could be easily done; one swift blow to the head and he’d be out like a light. But then again, you know so little of your prey. The man’s sudden disappearance could create too many problems, especially with that meddlesome friend of his. The instant communication and openness of these times was a consistent hindrance as well. A touch of a finger on his phone and he could call for help.

Sebastian has nearly reached the relative safety of the populated street. You could kill him and make it look like the work of a criminal. He would not be a hindrance for long if you drank your fill and left him to die. You mulled this over as your eyes raked over his lithe form. He would not be able to outrun you, much less fight you off. It would be such a waste of that heady blood of his though, to finish him so quickly. With that thought you stop your pursuit and allow him to make it under the bright street lights. He leans out towards the road with an arm raised. A cab stops in front of him, it’s dark windows reflecting his image. As he climbs into the back of the car you descend until your heeled feet once again stand on firm ground and decide on a course of action. You will go the traditional route. It has been a long time since you’ve made a house call.

#A Night With No Moon #seb x reader #sebastian x reader #sebxreader #sebastianxreader #fics

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idkjustsomegames · 7 years ago

Text

Short Story: Paper & Steel

by Joanna Berry

His blade hit the chevalier’s shield at just the wrong angle and snapped. Cursing, Samson ducked as the enemy’s sword whistled over his head, then turned his shoulder just so and charged the chevalier full-tilt.

The blow staggered Samson’s foe, but that Orlesian-built armor—shiny as a fake smile, embossed with ornate steel roses—took most of the impact. The chevalier kept his footing, letting Samson spend his strength. Locked face-to-face with his enemy, Samson found himself staring into well-fed, aristocratic features. The moustache was waxed and the skin powdered, so the sweat and stink of battle didn’t offend that sensitive nose.

The chevalier, younger and stronger, started levering him back. As his boot slid in the mud, Samson brought up the broken hilt of his greatsword and rammed it into the man’s side, where the seams of that fancy breastplate didn’t quite meet. The chevalier choked wetly, dropping his sword to clutch at Samson’s arm like he was drowning. Samson ripped the hilt free and buried it in the chevalier’s throat. Blood spilled down, turning the armor’s steel roses crimson.

As the chevalier collapsed, Samson was already turning with the bloody hilt in his hand, searching the battlefield with his general’s eye. These open farmlands near Montfort didn’t offer much cover—the treeline was close, but they hadn’t made it in time. My templars. Are they all right?

From nowhere, a memory rose up from the weariness and confusion of battle; and he thought of a folded paper bird, wings spread, tossed into a muddy puddle and trampled underfoot.

Samson blinked to clear his head.

His templars were there, in one piece. Susanne was running the chevalier’s squire through with her shortsword, wearing the same expression she used while threading a needle; nearby, young Wystan, a sandy-haired lad, expertly held off a grey-bearded chevalier. Before Samson could step in to help, Wystan’s sword flashed down and took the chevalier’s hand—clad in a steel gauntlet—clean off at the wrist before cutting him down.

Elsewhere, someone’s cries ended with a gurgle and silence fell. It was over.

Catching his breath, Samson pulled off his helmet. He wasn’t primped and powdered; sweat plastered his dark brown hair to his scalp, and his face was coarse with stubble. His old armor, which he wore like a tomcat wears its fur, was scarred and nicked with nary a rose in sight. But he and his templars were alive, while the polished Orlesian chevaliers—leaders of a patrol who’d gotten suspicious on the road—lay dead at their feet.

Samson looked down at the broken hilt in his hand and sighed. “Blight take it, that was good Kirkwall steel,” he muttered.

Still, maybe Maddox could do something with it.

Picking up the sword��s broken blade—and stepping over the gaudy Orlesian greatsword in the grass—Samson whistled the signal. His soldiers gathered at once with perfect discipline, like the Chantry templars they’d once been. But now their obedience wasn’t chained to the bloody Chant and the lyrium forced down their throats. Young recruits and veterans, men and women, they were united by a greater purpose—a better cause than some unseen Maker’s.

Something else united them, too, and you could see it better when they were all gathered like this after a fight. They each had a strangely reddish cast to their eyes, revealing the source of their strength.

“Bloody chevaliers,” Samson said, walking up the ranks to check the wounded. “Can’t keep them alive long enough to teach ‘em a lesson.” As his templars grinned, he came to young Wystan, who was leaning on his sword and breathing heavily. There was no sign of blood. “Did he get you in the ribs, Wystan?”

“No, I’m just…“ Wystan straightened. “I’ll be fine, ser. Just a bit winded. I can march.”

Samson looked at him.

That’s what they all say when it starts, a treacherous voice whispered in his head. They don’t want to let you down.

“All right, try to keep up,” Samson told him. “Grab the baggage and let’s get back.” He was thirsty all of a sudden, and for more than water.

* * *

The camp was in a remote copse of trees in the hills far above Montfort, where the eastern wind carried the salty, peaty smell of the Nahashin Marshes. They would soon need to march to Therinfal Redoubt, but for now it was quiet here, and secure.

Samson spoke to the guards and led his squad inside, washed off the worst of the sweat, then began his rounds. The camp was set up in a large clearing with fresh stumps here and there. Tents ringed the central fires where rabbits and a saddle of pork dripped crisp fat into the flames. Each soldier Samson passed saluted him respectfully: some carrying armor or supplies, others working at a whetstone or cooking or training.

On a small rise above the camp, hammer strokes rang out from a single tent, patient as drops of water shaping stone. Maddox was tireless.

It seemed like any other military camp. But Samson passed a slender woman who was carrying several hundredweight of plate mail on her shoulders without breaking a sweat. And when the man at the whetstone cut his thumb on a newly-honed dagger, he didn’t flinch.

They are fearless, Samson thought with fierce pride as he nodded to each one, seeing that reddish gleam in their eyes. The Chantry never knew what it had.

He passed a tent guarded by two of his best and most trustworthy soldiers, armed to the teeth, eyes fixed forward. From within, Samson caught sight of a faint red glow; there was sound of liquid pouring into cups, while a reassuring voice spoke.

The red was the source of his templars’ power. Those chevaliers saw that power and called them monsters, acted like they weren’t even people. Same ignorant bullshit, different day. Samson had heard much the same said about burned-out templars. Or people like Maddox. Or mages. All because the Chantry kept hammering fear into people’s heads.

But all the Chantry’s mistakes are coming home to roost.

As he finished his rounds, Samson spotted a familiar figure huddled near one of the cooking fires. Wystan was seated on a log, wrapped in a blanket and shivering despite the steady heat. Samson frowned and caught the arm of a passing sentry, then pointed at Wystan. “That lad there? See if he’s had supper. If he won’t eat, make him.”

“At once, general.”

Deliberately, Samson made himself turn from the bright firelight and warmth of the camp, and walked away into the heavy darkness under the trees. There was a faint path there, one he could follow without a light by now. A bird piped once, twice.

Eventually Samson heard thick, strangled breathing, and turned to it without fear. He paused as he came amongst hulking shapes that towered over him, each as red as cinnabar with eyes that shone flatly in the early starlight. Samson spoke to them calmly but firmly, and was answered.

A general takes care of his troops, Samson told himself, even if some sleep in a different camp.

Even if he has to steel himself to look at their faces.

When he returned to camp, Samson went straight to his personal tent. Inside it was dark and musty. His bunk was barely slept in. Papers—maps, reports, requisitions—covered the top of a table nearby. An empty bottle chimed against his boot as he went to the chest in the corner.

He rummaged through his things, came up short, and kicked the blighted chest in frustration, then began digging through a pile of clothes, looked under the table, then under… “There.”

Shining dimly under his bunk where it had rolled was a small vial of glimmering red liquid. Just looking at it made that parched feeling in his throat and gut much worse.

Samson lay flat and stretched out his arm under the bunk, stretching out his fingers. It took several tries to hook the vial before he was able to snatch it out and drink the contents down.

It wasn’t like drinking water. The bitter liquid slid over his tongue like syrup and seemed to run right through to his bones.

Samson sat on the ground and leaned against his bunk as strength and warmth welled up inside him, strength that seemed now to have always been there. The faint sounds of the hammer from Maddox’s tent became tones ringing in crystalline air. His breathing and heartbeat were a complex harmony of their own.

A small dose of red lyrium always eased Samson’s nerves. A whole vial calmed his soul all at once. He could think of Wystan, or the faces out in the woods, without flinching.

The noise of the camp went on outside. Two guards spoke together near the opening of the tent, the oily red of their eyes faintly luminous, then moved on.

