#like who is more interesting: the runaway slaves trying to free their people

[moonybadger]

Forgot how absolutely annoying Scarum was in Triss and how he almost ruined hare comic relief side characters for me in the series

[offsidekineticist]

I'm really nervous about this one, since...well, look at the content warnings. And this is probably the least likeable or justifiable Giliys has ever been in his life, so...also worried about that!

CW: serial killer being a serial killer, blood and gore, burn injuries, xenophobia, slavery, suicidal ideation, interupted suicide attempt

Why?

You tell your contacts that you're retiring. They don't buy it, but you don't stick around long enough for them to start asking questions. Instead you go east, to the place you always wanted to live: Andoran.

You're barely across the border when things go south. So you're so afraid of that mouse that you've forgotten our bargain?

You hold your breath. Of course she knew about Thay's threat. Of course she had been watching–she's always watching. And now you feel her rage in your soul, burning you from the inside out. Hey, boss! You think towards her, ignoring how her anger burns. Good to hear from ya! Was starting to think you mighta lost interest in little old me.

The burning only gets worse. I'd love to lose interest in you, but whenever I let you think I have, you go and pull a stunt like this.

Hey, now, there are souls in Andoran, too. And then your mind seizes on an odd bit of trivia you heard once. You know, Andoran has one of the largest aasimar populations in Avistan.

You can feel her wrath pause, intrigued. Oh?

The fire burns in your chest, but you fight your way through it to focus–'Oh,' that's all you give me? 'oh?' c'mon. We both know you love playing with heaven's toys.

The burning gets worse and you swear you can smell smoke as she speaks. Yes, heaven's toys–not its castoffs.

Aw, you know how heaven is–the second you start having fun with 'em, they suddenly won't be castoffs. C'mon. Having your hunting hound running around a country with a patron celestial who has taken a personal interest in its success? Damning aasimar souls, celestial spark and all? You love that shit, boss, don't tell me you'd rather keep taking the runaways no one will miss.

For a moment you fear you were too forward. Then a cruel laughter fills your mind and soul, replacing every thought that used to be there, piercing your eyes and ears and - You're no hound. You are a fly who fancies himself a spider, tangling yourself up in schemes and deceptions. There's a pause in her laughter, but the pain remains. Fine. You may go to Andoran. Bring me aasimar souls. Bring them often. Or I will take yours instead. Understood?

Loud'n clear, boss!

The burning sensation and piercing headache remains, but you know her attention is elsewhere now, which means it's safe for you to curl up under a tree and take huge gulps of air and wait for the pain to pass while you try not to think about what the fuck you just promised, or, even worse, what Thay would think. He would despise you even more than he already does. He doesn't understand that you don't have a choice.

But of course he doesn't understand. He's always been free. He doesn't know what it's like for your life to depend on doing as you're told. So you put him out of your mind, and once the pain has passed, you continue to Andoran.

Despite having dreamed of coming here for years, your expectations of Andoran were fairly low. You are too jaded to accept the utopia promised by the Andorens you met. You know better than to trust when tallfolk make such promises. That's why it is almost begrudgingly that you must admit it's more than you had ever hoped. You can go out at any time, day or night, without risking the notice of slavers, which is a relief. You actually hadn't realized how much that danger had weighed on you until you didn't have to deal with it anymore. There are halfling majority settlements that aren't just the slave quarters of a manor. And when people think their government is doing something stupid? They just say "I think this is stupid." No veiled doublespeak, no dog whistles, no playing coy for plausible deniability–they just say what they think and get on with their day because there aren't any black armored goons out to shut down independent thinking.

It's refreshing. It's liberating. You just want to bask in this feeling of safety as you live a normal life doing odd jobs or buying groceries. It's the salve you didn't know your soul needed. And whenever Thay crosses your mind–when your thoughts turn towards that night–you remind yourself that he'd never have agreed to come here anyway, so really you're better off this way.

And you repay Andoran for this peace by preying on its people.