Samson sat up a little straighter and looked down at the vial he was weighing in his hand. A few ruby-like drops of precious lyrium clung to the inside. He held the vial high and shook the drops into his mouth.

Every day in Kirkwall, a revered mother gave the templar recruits their lyrium—blue lyrium—in a little chalice with Andraste’s face on it. Like the muttonheads they were, the recruits drank it unquestioningly, because they loved the Maker, or because they wanted to serve, or because they trusted the Chantry. At first, it seemed like a real blessing. The lyrium took away your fear and left power in its place.

But like any power, it was addictive. At least the red had… compensations. The Chantry lyrium? You never realized it was taking more than just the fear, slowly, painlessly, until one day you woke up and you couldn’t do without the stuff.

Samson let the empty vial roll out of his hand.

He had been thrown out of the Templar Order by the holier-than-thou Knight-Commander Meredith for one mistake after getting hooked on the lyrium they ordered him to drink. So what if he bent the rules? He had had his reasons. And that blighted city needed all the help it could get.

It didn’t matter. He’d been kicked out onto Kirkwall’s streets anyway, to suffer the horrors of lyrium withdrawal alone.

Maybe it had been for the best. Eventually the preaching, the lyrium, the lies all made you something less than human. The Chantry might as well have mages animate suits of armor to do their dirty work.

Mages… armor…

“My sword,” said Samson, lurching to his feet. He’d forgotten about the broken blade until now. It was a better thing to think about than the past.

Samson found the pack where he’d stowed the shattered blade, put it over his shoulder, and strode up toward the lone tent above the camp. The hammer blows were still ringing out. It was getting late, but Maddox rarely slept.

Inside, the tent was surprisingly cool, despite the shimmering glow from the lyrium forge in one corner. The soot stains on the interior canvas made eerie patterns, and there was a sweet smell of evaporated lyrium as well as smoke. Samson passed a rack of ornate, mysterious tools arranged by size. Bottles of potions and essences and rare dusts. A quenching trough. Three books with singe marks on their covers.

On one side, leather cuttings were laid out, beside a wooden mannequin covered in the beginnings of a suit of armor: breastplate, gauntlets, greaves, all made to Samson’s measurements. The armor was built of fine steel, but heavy red lyrium outcroppings, folded into the metal, showed what that steel had been alloyed with. It smelled of hot iron and old blood.

Samson paused and reached for the breastplate. His templar-trained senses could feel the power sleeping inside it. When the time came, he knew donning the armor would be like drowning in molten glass, red on red—an ocean of pain with strength unconquerable on the other side.

He grinned at the armor, challenging it. His templars endured their own trials; this was Samson’s. He would bear up as they did, and survive, and be remade. Nothing worthy came for free.

Maddox was working at the anvil, hammering steadily in a sweat-stained white shirt and a leather apron, his hands wrapped with cloth to protect against sparks. In the years Samson had known him, he’d gone from a gawky, young mage to a seasoned craftsman. Now under his hands, a new piece of that armor was taking shape from steel and crystal shards melding effortlessly together.

Samson set down his pack.

“Evening.”

Maddox looked over his shoulder. He had a narrow, gentle face with eyes as calm as a deer’s. His dark hair was closely shorn, making the sunburst brand on his forehead stand out.

“Hello, Samson. I hope you are well.”

Maddox watched as Samson undid the pack, but kept working. He could forge with his eyes closed, and even if he smacked his hand with the hammer, Samson knew he wouldn’t make a peep—except to apologize for breaking his fingers because they’d take time to heal. It was just how Tranquil were.

“Got a sword needs re-forging,” said Samson, drawing out the pieces.

Using tongs, Maddox placed the finished armor piece aside and took up the broken greatsword in both hands. “I see bending here and here. This struck a shield with great force.”

“It did,” Samson said. “Still, that’s a decent Kirkwall blade. Too good for scrap. See what you can make of it.” Samson looked around the tent with its little wonders. “You’ll have it done in a minute or two, right?”

Maddox looked up. “Oh, no. I will have to chisel the broken ends so they interlock before heating the forge sufficiently for the weld. Then—“

“Just a joke, Maddox,” said Samson, gently.

“Oh.” Maddox considered, then laughed obediently and methodically, making Samson wince.

Thankfully the Tranquil soon bent to study the broken sword again while Samson settled on a barrel, enjoying the heavy scent of lyrium vapor that lingered in the air.

What the Chantry did to its templars was unforgivable, but what it had done to Maddox was obscene. He was a mage at Kirkwall’s Circle, the Gallows—an ugly name for an uglier prison—while Samson was still in the Order’s good books. Maddox was no great shakes as a mage, but his parents were swordsmiths, and Maddox was forever making things in the Gallows workshop: bits of metalwork, a fancy hilt for a dagger, and once a new joint for Samson’s broken gauntlet, grinning at the chance to put a crooked thing right.

“If you ever need a favor,” Samson had told him when no one was listening, “you let me know.”

One day, Maddox had approached Samson in the Gallows, red to the ears, holding out a rolled sheaf of letters and mumbling, “For my girl, out in Kirkwall. Would you take them?”

After, Samson would occasionally berate himself for having taken the bloody things. He did favors for the mages sometimes—little errands, sometimes with a vial of lyrium to sweeten the trade. This, though, risked crossing a line.

But along with every bundle of letters was a sheet that Maddox had folded into the shape of a bird. Its wings were spread like the seagulls drifting on the wind near the Gallows’ high windows. Under Meredith, freedom was a cruel dream for Kirkwall’s Circle mages. They were often locked in their cells, watched night and day by templars who were told any step out of line was suspicious. All those young magelings, told that magic was a curse, that they were dangerous, and that they had to be shut indoors all their lives looking out through those windows. Some went mad. Others, mad or not, tried jumping.

But in the face of all that was this little paper bird, folded by someone whose dreams of freedom and his girl’s arms hadn’t died completely. A proof of humanity, when the Circle and the Chantry just wanted mages to be obedient things. So Samson took Maddox’s letters.

Eventually word got to Knight-Commander Meredith. She used it as an excuse to throw Samson out of the Order, claiming it proved he’d become “erratic” and “severely addicted to lyrium.” Those last letters had fallen, trampled in a puddle, as they shoved him away to Meredith’s office.

Samson found a new life in Kirkwall’s gutter as a lyrium-starved beggar. From time to time, he’d lend a hand to young mages looking for an escape. But Maddox had been accused of corrupting a templar, a serious charge. Meredith was merciless; she turned Maddox into an emotionless Tranquil with a lyrium brand. Maddox would no longer dream of the horizon, or fix something for the joy of it, or make his little paper birds. They retained his skills without having to treat him as a person, which seemed like the natural end point of every bloody thing the Chantry did.

When Meredith finally snapped and Kirkwall went up in flames, Samson tracked Maddox down. No one could make things right for him, but there had to be more to a boy’s life than that.

The surviving templars tried to restore peace to the city. Anyone who once worn the Sword of Mercy—even broken-down misfits—was needed to help quell the rebelling mages. Samson tried to help, but what was he meant to do? Just forget? He’d seen both sides of things now, from the Gallows and the gutter. Pressed by the Circle’s rules, mages like the children that Samson had once helped were willingly giving themselves over to demons. First Enchanter Orsino, who Samson remembered as a kindly sort, had gone as bad as a mage could go.

And his brother and sister templars? The Kirkwall chapter had been under Meredith’s thumbscrews for so long that they barely knew right from wrong. For all Meredith’s railing against blood magic controlling people, fear had twisted the templars’ minds just as well.

That fear only grew after the young Knight-Captain, Cullen, left the city to follow some Seeker on Chantry business. With no new orders, the Kirkwall templars floundered. There was no relief anywhere. Every day more reports of the mage rebellion came in and how templars were fighting it. Hearing them, Samson could smell the blood and smoke of the war, how the Chantry’s impossible demands on both mages and templars were tearing the world apart.

One night, with his lyrium stash dry and Maddox sleeping at the shelter, Samson went to the Hanged Man to drink it all away.

Halfway through the second mug, he noticed a dwarf with strange eyes lingering nearby. The dwarf mumbled that there was someone upstairs asking for Samson by name. Curious, Samson left the cheery noise of the bar, climbed the dark stairs to a near-empty room, and found a figure staring into the embers in the fireplace.

At first he thought the stranger was wearing Grey Warden armor. But the silhouette seemed to alter as he came inside: becoming taller, misshapen, with an aura of powerful magic. Samson drew his sword, filled with a templar’s instincts, but the stranger just stood there, patiently, until Samson lowered it. He felt like those cold eyes were staring right through him.

Then the stranger said: “This place is foreign to me. Explain clearly: what is a templar?”

And Samson realized he had no real answer any more. Someone who protected mages? These days, the Order was putting half of them to the sword, or worse. Maddox’s mind had been destroyed, and the grand cleric barely slapped Meredith on the wrist. A soldier for the Chantry? Templars endured the horrors of magic—abominations, demons, blood mages—on the Chantry’s behalf, and what thanks did they get? A pat on the head and lyrium for the nightmares.

A knight of the Maker, then?

But what just and loving Maker would let his templars suffer like this? Samson’s broken prayers, during those long agonizing nights of withdrawal, had been met with silence.

“The Order deserves better,” he said aloud, without thinking. “We trusted them: we deserve better than being used until our minds are washed away.” His anger boiled close to the surface. “They treat us like animals. Their own templars!”

The stranger held up a lyrium vial, glowing red instead of blue. Samson eyed it sidelong, remembering Meredith’s end and the power she wielded.

“If you could tear this upstart Chantry out by the roots,” the stranger asked, “bring about a new Order, what price would you be willing to pay?”

“If it gave one templar a better end than mine,” Samson said, “I’d pour out my own blood for it. But I burned out long ago. You’re asking the wrong man.”

“I think not,” the stranger answered, holding out the vial for Samson to take. As simple as handing him a paper bird.

Things began to change after that. Samson paid the stranger’s price, would pay it forever, but he knew what he was buying. So did many other like-minded templars. As for the rest of the Order… Samson looked into the face of his guilt and accepted that too. If it meant a world where the Chantry’s crimes could never happen again, so be it.

And when you got to the core of it, Samson was burned out. His day was over… or so he’d thought. But this stranger—full of real wisdom and power, not just waffling about some unseen Maker—had seen past it all into Samson’s heart. When he could have picked any perfect, pious recruit, it was Samson to whom the stranger had offered command again—of an army that could put an end to all this.

Samson came to realize a few things. For one, soldiers would still follow where he led. He never asked a templar to do anything he wasn’t willing to do himself, which was a start. With a steady supply of lyrium, his nerves settled, his wits sharpened, and he could strategize again. Samson braced himself for the changes he’d seen in Meredith and in his soldiers… but those changes never came, not for him. The stranger spoke of the protection his magic could offer, but when Samson drank the red, he felt the stranger watching him, curiously.

In time that brought the second realization. Now that Samson had all the lyrium he wanted, he could look at the dosages he actually needed with a clear head. A nasty suspicion grew as he held up those ruby vials to the light. What if there was more to his addiction than he had thought? What if it had begun in some sort of… resistance to the lyrium, rather than a weakness for it? Or was that just another salve for his pride?

What if, what if. He could never be sure, now. But even the idea, and the trust placed in him, got him standing straight again, marching at the vanguard of his templars with their banner fluttering overhead. He would lead them to a glorious end, wherever that might be.

Samson hadn’t failed, after all. And he wasn’t lost. He had been chosen.

* * *

Now Samson looked at the solemn, incurious man who had suffered in those dark places beside him. “D’you ever think about the old days, Maddox? About Kirkwall or Meredith, or the Gallows?”

Maddox was laying fuel in the lyrium forge like he was placing chess pieces. “No. I have no dreams, and no capacity for regret.”

Samson laughed a bit. “Tranquility’s good for something, then.”

“But I could think on those times if it is required. Do you need me to do so?”

Glancing at the red and glittering armor taking shape on the mannequin, Samson shook his head. “Maybe you’re better off. I doubt steel would want to remember the forge it came out of, either.”

“I prefer it here,” said Maddox. “It is calm. I can concentrate on my work.” He paused. “Samson, a request? I find it harder to work when there is a lot of noise in the camp.”

Samson was about to say that he could move the tent farther away, when he heard a shout and screams from outside. In a flash, he shoved the tent flap aside and raced down to the camp.

Wild-eyed, his blanket smoldering where it had been flung in the fire, the young templar Wystan was staggering in a loose circle of his fellows, lunging briefly at each one. A dripping sword was in his hand, and the hollow sound coming from his throat was inhuman. A cook crouched by the fire, nursing his torn and bloody side.

The hair on Samson’s nape pricked him like needles. He had seen this madness come upon his templars before. But never so quickly.

Wystan snarled and slashed his blade at the others. From either side, three of the templars piled on him, dragging at his arms to bring him down—Wystan threw off two, and the third, the camp quartermaster, stumbled away clutching a terrible gouge in her face.

“Leave him to me!”

Samson shoved carelessly through the crowd and faced Wystan. The red gleam in the lad’s eyes was incandescent. “Stand off, Wystan,” he ordered.

Wystan grinned unevenly. The reddish tinge had spread to his teeth, to the nails of the hand that gripped his sword. And then Samson realized he’d sprinted out of Maddox’s tent with no weapon and no helmet.

“Stronger already,” whispered Wystan. “I can… We tasted the red, and soon they’ll be dead!”

His free hand clutched at his head as if in pain, before he leapt. Samson sidestepped, but the young recruit was well-trained. Wystan swung about and would have hacked down into the back of Samson’s neck if he hadn’t rolled away right at once. Samson scrambled to his feet, remembering brawls in Kirkwall’s streets after dark… and stranger things than thieves that prowled the shadows of Lowtown, there and gone like nightmares.

But this was no dream. This boy was his templar, under his command, his to protect.

“We tasted the red,” Wystan said again, weaving like a snake. “You gave it to us. We’re becoming… more. To fight for a new world. This is what you wanted.”

“But you’re letting it control you,” Samson said. The two of them were circling each other, eyes locked. “A man uses his strength. It doesn’t use him. That was the Chantry’s way. That’s what we took the lyrium into our own hands for. Remember?”

Wystan shrieked; the sound sawed at Samson’s ears like a demon’s challenge. Through it, from the crowd of soldiers shifting around them, a calmer voice said: “Excuse me, Samson.” The broken blade of Samson’s sword, the shattered end wrapped with leather, landed at the general’s feet. He flicked it up with the toe of his foot and wrapped one end of the leather tightly around his knuckles. Samson glimpsed Maddox’s emotionless face in the firelight before Wystan rushed at him, crazed, his own sword flashing.

Samson parried the stroke. Wystan pressed him and they clashed. Without a hilt, Samson’s grip was awkward, but he was able to dart and weave like a bee trying to land a sting. As Wystan swung at his head, Samson drew upon the lyrium he’d drunk earlier, drew back his empty hand, and punched Wystan in the stomach with unnatural strength. A red shimmer rippled out from the blow. The lad choked but didn’t drop his sword; instead he lunged for the kill. Samson brought up the broken blade and knocked Wystan’s sword up and off. The cut that should have taken out Samson’s eye passed over his shoulder in a blur.

Seizing his chance, Samson slammed his forehead into Wystan’s face. He saw stars, and something crunched, but it was Wystan who reeled away. The boy tripped. Droplets of blood flew as he sprawled on the grass.

Samson planted a knee on his chest and put his blade against Wystan’s throat. “Feel this? Feel the steel around your neck? That’s what the Chantry did. Poisoned us for its own power, then collared us like a rabid mabari.”

He pressed harder for a second, knowing that he could kill this boy. He could end what was to come before it even started.

Then he lowered the blade. “And this is what we do. Because we chose to take control. Because we’ll burn it all down before we let the Chantry claim one more templar.”

Wystan went limp. The red gleam to his eye was softer now. He let out a strangled sob. “Ser. Ser, I—“

Samson moved his knee, grasped Wystan’s forearm and pulled him up. “It takes you like that sometimes,” he said. “The trick is to not be ruled by it.”

Samson raised his voice to the crowd of templars about them. “Let this be a lesson to the lot of you. We’re going to break this blighted world and rebuild it. There’ll be blood and a lot of it will be ours.” He hardened his tone. “Some of you will change—maybe into something monstrous. But then you’ll be invincible.

“We have to be monstrous. You think the world’s going to change because you ask it nicely? We’re fighting a beast that’s had its righteous claws into Thedas for far too long—we need the same ruthlessness. It takes fire and an anvil to forge a sword. Isn’t it worth the sacrifice? What’s the price of your heart and soul? The right to be your own?”

Someone started to clap; others joined in. Samson raised his voice to a roar the whole camp could hear, loud enough for those listening in the dark beyond, and thrust his broken sword to the sky.

“A red storm will rise!”

Cheers from every side became a chant: “The new world! The new god! The red storm will rise!”