The first is a musetouched aasimar named Fin Wenton. You meet him in Almas, sitting on a street corner beating out a song on his hand drum. He was a sailmaker's apprentice, he tells you, before the knife slipped and he lost most of the fingers on his right hand. "Can't make sails with no fingers," his mentor asserted, and that was that. Finn had no family, no education, no apprenticeship, and no home. "But I figured out how to drum without my right fingers, so I think maybe I got a future as a bard," he says with a crooked grin. You toss a gold coin into the hat he's using as a collection bowl, and his eyes widen in disbelief. You disappear into the crowd before he can thank you.

He spends the coin on a warm meal and a round or three of drinks in a tavern. You don't blame him. Given the shit he's been through, he deserves to unwind. He eats and he drinks until he's thrown out, and then you follow him as he stumbles into an alleyway.

You are quick. You always are. You know the spell to bind the soul to hell so well by now that you can cast it almost silently, and you learned long ago how to kill with compassion. He doesn't feel a thing. You feel the warmth of her approval burn in your soul, and you use it to incinerate the body before anyone sees. You don't search the ashes for what's left of your coin. You'd like to think there's nothing left, that he got to spend it all before he went.

The second is only two months later–so much sooner than you were expected to deliver in Cheliax. Her name is Kestrix. She has no surname because she is like you–a runaway slave from Cheliax. She is an emberkin with radiant eyes that light up even brighter when you tell her you're from Egorian. You tell her you've only been in Almas for a couple of months, and she immediately takes it upon herself to give you a crash course in the best places to buy Chelaxian spices, which places to avoid with your Chelaxian accent, and which temples will turn you away because you're damned. It takes you a moment to realize she isn't speaking of your bargain.

"It's ridiculous," she says, and her halo burns as she speaks. "You can't just say 'I'm the queen and I decree all my subjects are damned!' You can't be decreed into damnation. You have to earn it or agree to it–you can't be born into it. Obviously the Third Damnation is just a pledge that Thrune will actively evangelize for hell." She sighs tiredly. "But many of the temples in Andoran seem to think otherwise." 

"I take it your faith is important to you," you guess.

"It…it gave me hope. Kept me alive long enough to make it here," Kestrix agrees, taking a holy symbol of Milani out of her pocket. "I wanted to give something back to her–maybe become a cleric or one of her champions or something. They turned me out as soon as they heard where I was from." She chuckles in that 'I could laugh or cry' way as she stows the holy symbol in her pocket. "Imagine worshiping the goddess of the oppressed and turning away a runaway slave because of where she's from. Imagine missing the point that badly." And then she sighs. "But the Everbloom's following is small. There's just the one temple in all of Almas."

"I think I ran into a congregation the other day, actually," you lie. "They're easy to miss cuz they just have an old barn instead of a church."

You curse yourself and your lies because her eyes light up as she demands that you lead her there. She dies in the barn, her throat slashed as she bends down to inspect something shiny in the dirt (it is the coin you left there before you first spoke to her). She must see you coming, because she jerks back suddenly as you strike–not enough to save her, but enough that it isn't instant. She stands up straight and holds a hand to her wounded neck. You see her lips move, but there is no sound. You've stolen her voice, but she doesn't need her voice to be understood. You can read her lips easily enough.

Why?

She collapses, and you have no answer.

You wonder if you should say a prayer to Milani–apologize for stealing away her follower. You decide against it. The only thing it might accomplish is getting you smited, and you still want to live.

The third is a plumekith aasimar named Yantur from Vudra with bright blue and red feathers that remind you of a parrot. He came to Avistan by way of Jalmeray looking for trouble.

"My family are padaprajnas–warriors. I am untested, so I travel to find the fight and prove myself."

"There not enough trouble in Vudra for you?" You ask with a wry grin, and Yantur laughs.

"Truthfully, I've always wanted to travel. And even in Vudra we have heard tell of the successes of Mendev's Fifth Crusade against the worldwound. I want to join that fight. I would be proud to tell my grandchildren I was part of that fight."

His plan is to find a caravan going northwards and ask to pay his way by working as a guard. Tonight, he says, he will seek shelter at the Temple of Irori, because he knows nobody in the city.

"I know where that is–I can show you," you offer, and Yantur's eyes narrow.

"I think I can manage myself, thank you," he says, suddenly looking you up and down, as if seeing you for the first time. He pays for his meal and says farewell. You likewise pay for your meal and follow him from the shadows.