* * *

Maddox put his other work aside and labored late into the night re-forging Samson’s sword. It had to be done carefully: this edge would again defend Samson’s life. He was Maddox’s general and his friend. All must be well. It was convenient that the blade suffered no further damage in the duel with Knight-Templar Wystan. Like the templars, it would survive to be transmuted.

By dawn, the sword was re-forged, with a little scrap metal left over. Maddox looked at it and recalled his conversation with Samson the night before, about Kirkwall and the life he once lived.

Tranquil waste nothing. Taking the scrap in his tongs, he heated it carefully, worked the steel on the anvil with a few deft blows, and quenched it. He set his creation on the table near the armor to cool—a little bird, wings outstretched, forged in steel.

#raleigh samson #red templars #dragon age #da inquisition #bioware #putting it here so maybe we would still have it #even if they decide to wipe out again their page #with everything

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mayacatmaster · 5 years ago

Photo

When people call me a bitch

I'm like.

*** *** ***

People think you're crazy when you become wiser and more informed.

Not because you're crazy, but because their illusion is threatened.

*** *** ***

Intelligence is not about knowing everything without question.

It is the ability to question everything you think you know.

*** *** ***

Specially when in one kind of recycle kiss-dark-tyrant-ruler's-culture.

*** *** ***

The Best People In A Dying Culture Are The Outcasts Considered Crazy By The Leaders; The Ones Most Disillusioned With Their Own Culture. In Yeats' Phrase, "THE Best Lack All Conviction, While The Worst Are Full Of Passionate Intensity." Intense Emotional Attachment To Any Value, Any Virtue, Any Set Of “Shoulds” Is A Disease, A Mental Illness, A Condition Of Self-Murder And Cultural Assassination. - Radical Honesty

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** Via and thanks “Caz Forbes”: *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Each lifetime we will return to walk in the shoes of a different culture/religion/moral/social-family-belief-system until we understand our “Oneness”(Tao; Source; True Self). -Anita- *** *** *** Specially when…: We are caged by our cultural programming. culture/religion/moral/social-family-belief-system is a mass hallucination, and when you step outside the mass hallucination you see it for what it's worth.

Terence McKenna *** *** *** So…: Don't just parrot-like repeat what is great saints, holy books, virtue, good deeds, because….: *** *** *** You don't know you don't know....until...pass through it then....really, really, really understand it...^^!!! *** *** *** Usually those who are the happiest are those that are, by other standards, the most disconnected from societal ties. -AH *** *** *** Usually those who are the happiest are those that are, by other standards, the most disconnected from societal ties. -AH *** *** *** Everything we've ever been taught is bullshit. Unless can pass our self inquiry. *** *** *** "君"嗎？...國君；家君；夫君；心君能夠不用以己出經式義度的欺德統治天下嗎？ *** *** *** 世美者，往往是君主以己出經式義度的欺德，禽貪者器具，用以箝制其治下之眾的心靈而已。 *** *** *** 人善被人欺，馬善被人騎！善或德行，如服務外在黑暗威權君，非僅一文不值，且助紂為虐！ *** *** *** “Student”(solar): “Why any kind of dark tyrant ruler’s such highly value those so call great saints in their system, no matter of country/social/family/education/religion/moral-belief-system, and built great temple worship those saints, ...May I ask you… my Master?”; *** *** *** "Master"（Mr. Bean）:“ My dear solar, because as a so call great saint, it not a easy piece cake for anyone. Now, let’s pretend to imagine there have a community of 1000000 people again: And there you are, uniquely you, and 9999999 others doing all kinds of things - some of them you appreciate and some of them you don’t; some of them you approve of and some of them you don’t. Some of the conditions that those others are living, you would like to live and some of them you would not. So, which do you think would be easier in your community of 1000000 people, to figure out what you like best and convince the other 9999999 on a myriad of subjects to do it your way? “I like to kiss any kind of dark tyrant ruler’s ass. I like to blind obey/follow in this way. I prefer these as blind obey sheep.” In other words, you would have a very difficult time getting that 1000000 people to conform to your idea of what you think is a perfect world - would you agree? “ *** *** *** Gold sand fall into the eyes, is also very uncomfortable or became a disease for the eyes. *** *** *** Actually, unless can pass through self inquiry. Your mind not really belong to you, if just a lot of another people occupy it. Maybe it just those so call great gurus/saints occupy it....^^!!! *** *** *** Mental slavery is the worst form of slavery. It give you the illusion of freedom, makes you trust, love and defend your oppressor, while making an enemy of those who are trying to free you or open your eye. *** *** *** So…: I deleted all the perfect repeat the work-eat-entertainment-sleep-kiss ass-cycle people yesterday. Good morning my friend! *** *** *** Because…: They Want You To Be Silent They Want You To Be Submissive, To Do Whatever They Say. Never Question Authority & Always Obey Fuck That You Are No One's Robot, Think For Yourself, Never Give In. Be Vigilant With Your Resistance. Educate & Empower Others To Do The Same. *** *** *** Mindset. It's all about mindset. From the moment you wake up, to the moment you rest your head at night. Everything is up to you. Your emotions, your thoughts, your perceptions, your reactions. Every moment. *** *** *** Observer a religion-morality-belief-system, observer his/her ruler. *** *** *** The people you meet are either reflections of a “repeated cycle”(blind obey and kiss ass) or guides to a new start. Notice the difference. *** *** *** Can them…: Be the reason someone believes in the goodness of people??? *** *** *** About any kind of religion, moral, political, holy-books, saints, ...the only question is…: *** *** *** The problem is people are being hated when they are real, and are being loved when they fake. ~Bob Marley *** *** *** They always preach and teach people ...”honest is best!”. Until you honest to them, then you became a asshole. *** *** *** Since every kind of religion or moral-belief-system just like a person. And…: Everyone is a moon and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody. *** *** *** Question I always ask myself, upon meeting a new person or one kind of religion or moral-belief-system: "Is he/she a really sincerely-honest-nature-heart-NICE person? Or is he/she an OGRE???" *** *** *** Connection doesn’t care about the laws of the land. Your soul will be pulled to the place it belongs. *** *** *** Otherwise….: I don't have any bad habits, I am good at all of them. I never dreamed I'd grow up to be an Kiss-dark-tyrant-Ass-asshole but here I am kill-in it. *** *** *** I don't have any bad habits, I am good at all of them. I follow orders like a dog, and I am feeling so good. It's what made me a "man"(woman; children), I said it as if it’s my most highest virtuous and my fate itself. *** *** *** So…: If I make a fool of myself, who cares? I'm not frightened by anyone's perception of me. ~Angelina Jolie *** *** *** The wise is a person who acts with "Ma-at"(Tao; Logos; Truth), and is free of falsehood and disorder. ~Ptahhotep *** *** *** True wisdom is less presuming than folly. The wise man doubt often, And change his mind; The fool is obstinate, And doubt not; He know all thing but his own ignorance. ~Akhenato *** *** *** ,, To be free of all authority, of your own and that of another is to die to everything of yesterday, so that your mind is always fresh, always young, innocent, full of vigor and passion. It is only in that state that one learns and observes.... " *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** Via and thanks “Iwona Antolak”: *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** Once again…: Connection doesn’t care about the laws of the land. Your soul will be pulled to the place it belongs. *** *** *** Observer a country, observer his/her ruler. Observer a family, observer his/her ruler. Observer a mind-body-heart, observer his/her ruler. Observer a religion-belief-system, observer his/her ruler. Observer a political-belief-system, observer his/her ruler. Observer a morality-belief-system, observer his/her ruler. Observer a education-belief-system, observer his/her ruler. Observer a business-belief-system, observer his/her ruler. *** *** *** The wise is a person who acts with "Ma-at"(Tao; Logos; Truth), and is free of falsehood and disorder. ~Ptahhotep *** *** *** True wisdom is less presuming than folly. The wise man doubt often, And change his mind; The fool is obstinate, And doubt not; He know all thing but his own ignorance. ~Akhenato *** *** *** Question I always ask myself, upon meeting a new person or one kind of religion or moral-belief-system: "Is he/she a really sincerely-honest-nature-heart-NICE person? Or is he/she an OGRE???" *** *** *** When people tell me they are spiritual or morality-blind-obey-man, I always wonder "Demons are spirits too... be more specific. And “Demons also can use the holy-books for his egoism-standard-rules.” *** *** *** To be honest, I really consider that the more one kind of religion or moral-belief-system with a long history, Their more lack of the ability about self-Introspection, the ability to self-investigate, Self-summarization, And ego is big more than other religion or moral-belief-system. So always said their tradition-religion or moral-belief-system-dogma is No1, is mostest best in this world. So fail learn from summarization of the experience gained in other religion or moral-belief-system. So their vicious circle, suffering from generation to generation ~~~><!!! *** *** *** Mindset is everything. *** *** *** Everything that is important to you will re-materialize everywhere you are, because that's what you do -you turn thoughts to things. ~Abraham *** *** *** And…: If you end up with a boring, miserable life because you listened to your mom, your dad, your teacher, your priest, or some guy on television telling you how to do your shit, then you deserve it. *** *** *** Reminder: if you show up as your authentic, bad-ass self, you have no competition. *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** Via and thanks “Renée Shirley” *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** A person who actually enjoys solitude is dangerous. They'll cut you off and walk away at the slightest sign of disrespect and leave you hanging like you don't mean shit. *** *** *** Distance yourself for a bit. You'll realize a lot. Physically I am here. Mentally I am far, far away indifferent witness myself just like outside-alien. *** *** *** Watch Life, as if you are watching a movie! Watch your own 3D-life-movie, as if you are watching another people’s 3D-life-movie. Watch your own self, as if you are watching another people's self. Watch your own beliefs, as if you are watching another people’s beliefs.... inquiry and question it. *** *** *** When you're 20, you care what everyone thinks, when you're 40, you stop caring what everyone thinks, when you're 60, you realize no one was ever thinking about you in the first place." — Winston Churchill *** *** *** And…: Usually those who are the happiest are those that are, by other standards, the most disconnected from societal ties. -AH *** *** ***

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ahmadswansi · 7 years ago

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One Man’s Story of a Dead Girlfriend and a Penis that just won’t Behave

Driving by the graveyard, he was supporting the biggest erection he had ever had. "Ah man, what the hell," he remembered thinking. Once was fine, even twice was okay, but this had become a usual occurrence; every day for the past week, sometimes even twice in a day. It was a damn shame since driving by the graveyard was a regular nuisance, now that his girlfriend had died and he had to bury her. He loved her. Sure, he did. But the past few months of her riding the hospital bed, getting injected by radiation as he watched her body gradually shrivel up and contort into a lifeless form had made him terribly unsympathetic. The last few weeks had just been him anxiously waiting out the inevitable. Hell, he even cracked open a cold one with the boys the night he got the news of her death. Yes, it was horrible, but he was only human. He sighed and finally turned his attention to the matter at hand. Slowly his hand drifted down to his shorts, as his thoughts turned back to the cold, almost inhuman form of his now-dead girlfriend.

She threw on the first assortment of clothes she could assemble, still taking particular care not to appear too flashy. Yes, this was a date, but she didn’t want to blow it out of proportion. Calling a spade a spade, this was just an excuse for two people to end up in bed together. It was that time of the month again.

She wasn’t quite sure if heavenly bodies did influence the events down on earth, but she had always been weirdly effected by them. The onset of a new moon, for instance, always put her at her liveliest, while the full moon; well, the full moon evoked in her the most primal and carnal of human desires. And now, it was that time of the month again.

Putting on some make up while still trying to toe the line between presentable and pretty, a cursory glance at the clock told her that he’d be there soon. Just then, the doorbell rang. She opened the door, and after sharing some pleasantries, they both made their way down to the ride. The restaurant they had chosen was cheap, and the conversation they settled on was purely superficial and only meant to fill the time. There was no genuine spark, and she couldn’t have been happier about it. Within no time, they were standing back at her doorstep, and she was inviting him in. It was only then that the façade of the meticulously planned and almost perfect evening fell apart. His expressions changed from smiling to terrified to distraught. As he fumbled for words, his throat dried up and he seemingly lost all mechanics to communicate. The look in his eyes was of sheer confusion and disorientation as he stumbled his way backwards to his car and got in. It was the sound of the ignition turning that shook her out of her daze, and she chased after him, letting loose a plethora of curses and insults. But the foot was too far out the door and she stopped soon enough, helplessly watching her one chance at getting laid drive away. She entered her house, slammed the door, and furiously masturbated until she fell down exhausted and passed out.

The next day she went on a tinder binge and ensured herself another date, not that she’d have any trouble getting one. But she had a rigorous screening process, and that ultimately didn’t leave her much choices. The day went by as usual, and nightfall arrived. She followed her robotic routine and got dressed up for the evening. The doorbell rang at exactly the same time as it had the day before, and she opened the door. It wasn’t her date. It was the moron from the day before. She held him by the collar and shook him up. Then she yelled at him. And when she had finally exhausted herself, she stood back and let him explain. Only, he didn’t.

“Look,” he started, “I know yesterday was really weird and sort of a letdown, but I am sure I can make it up to you.”

“A letdown?” She shrieked. “It was a goddamn disappointment.”

He looked at her, “C’mon, trust me when I say this. I can make it up to you, if you just give me another chance. We can even cut the bullshit.”

“Cut the bullshit?” She enquired, suddenly curious.

“Yeah. We don’t have to go to dinner and pretend to be interested in each other. We can cut that shit.”

“Well, what do you have in mind?”

“We get in my car. I know a lovely spot at the corner of 59th. That’s just adjacent to Bridge Street. We park there, and, well, what happens, happens.”

“Wait, 59th Bridge Street? Isn’t that right next to that graveyard?”

For the first time that evening, he seemed a bit unconfident, “Yeah, it is. What, you have too much respect for the dead now?” He sounded almost defensive.

She gave him a strange look. “No. Why would anyone give a shit about the dead? They’re fucking dead. Let’s go.”

They got in the car, the second time in two days, a very direct violation of the rules she had set for herself. Later, she would feel glad that she broke those rules. Later, she would also tell him that it was the best sex she ever had.

He had always considered himself to be reasonably smart, at least up until the point he started losing his mind, or much rather, started losing control of his junk. He chuckled at the newfound and drastic meaning the phrase “these things have a mind of their own” had found in his life. But a man’s penis is his best friend, mightier than both the sword and the pen, and he was determined not to abandon his friend in the face of adversity, not when said friend had stood up for him time and again. No. He was determined to get to the bottom of this, and that meant narrowing down the origins of this crazy new fetish that he had acquired. To figure out whether it was the dead girl, the graveyard, or the cancer, he settled on a simple method of elimination, and hence, embarked on a long and hard journey of self-discovery and masturbation. He also decided to keep a log.

18th April, 2017

Sixty nine Feet Under

Such dog days. I have been hanging around the corner of 59th a lot lately, next to the graveyard I buried my girlfriend in not a month ago. It has been hard. Luckily, no one has begun to suspect anything. These are good people, and they understand that people deal with grief in all sort of ways, including lurking near your girlfriend’s grave, which I suppose is what people think I am doing. Huh. Is this my way of dealing with grief? Just jerking it out of my system? I suppose it could be. Anyhow, my inability to pinpoint exactly where all this sudden flux of sexual energy has come from has made me uneasy, and I have been forced to go to great lengths to discern the underlying cause. In this quest, I have not visited one but two other graveyards in the past week, one just outside town, and the other in the town right over. Naturally, I have had to masturbate at both of these locations. As a rule, it seems that the farther I move from the graveyard at the corner of 59th, the more arousal I lose. However, I still felt a wave of giddiness and euphoria when approaching both of these graveyards, but that might have something to do with me forming an unconscious association between graves and sexual gratification. Both of my orgasms felt really good, but ultimately, felt short when put into comparison with those I have had at the local graveyard. It definitely feels like my strange sexual behavior is more closely related to my dead girlfriend than graveyards in general.