You only make it a few blocks away from the tavern when he stops. You duck behind a trash barrel obscured by shadows to hide. He stands still for what feels like an eternity, not speaking, not moving, just standing completely still.

His body launches towards you. His foot crashes through the trash barrel, first one side, then the other, and you barely have enough time to step aside. Somehow Yantur is able to land on his feet, and he renews his attack.

"Behold the light of perfection!" Yantur recites as he pushes both hands, palms outwards, towards you. You suddenly feel sluggish, weaker–more vulnerable, somehow.

Oh shit.

You targeted a fucking paladin.

You need to get out of here. You don't fight toe-to-toe with fucking paladins. If you have a problem with a paladin, you slit his throat while he sleeps and then slink away undetected. And right now, you are very, very detected.

A foot crashes into the side of your head. Your head snaps to the side suddenly, and you completely lose your balance. It's hard to say if it's the blow to the head or the smiting, but you're seeing stars and can't tell which way is up.

A boot presses down on your neck. "Who do you serve?" Yantur the Paladin (apparently) demands, and as you fight to win yourself room to breathe, pushing up on the boot with both hands, you realize there's a very good chance of this overzealous novice killing you by accident. You need to get out from under this boot now. So you do what you hate: you call out through the bargain that binds you to hell. The wrath of hell itself flows through your soul, burning worse than any of your mistress's punishments, ready to do your bidding–if you can control it.

"Tell me who you serve!" Yantur commands.

"Take a wild guess," you croak, and you push that hell wrath from your soul into his. Tongues of hellfire flare from your hands. He jumps back, startled and burnt, but it makes little difference. You force yourself to your feet as a stream of hellfire flows from your fingertips to the paladin's chest, burning him alive. You see the moment he realizes what you are doing–that wide-eyed look of terror as he realizes he is bound to you by hellfire, and so through your soul, he's bound to hell.

"No! No! Please, no!" he pleads, but hell shows no mercy and so neither do you. You watch shapes form in the hellfire, watch as the hands of the damned reach out and grab a faintly glowing spirit and pull it out of Yantur's body. 

The body collapses, and the hands of hellfire, gripping Yantur's soul, abruptly retreat, rushing into your chest, using your soul as the conduit to carry Yantur to hell. You are alone, in an alleyway beside a body that still breathes, whose heart still beats, but will never wake again. You look down at your own smoldering, red, blistering hands. This is why you hate using hellfire–it always burns you too.

Fucking paladins.

And then, sitting alone beside that smoldering corpse, you realize: Yantur smited you. You're no altar boy, but even you know a paladin's smite only affects evil.

Evil. You? No, that couldn't be–you're not good, by any means, but evil? That's a little over the top. But it must be true–the paladin's magic worked on you. The universe has stood in judgment over you and decided you are evil.

That is fucking bullshit! Yes, you do some fucked up shit. Yes, you work for a fucking devil. But you hate it! Doesn't that count for something? What kind of evil person hates being evil? Would an evil person torture himself by learning his victims names and hopes and dreams because somebody should remember them? And it's not like you had a choice–if you don't send souls to hell, she'll call in your soul earlier. Your life is at stake–you shouldn't be judged on shit you do to save yourself. What else are you supposed to do? Lay down and die?

Thay would.

The thought hits you like a ton of bricks, and only partly because it's a thought about Thay. Thay would absolutely die before damning anyone to hell. He tried to damn himself to spare a stranger from hell, for fuck's sake. Of course that's only because Thay is unbelievably, almost impossibly good, but that's the point, isn't it? If he were damned, Thay would rather die than drag anyone else down to hell with him, so he's good. You would drag all of Golarion down with you for a chance to live just one more day, so you're evil.

It's not fucking fair! You tried to be good, to make the world better! And you had! All those people you ferried to freedom–that's why you had to live, that's why you couldn't just lay down and die, and then that was stolen from you by a self-righteous bleached out librarian. That night, when he told you he'd kill you if you didn't quit your work with the Bellflower Network, he didn't just end your friendship. He stole your reason to live.

…Except he didn't, did he? Because if he had, you would have chosen death by now. Freeing slaves wasn't why you served a devil. It was just how you made yourself feel better about it.