1st May, 2017

Masturbation in the Rue Morgue

Death has always fascinated me. The dead? Not so much. That is until recently. Lately, so much of my time has been spent fantasizing about my dead girlfriend. Just caressing her cold, lifeless body and holding her in my arms. Kissing her icy, blue lips. Wrapping my hand around her throat and not feeling a pulse. Choking her as hard as I please cause it won’t hurt her anymore. As with all imagination goes, soon it just wasn’t enough. Soon, I wanted more. I wanted to know what actually touching a corpse would feel like. And that brought me to an unexpected place, which in this case, was quite expected: the local morgue. I thought it would be tricky to get alone, quality time with the corpses, and created an elaborate back story about wanting to pay my last respects to a recently deceased friend, but it turned out to not be so hard. The guard cut me off midway and blatantly asked for money so he could go away, and when I handed him some, he did. I guess more people come to pay respects to their deceased than I first thought. By the time I was in the cold room, my anticipation had gotten the best of me, and I was pretty excited. That was dismaying since a part of me, a very tiny one, but still a part of me was hoping that my arousal was limited to my dead girlfriend. This however, felt like full blown necrophilia. I pulled a corpse out, a very hairy one with a thing dangling between his legs, and quickly pushed it back. Dead or undead, I was still very much straight. My third attempt was more fruitful and I found a girl with perfect proportions, and one that had some resemblance to my girlfriend. I stroked her freezing thighs and her limp breasts, and started taking care of business. As I neared orgasm, a strange, animalistic desire took over me. The corpse in front of my eyes transformed into my girlfriend’s cancer-ridden body. But her face. Her face still bothered me. I took off my shirt and wrapped it around her head, pushed her legs apart and had my way with her. I deserved to. She was my girlfriend. She wouldn’t have cared. She would have been happy that she was the source of such immense, animal pleasure for me. Now as I lay in my own bed, writing this down, I know my senses were severely clouded, but at the time, by god, it was just what I had wanted. To fuck my girlfriend’s corpse.

7th May, 2017

The fault in our parts

Cancer seems to be a pretty huge part of the equation, although by now, I should know better than to keep looking for answers. I think I have some very solid ones. But anything to take my mind off that dead bitch and that damn graveyard, right? So I guess I have to keep looking. Even if ultimately, that won’t amount to anything. Even if ultimately, it’s just denial, an excuse to run from the truth. It was impossible getting it on in a room full of terminal patients and the smell of chemicals and death. Cancer wards are not the most sexually stimulating places, and my only excuse to linger was that I had driven from way too far. I was desperate and needed this to go somewhere. I stood up and strolled across the ward, finally settling on a spot from where I could see a lone, middle-aged woman, dying slowly. Her weak, bony physique and hairless texture reminded me of her. She reminded me of her. Everything reminded me of her. Why was I thinking about that bitch again? The very idea of coming here was to not. The very idea of coming here was to associate my arousal with anything but that bitch. But that bitch was all I could think about. I ran off from the ward, just in time for the overpowering thoughts and images to kick in. By the time I was tucked safely in my car, I was excited. I had to jerk off again. But I guess that’s hardly surprising anymore.

She opened the door, and upon recognizing who it was, launched herself in his arms. When she saw what he was holding in his hands however, her smile transformed into a scorn. Half mocking, half mad, she screamed, “Flowers? Fucking flowers, man? We promised we wouldn’t let it turn into something like this.”

“Jeez. Calm down, you psychotic bitch. These aren’t for you. These are for Sally.”

“Sally?” She raised her eyebrow questioningly, “Who the hell is Sally?”

“Sally? As in my dead girlfriend Sally?”

“Oh. You buy her flowers? That’s sweet. And roses too. You gonna see her tonight?”

“Thought I might. You mind joining in?” He added a wink for good measure.

She looked up in the sky. Behind a sea of clouds, the full moon was hard to make out, but it was unmistakably there. She sighed. This was going to be hard to say no to. So she didn’t. “Sure, man. What the hell? Let’s go rip one out.”

The ride was a quiet one. She felt chirpy herself, but her companion seemed distraught, and she figured not to bother him. Over the past few months, she had watched him grow more distant and disconnected. Perhaps it was his girlfriend’s death taking its toll on him. Perhaps it was something else. Truth was, they really didn’t talk all that much, and she knew for a fact that she was the only living person he spent his time with. That made her feel concerned. But not too much. She knew how to not be too concerned. She knew how to mind her own business. And she did. She reached over and licked his neck, then slowly started planting kisses down the length of it. She bit his ear and whispered seductively, “I’d eat you up with some fava beans and a nice chianti.” He grinned, and for a moment or so, she could see the cheery, smart man he used to be beneath that disheveled, detached exterior. Then it was gone. They were there.

Contrary to what she had expected, he climbed out of the car, so she followed suit. He opened the trunk, and for a bit, his hands rummaged in the darkness. When they came out again, he was holding two shovels. She gave him a look of what she could only assume was cold terror, then whispered, “wh..what are we doing here?

“We are here to see Sally. I told you.” He answered matter of factly, and thrusted a shovel in her hand, before making his way into the cemetery. What was this mad man up to now, she thought. Had he finally lost his mind? This was not normal. Then she shook it off. She was the werewolf equivalent of a 22 year old nymphomaniac. Who was she to judge? Using her shovel as if it were a hiking staff, she followed his lead.

As is customary, they both stood at the foot of her grave in silence, their heads lowered, sending good thoughts out to the deceased. An owl hooted somewhere, the clouds parted, and the moon shone brightly down on the grave. She thought about how magical, almost fantastical it all was. The silence was broken by a thud. Then another. And another. Slowly yet steadily, they began working on the grave, uncovering whatever horrors lay beneath. Halfway between the process, he took his shirt off, and she couldn’t help but notice how irresistible he was. It was not a romantic setting, yet there was something so terribly erotic about it, about how his skin glistened with sweat and the veins in his arms popped out, about how the moon lit his pained, determined face. By the time one of the shovels chunked against a block of wood, the unbearable heat of the night had stripped them of all but their underwear. Working with increased haste now, the two unearthed the coffin, and using a rope that he had brought with him, managed to get it out of the ground.

He tried forcing the lid open. Just before she could point out that he was going about it the wrong way, he had lost his patience. Two thuds to the top broke it down, and he pulled the rest off with his bare hands. He jerked up the corpse inside the coffin and embraced it in his arms. The night was now filled with the whimpers of a grown man, as he sobbed into his lover’s neck. He stroked her hair, most of which came off, but he was too ecstatic to care. He held her to his bosom, howling in pain and grief, aching, but for what? The girl he had brought with him stepped forward, and kneeled down beside him, wrapping her arms around him. She held him close, planting little kisses all across his back. Slowly, as if in a trance, she moved her hand down to his waistband and tugged at him. That was enough to launch him into his animal frenzy. He ripped apart the clothes off the corpse, now too worn out to put up much resistance, and put his lips against her skin. Sliding his boxers down, she thrust him inside the dead woman’s body. The night was now filled with the pants of him desecrating and pleasuring his dead girlfriend, and soon was joined in by the moans of the woman deep in the throes of orgasmic bliss. An owl hooted somewhere.

After he was done fucking her, they lay there still, bodies entwined as if one, while she got up and got dressed. Looking down at the two of them, she smiled, “never were you that into cuddling.” He smiled back at her and got up, dusting dirt off his body. Together, the two of them pushed the coffin down into the hole, followed by the corpse, and buried it again. Dragging the shovels behind them, they walked out of the graveyard and towards the car, hand in hand. Before driving away, they just sat in their seats, basking in the afterglow of what had just happened. Then a sudden realization jolted into him, “Oh, I almost forgot. I brought you these.” He turned and fumbled in the back seat of car, producing a handful of still fresh flowers. “They’re your favorite too. Roses.” She just beamed at him with silent adoration.

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braindamageforbeginners · 7 years ago

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Just Eat Your Stupid Vegetables

Day 59

I’d like to begin today’s festivities with a recounting of recent events in my on-going attempt to get more Temodar. For any new readers, this is the chemo drug that all GBM patients are required to take for a year (possibly more)(as I’ve mentioned, the only thing worse than hearing, “We’re extending your treatment” is, “We’re discontinuing your treatment because it’s not working”), and I have been working feverishly to get more of it (and been thwarted by various forms, claims, claims-adjusters, and, most importantly, CVS)(new rule; just as I go out of my way to protect the anonymity of any of my care providers who do me a good turn, I’ll point out the folks who are likely to kill you if you have a serious illness)(and, based on current events, it seems likely that if you wandered into a CVS with an open, dripping wound, they’d call their supervisor and request the proper form before offering you a band-aid). After the most-recent mishap, in which CVS claimed that there was an insurance issue; I found the proper insurance form, forwarded it to the Warlocks’ administrative team, and heard back from one of the nurses that they’d filled it out and sent it on. I got a call the other day from a creepy, automated voice saying that my insurance company had just approved the release of my drugs. There are small children on Christmas who are less joyous than I was at the thought of putting more toxic substances - in higher doses - in my body. In my enthusiasm, I called CVS to see about delivery. You can imagine my confusion when they told me that the hang-up was because there were two prescriptions (Temodar only comes in a few different dosages, so doctors will prescribe you one or two dosages, and give you instructions on how to mix-n-match them to get your exact dosage)(again, you can’t cut these things in half, because they’re basically gel capsules containing mustard gas)(that’s a slight exaggeration, but not by much). After much tearing of hair and rending of teeth, CVS advised me to get in touch with my insurance company about the hold-up. So I called the insurance folks, whilst thinking of being on a beach in the Caribbean. The insurance folks were helpful, and figured out that the obscure authorization form that the Warlocks filled out could be applied to one Temodar prescription (again, I need two); and, after a call to the in-house insurance pharmacist, okayed the second prescription. No screaming or cajoling required. I gave myself an hour off (I had more coffee, when, in retrospect, I should’ve had a martini or two), then called CVS. They eventually agreed to ship me the drugs, after a $130 payment was made. It’s depressing to think that we could put a dollar value on a human life. It’s suicidally-depressing to realize that, apparently, that value at the moment is $130 and 16-ish hours of paperwork and phone calls (we won’t discuss my insurance premiums, which are astronomical). And it’s Bambi’s-mom-died sad to think how many cancer patients with far better prognoses than mine died for far less money. Anyway, I did finally convince CVS to take my filthy, peasant money in exchange for their goods (one feels that Adam Smith might rethink his thesis if he saw the 21st century), and made a mental note to throw a brick through the front window of the next CVS I see (I’m getting a chunk of those 15 hours and $130 back one way or another - CVS can either have my time or my money, but it seems greedy to claim so much of both)(especially when, as Research Coordinator pointed out, Temodar is such a common chemotherapy drug nowadays that it’s quite common for large pharmacies to have a bag or two stashed away). And the chemo drugs arrived this morning, so that’s a form of victory. But that’s not what I want to talk about at the moment.