You stare at the living corpse on the ground, and suddenly you find yourself asking the same question Kestrix asked: why? Why was this young man, who had chosen to travel across half the world to fight demons in the service of his god, damned to hell? Why was his corpse on the ground beside you? This time you know the answer.

He was damned for eternity to buy you a couple more months.

You stand over the body, and for the first time since Thay kicked you out–or maybe the first time in your life–the fog clears, and you understand. 

You're approaching sixty. Middle aged for a halfling. Halfway through. You can spend the next sixty or seventy or maybe even eighty years doing this, damning innocents so you have a few more months before you're put on a rack in hell–or you can cut to the chase. And if there's anything good left in you, you know what you have to do.

You take your dagger from its sheath. It's a good blade. Balanced, easy to sharpen, and it actually fits your hands. You've taken a lot of lives with this dagger. Fitting that the last one you take with it will be yours. You know how to do it quick enough you won't have time to regret it–you've done it to others enough, doing it to yourself would be easy as pie.

And then your thoughts are interrupted. A voice rings clearly in your mind–but not the voice of your master. It's the voice of Qweck–Thay's daughter in all but name (who hates your guts).

Meet me in the Temple of Aroden in Rego Cader, Westcrown. I need your help. Name your price, I'll pay, just please be here.

You want to say no. You should say no–too much risk of Thay finding out and deciding to carry out his threat. But if it's bad enough that she's asking you for help and offering a blank check in return, then she must be in real trouble. And even if Thay did ruin that story you told yourself about why you damned souls–or maybe partly because of that–you owe him. You owe him for making him your accomplice in this. You owe him for not being the person he believed you could be. And that means you have to help his family.

I'm in Andoran. I'll be there as soon as I can.

Whatever the problem is, you can afford to help out. You'll still have your dagger when you're done.

[semper-legens]

56. The Underground Railroad, by Colson Whitehead

Owned: No, library Page count: 366 My summary: Cora has been enslaved on a cotton plantation for all her life. But thanks to a few poor choices, she finds that her life is in even more danger than her fellows. One of the men on the plantation swears he has an escape route - the mythical Underground Railroad, which can lead runaways to the Promised Land in the North. But escaping the plantation is just the first part of Cora’s long journey to freedom. Will she ever find true safety? My rating: 4/5 My commentary:

I'd heard about this book before I read it. It just seemed to crop up everywhere, enough that its presence on the shelves everywhere I went inspired me to actually pick the thing up and give it a read. But while I'd heard about this book, it wasn't in enough detail that I knew much outside of its premise - in 19th century America, the Underground Railroad is, instead of a route out of slavery, a literal railroad running underneath the country trying to get enslaved people to safety. Which was an intriguing enough idea in itself. But beyond that, I didn't know much; my preconceptions were entirely based on that concept. So let's see how the rest of the book panned out!

Cora is our main character, an enslaved woman who is the daughter of a runaway, and became an outcast for it on the plantation in which she was held. She later runs away with the help of another enslaved person named Caesar, as well as the agents of the Underground Railroad. Cora's life is informed by trauma, both the horrors she was subject to on the plantation and the things she experiences on the road to freedom. She is given moments of respite, months spent in reasonably friendly places, but her life of running and hiding is obviously hard. She's a character with a great sense of resilience - you'd have to be resilient to be a fugitive - but she still has her moments of vulnerability, desperation, and being overwhelmed. I like how stubborn she is, how she refuses to compromise and buckle under to how people expect her to be, like in South Carolina when she refuses the doctor's pressure to become sterilised even before learning the greater context around his requests. She's a very credible image of a woman in her position.

This book has a really weird relationship with reality. Other than the titular Railroad being a literal rather than figurative railroad, this book aligns with reality perfectly, at least as far as I am aware from my admittedly limited reading. References are made to real abuses done to both enslaved and free black people, albeit not all in this time period. For example, the first place Cora and Caesar go to in South Carolina has the government own escaped enslaved people, but employ them and provide medical care. Cora finds out that they are forcibly sterilising women and using men as test subjects in an experiment to test for syphilis treatments. I don't know what period the former was happening in, but the Tuskegee Syphilis Study was in the 1930s to 70s. This isn't a criticism, however, just an observation - it's interesting how Whitehead takes real experiences and fictionalises them, conflating centuries of abuses directed at black people and creating a world that both reflects real historical experiences while still crafting a distinct world.

And, yes, this book is brutal in its depictions of the horrors of slavery. As it needs to be, really. You can't talk about how terrible slavery was without mentioning children being ripped from parents, the inhumanity of slave catchers, the ugly bigotry shown towards black people. Cora ends up in North Carolina, where black people are illegal and any found in the state will be violently and ritualistically murdered. She spends months cooped up in a tiny attic space, hidden from the world - reminiscent of Jewish people hiding from the Nazis, but also of Harriet Jacobs hiding from an abusive enslaver. When violence erupts, it is sudden and startling - the moments of relative peace in Cora's life provide a chilling contrast to the sheer brutality on show here. It's an impactful book, but not an easy one to read by any means.

Next up, some tales for queer teens.

[onlyanidala]

onlyanidala fic archive

These are fics with titles E-I.

A-D     J-P     Q-T     U-Z

searchable desktop version available here

more anidala fics can also be found in our fic tag!

the link for each fic can be found by clicking the title!

Title: edges of the world Author: glompcat Status: WIP/Unupdated Rating: T Summary:  Leia Organa finds herself stuck in a strange alternate/parallel universe where the Empire never came to exist. Meanwhile, trying to navigate a galaxy ruled by the Sith weren’t exactly the Jedi Trials Leia Skywalker had expected. Or: Leia from a universe where Anakin never fell and canon Leia switch places. Now the two of them - and everyone else around them - have to deal with the consequences of their dimensional swap.

Title: eros turannos Author: emerald-leaves Status: complete Rating: R Summary:  Love the Tyrant. Oderint dum metuant- Let them hate as long as they fear. AU set in time around the Clone Wars. Note: This fic has unfortunately been removed from Fanfiction.net. However, a PDF is available upon request. 

Title: the exchange Author: misslearn Status: WIP Rating: T Summary: The Daughter has a bad day and it irrevocably changes the fate of the galaxy, twice over. Or: ROTS Obi-Wan and Anakin are swapped with their younger, TPM, selves. It changes things, in both parallels.

Title: five weddings and a funeral Author: skywalkersamidala Status: complete Rating: T Summary:  Padmé's feeling gloomy about her perpetual singleness, but everything changes when she meets an attractive stranger at her sister's wedding.

Title: flat tire Author: skywalkersamidala Status: complete Rating: G Summary: Who knew something as simple as getting a flat tire could change the entire course of your life?

Title: for a moment Author: shelivesfree Status: complete Rating: T Summary:  And, just for a moment, all the worries and concerns that troubled the young couple cease to exist. Fade away to just this. Husband and wife. Asleep. Dreaming of the sweet little life they will soon bring into the world and into their hearts.

Title: for a sith to love a jedi Author: silverdaye Status: WIP Rating: R Summary:  Jedi Knight Padmé Amidala, the Heroine with No Fear, has crash landed on a moon after a starship fight with Darth Vader. Now the two enemies are stuck on a strange moon with strange rocks that prevents them from accessing the Force. They form an uneasy truce to leave the other alone. Yet after Vader sees Amidala bathing, she keeps coming back to him and he can't keep his mind off of her.

Title: for you, i’ll risk it all Author: estrangedlestrange Status: complete Rating: G Summary:  Darth Vader was certain he had killed Padmé Amidala on Mustafar, but when a rebel broadcast reveals she is alive, he will stop at nothing to free her from what he assumes is captivity. Former Senator Padmé Amidala was certain her husband had been killed on Mustafar, but after seeing Vader across the room during a mission, she is sure that she had been lied to. Knowing the truth, she seeks out her husband, either to bring him back to the light or kill him, which ever was necessary.

Title: friendly competition Author: skywalkersamidala Status: complete Rating: T Summary:  Playing Quidditch is awfully difficult when you’re in love with the rival Seeker. Snapshots of Anakin and Padmé’s 7 years at Hogwarts.

Title: fruits of malice Author: therealthing Status: complete Rating: T Summary:  In an alternate universe, Anakin Skywalker was taken from his mother at the age of four. He was raised as Darth Vader in a loveless, brutal environment. His life takes an interesting turn when he has an encounter with a certain senator from Naboo.