I would like to share with all of you an interesting revelation I had whilst on vacation from the abyss (I know my father would probably hate that metaphor; sorry, Dad, but it’s a good one, and I’m sticking to it)(I’m about to heap some well-earned praise on him, so I figure it’ll even out). You surface dwellers are aware that there are food sources that you don’t have club to death or process, right? That’s not just a giant squid thing that’s unique to me, is it?

I have ask that because I only this morning starting putting some of the pieces of the puzzle together. Now, the biggest complaint about Temodar is that it causes motility issues (that’s the polite and scientifically-preferred term, I believe), and I suspect that’s been a complaint about the Captain America serum, because the Warlocks recently asked a few times about that issue, or, more specifically, that I didn’t ever seem to have that issue (not in any obvious or nagging way, just a part of me noted, “It seems odd that they’re double-checking that particular question.”). And I only put that together because I recently had to put in a special request to Mother Dearest for various ready-to-eat plant-based items. And only then did it start to occur to me that I’ve been on an ultra-high fiber, ultra-high protein diet.

Although I might jab my father occasionally, it should be noted that he has done a lot in the day-to-day business of keeping me alive. And, when you’re back at home after life knocks you on your ass, you eat what’s in the fridge at home. And my father is almost-obsessive about fruits, vegetables, and fiber. He even eats that horrible bran cereal that is almost-indistinguishable from those food pellets you feed to pet rodents (I really, really hope that’s not the cure for cancer, because I might choose death before that).

I bring this up because it contrasts a bit from me, in the initial part of my treatment. I’d been a pescovegetarian for eleven years - count ‘em, folks - prior to the diagnosis. Heart disease runs in the family, and I thought I might avoid that disease (once you start to think about all the weird, crazy paradoxes and hypocrisies in your life, you go a little mad). After I was told I had a terrible disease, one of my initial thoughts was, “Clearly, vegetarianism is bullshit.”

Reader, you may be familiar with the word “relapse” as it pertains to addiction. Well, for those first few weeks, that was pretty much me; the crazed, blood-soaked carnivore who refused to eat anything unless it did move. Dad did point out that it wouldn’t do to survive brain cancer to die of heart disease or malnutrition; and that I wasn’t going to win the “Most Eligible Bachelor” award if I continued eating live chickens where the general public could see me. My memory of this conversation suggests that I responded in a less-than-graceful manner (a note to the family and friends of cancer patients; even the nicest, kindest person on the world won’t be very nice or kind for the first month or two after the diagnosis). Instead of smothering me in my sleep (again, that could make him a candidate for canonization), Dad just kind of kept chipping away and, either due to me seeing light, or the exhaustion wearing down my stubbornness, I eventually started eating more plant-based matter (and, eventually, that turned into a lot of plant-based matter, once I learned that vegetables and fruits are actually pretty tasty)(of course, this was all going on while I was chugging Gatorade, and, stacked up next to that, cough syrup doesn’t taste too bad). And, because I’m into weight training and I’ve been told by my neurofeedback guy that protein is good for neurological injury, I increased my protein intake (mostly from those awful protein shakes, which are only slightly better than Gatorade). And I went to the gym, every day (well, at least 5 days out of the week - that Captain America serum is tough on the body). The point is, I have been living - completely accidentally, as it turns out - an extremely healthy lifestyle, as of late. The fact that this was occurring to me as I was literally being torn apart on a molecular level, poisoned, and used as a guinea pig in a mad science experiment (this is a dramatically reductive but not-inaccurate description of cancer treatment) is one of those little ironies that drives me as a writer.

To get to the larger point, at every stage in the process, everyone - from the radiation techs to the Warlocks - has commented on how exceptionally well I’ve tolerated the treatment. I usually shot them a dirty look, because I felt like hell - and, now that I’ve recovered a little, I now realize that I was utterly physically miserable the whole time (it’s just like when I started taking melatonin and sleeping through the night that I realized how many years I must have spent half-asleep and utterly exhausted). Still, in all fairness, the Warlocks and everyone were, in retrospect, right - I was miserable, but I was never completely bed-ridden, apart from two or three mornings here and there. Which makes me wonder, if a large part of that wasn’t due to lifestyle choices on my part; which I’ve been able to contrast with life outside of the abyss. And you people seem almost fearful of anything that isn’t carved from an animal and deep-fried (to be fair, I love bacon-wrapped, beer-battered veal as much as the next guy - probably moreso, since I’m still making up for lost time).

Now, this is not to say that fruits, vegetables, and stair-steppers (or bench-presses, in my case) are going to cure me. If I survive this thing - and that’s still a big “if” (I realize that seems pessimistic, but I’ve realized that, just as positive outlook is important, it does not do to ignore the dark probabilities of life), it’ll be because my surgeon went orienteering in my skull; Radiation Oncologist nuked me; and the Warlocks dosed me with massive quantities of strange and dangerous substances, and then I begged all of them to do it again and again. But, at the same time, maybe there’s something to be said for healthy lifestyle as a complementary treatment to being scalped, microwaved, and poisoned.

Again, this is absolutely not an endorsement of “alternative” medicine (my go-to quote on that matter is from Tim Minchin, who wrote, “Do you know what they call alternative medicine that’s been proven to work? Medicine.”). There is no secret cure “they” don’t want you to know (I love the medical industry, but it simply isn’t competent enough to suppress that type of immediately-profitable information), and if there is, “they” don’t want you to know about it because it’s unsafe or unreliable (or, in my case, being tested for safety)(Mother Dearest once summarized it best when she said, “They could cure cancer, HIV, and Ebola tomorrow if they didn’t have to worry about the patient surviving.”). But, at the same time, there might be a lot to be said for complementary medicine, which, apparently, includes spending time in the gym and large quantities of tasteless fiber. And even then, it’s not like it’s some major constriction on your day-to-day existence (I’m sure Laura, Dan, and Julie are out there reading this and saying, “He wasn’t on any sort of diet I noticed” - and I wasn’t, either, until I got out, and realized Dad had quietly been slipping more plant life into my diet than I was comfortable with). Again, I wouldn’t even have noticed it all until I remembered the Warlocks’ specific questioning about my lack of GI chemo side-effects, and then realizing that I’d been eating far more than the average amount of veggies (if you’re downing gallons of hateful Gatorade and taking dreaded Temodar on a nightly basis, as well as being microwaved every day, extra helpings of brussel sprouts and an extra half-hour in the gym on a daily basis tend to go unnoticed). So, maybe, perhaps, if you plan on being seriously ill, a healthy lifestyle change at the same time might help you out. Maybe,. Possibly. Again, I’m just one person, statistically, I can’t prove or disprove anything.

#Cancer #brain cancer

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someguyranting1 · 7 years ago

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What’s in a Scene? How SAO Became the Worst Anime Ever

Sword Art Online is ass. OP to ED and everything in between, the whole thing stinks and I hate it. But I didn’t always. As a matter of fact, when the series first started airing, I thought, “This is okay. I mean, I’ve seen better, but I’ve seen worse, too. I’ll see where this goes.” Somewhere between that and this, though, that stopped being my response to the show. At a certain point, I could no longer form words and was mostly just vomiting blood for the duration of each episode. And I’m not alone in that. Pretty much everyone over the age of 12 agrees that this show sucks.

What they don’t agree on is WHEN it started sucking. When did Sword Art Online get terrible? Some would say it happened when they locked the only likeable character in a rape dungeon and made Kirito’s sister want to fuck him. Others would point to the gratuitous tentacle rape scene, and boy, gee whiz, there sure is an excessive amount of sexual assault in this show. Then there’s the “I told you so” camp who say it was terrible all along and all of the bullshit just made you realize that after the fact.

For me, there’s a precise moment when Sword Art Online goes from being okay to being one of the worst fucking shows ever, and it’s all Yui’s fault. Yeah, you heard me: your innocent daughteru ruined fucking everything. Let me explain.

In the beginning, Sword Art Online had some stuff going for it. Not a lot (the fight choreography was always pretty bad, the cast was always bland, and the premise was never original), but it had a solid sense of tone. We’d seen “trapped in an MMO” stories before, but never with this kind of horror tinge to them. The world of Aincrad had this oppressive air hanging over it. From very early on, there was this sense that just about anyone could die at any moment. The first few episodes do a great job of establishing that. And while it didn’t break any new ground in terms of character writing, it had some good stand-alone episode plots, like the one where all of Kirito’s friends got murdered, and the whole murder mystery thing where they’re trying to figure out how somebody was breaking the rules of the game, and… Actually, those were the only really interesting episodes, but hey, lots of okay show have had less.

The main thing that the show had going for it early on was that underlying sense of dread. It felt like something where nobody, except for this one guy, was ever really safe. Nobody important died after the first few episodes, but that was fine...for a while. If the show was kill-happy all the time, that would be a problem in itself. You’ve gotta pace these things. It’s hard to get attached when characters are going in and out through a revolving door.

Still, by Episode 10, there had been enough near misses that it seemed like Kirito and his harem might be a little too invulnerable. It seemed like the right time to kill someone off to raise the stakes. It’s at this point that they chose to introduce Yui.

If you don’t know (congratulations, you’ve saved yourself from a shitty show), Yui is a little girl who Kirito and Asuna find wandering around the woods near their home and decide to adopt as their daughter. She’s sweet and innocent and might as well be walking around with a timer counting down to her sad death. It’s cheap and lazy enough to introduce a pure cinnamon roll character purely for the sake of killing them off, but that’s not nearly bad enough writing on its own to drag this show down to the total dog shit territory it now occupies.

The bigger problem with this is tied to what Yui is. Yui is actually a fully-sentient AI, which means that she’s the only character in the entire cast who, if killed, could be brought back. And that’s very, very bad for the show because if Yui dies and is then brought back, that renders the threat of death from a narrative standpoint permanently meaningless.

Remember: as of this episode, that’s the ONLY interesting thing about SAO. Death in media isn’t interesting because, “Oh, they’re dead! That’s sad! I’m sad!” It’s interesting because it inherently changes the dynamics of a story. A character who was once a force in the narrative now ISN’T. Any arc that they might have been going through is cut abruptly short, and from this point forward, the writers can’t rely on their presence to move the story forward or build up other characters.

Most stories never pull that trigger, and I’m cool with that because, like I said, it’s hard to write around. I’m okay with a show being a little toothless as long as the story is engaging and the characters are fun. Also, there are plenty of ways to make your characters suffer without killing them off.

However, when a show acts like death means something and then does something that very transparently reveals that the writers aren’t willing to sacrifice potential plot lines, it’s like watching Mickey Mouse take his head off at Disneyland: it ruins the magic. There are RULES against this kind of shit. If a character dies and is then brought back, you might as well write, “And then they got on a bus for a couple of weeks,” for all the fucking difference it makes.

Obviously when the show was airing, I was really dreading this prospect. I was hoping that the show would pull something out of left field, maybe fake me out and kill Asuna or Kirito off, instead of do the stupid, obvious thing that it was definitely going to do. But then, I got to the end of Episode 12 and I watched Kirito and Asuna mourn for little baby Skynet, and it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.

IT WAS WORSE! They don’t just kill Yui off in the most trite way possible; they do it while immediately undercutting all of the dramatic weight of the moment because, as Yui is being deleted, Kirito pulls some techno wizardry out of his ass to store her in an inventory item. And because of that dumb dragon feather episode, we know that means she’s coming back. They could AT LEAST have left it ambiguous as to whether or not they could bring her back, but, “Nope! Can’t let anyone think their waifu might not come back! They might stop watching and giving us money!” However, even that isn’t the most asinine thing about this scene.

In this moment, as they reach the game master’s console in the depths of this dungeon, Kirito reveals the heretofore unknown fact that he’s a PhD-level programmer, thus irreparably ruining his character forever. Kirito was already stupidly overpowered, but at least it made a bit of sense. He was a beta tester, so his base skill level being higher than most other players’ was justified. Doing Kendo in real life gave him good reflexes. He also spent, like, the first year of the game solo queuing instead of socializing to reach his ridiculously high experience level. That became less believable as he also proved to be the most eligible bachelor on the entire Internet, but you can at least justify that as girls having a crush on him for saving their lives, rather than that coming down to any innate social skill on his part. It’s easy to justify a lot of things about Kirito because he has no defined personality at all. However, when you add to those traits the fact that he’s got the scripting skills to not just hack the game from inside it, but to custom-write code in the space of a few seconds to store data as an in-game object, I’ve gotta call bullshit.

Hacking games requires time and at least some knowledge of the source code. There’s no way Kirito has that. Even if the thousand or so carefully selected beta testers for SAO were data-mining the shit out of the game, they only had it for a little over a month during summer vacation and they only saw a fraction of the content. It would be hard to get a full picture of how the game works in that time frame under NORMAL circumstances, but SAO is also the first game of its kind, built from the ground up for incredibly complicated, brand-new proprietary hardware.

Already, Kirito’s doing something that nobody outside the company should know how to do, but even if we assume that there’s a command already in place to store a script as an in-game object, think about what he’s storing. Yui is a fucking AI, the most complicated kind of program conceivable. Her code needs to be immense to account for the broad variety of situations she might need to deal with, and it also needs to be capable of rewriting itself on the fly in real time. Kirito is taking that huge, complex code, saving its current state of operation, and converting that information into a custom item in a game whose script he must be figuring out in real time, all in the space of a few seconds. NO! NOT FUCKING POSSIBLE!

In this moment, Kirito ceases to be a real human being and I lose all suspension of disbelief for this entire show. It’s just not believable that any person could be capable of pulling off the shit that we’ve seen him do up to this point. Maybe some of it, but not all of it, and especially not A FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD FUCKING CHILD!

Also, as if he wasn’t special enough already, the scene establishes a few moments earlier that he and Asuna are the only people to ever experience love or joy in SAO during the entire two years that the game has been running. This is so fucking stupid, it hurts!

This scene amazes me for how thoroughly it manages to ruin the entire show. It would be bad enough to ruin the whole story by implicitly admitting that they never plan to kill off anyone who’s had any kind of character development ever again (unless dying is part of their story arc), but in doing so, they also manage to make it impossible to relate to their PROTAGONIST. From this point forward, the show has no dramatic stakes. It CAN’T have any. Kirito’s been established to be able to do basically anything, and we now know for a fact that no one important will ever really die.

Furthermore, if you want to nitpick, this scene raises a ton of questions, too, the big one being, “WHY?! Why is THAT what Kirito did with his backhand access?” If he had the time to isolate a huge, complex program and store it as environmental data and write a custom script to save that file to his personal computer, why didn’t he, I don’t know, globally reactivate the game’s logout function? He had access to the fucking source code! And that would’ve been a lot simpler! There was probably just one value he needed to set from True to False, or maybe a few lines of code that had been commented out. Comparatively speaking, it would have been easy, and he’d have been saving, I don’t know, upwards of, like, 7000 people’s lives? But no. Preserving his wife’s Tamagotchi is a lot more important than that.

There’s been a lot of complaining in this review and not a lot of hard analysis, but that’s because there’s not much in this scene to analyze. This is one of the most flat, boring scenes that I’ve ever watched in anything. Every shot is static and dull, especially the obvious, predictable reaction shots that it uses to ham-fistedly attempt to tug at your heartstrings. Furthermore, the set is a blank, white room with nothing going on. There’s basically nothing to even look at here. That said, if nothing else, I guess I can take solace in the fact that nobody was even trying when they made the scene that ruined the whole show.

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