Title: future imperfect Author: therealthing Status: complete Rating: T Summary:  A time travel story in which Anakin Skywalker is sent to the future to witness the consequences of his actions.

Title: fundamental force carriers Author: tanarill Status: complete Rating: T Summary:  The Sith Lord Darth Vader lived his life. He probably didn't live it well, but he lived it as well as he knew how. At the end there, he'd even managed to woman up and kill Sidious. But he was dying, and at peace with the past. The past wasn't at peace with him.

Title: getting home to you Author: irnan Status: complete Rating: T Summary:  Anakin always said it was Padme's fault, but he was the one who spotted that broom closet. Fluff.

Title: the girl from harvard Author: shelivesfree Status: complete Rating: M Summary:  Absence makes the heart grow fonder. It also makes it grow more paranoid. Padme is in her last year of Harvard. Anakin has just started at the University of Chicago. Though they won't admit it, their long-distance relationship is taking it's heavy toll. Will their love prevail or will the distance prove too much for both of them?

Title: give me a signal Author: stranestelle Status: complete Rating: T Summary:  When Padmé Amidala is unable to contact Coruscant while negotiating a loan on Scipio, the Senate suspects trouble, and sends Anakin Skywalker to go check on her. Of course, the resourceful senator isn’t really in any trouble – don't flatter yourself, Rush Clovis – but there’s definitely some brewing.

Title: hand in my hand and we promise to never let go Author: gemma Status: complete Rating: M Summary:  Anakin Skywalker was sent to build an elite Jedi team to help end the ten-year Clone Wars. Jedi Knight Naberrie trains hard to be selected and grows closer to the Jedi Master in the process. But with Jedi falling every day in battle, is it safe to follow your heart? Or will war take what's most precious to Padme?

Title: the hardest path Author:  catiiasofia & misschrisdaae Status: complete Rating: G Summary:  Padmé does what she has to for her family. Series: Three Paths Not Followed

Title: heart of a sith Author: therealthing Status: complete Rating: T Summary:  Fourteen years have passed since the inception of the Empire. Darth Vader has been asked to go to Alderaan for an unusual reason, one that Vader soon discovers will change his life forever.

Title: heirs of light and darkness Author: skywalkersamidala Status: complete Rating: R Summary:  After escaping the Jedi purge two years ago made him the most wanted fugitive in the galaxy, Anakin Skywalker has at last been captured by the Empire. He expects to be killed, but Lady Padmé Amidala, the imperial heir, has other ideas.

Title: heretic pride Author: fialleril Status: WIP/Unupdated Rating: G Summary:  Like most Republic citizens, the Naberries have never spent much time thinking about the Jedi. But that changes with the birth of their daughter Ilaré. (Or, the AU where the third Naberrie daughter is a Jedi, Padmé offers Naboo as a sanctuary for runaway slaves, Shmi is a conductor on the Tatooine freedom trail, and Anakin jump starts a reformation. Or maybe a heresy. It all depends on your point of view.)

Title: hidden Author: disco shop girl Status: complete Rating: T Summary:  Anakin is woken from his dream before it can warn him of his fate. Without that fear hanging over him he feels a disturbance in the force, and chooses to leave before it can manifest itself.

Title:  high above the clouds, my love for you is eternal Author: rogue darth skywalker Status: WIP/Unupdated Rating: M Summary:  Modern Aviation AU. Anakin is a pilot, Padme is a flight attendant. When they meet for the first time he is captivated by her. But much to his surprise she has a young son. This is a story about how bonds are broken, how families are made, and how sacrifice is sometimes necessary to get people where they are meant to be.

Title: hold me in your arms and i’m home Author: gemma Status: complete Rating: M Summary:  It's the ten year reunion for students from Coruscant high and more importantly, a long awaited reunion for two former lovers.

Title: home Author: skywalkersamidala Status: complete Rating: G Summary:  In which "Darth Vader" is no more than Anakin's playtime alter ego (happy Skywalker family AU)

Title: hypnotic takin’ over me Author: gemma Status: complete Rating: R Summary:  "By the Force… Just how many times had he seen her like this in his dreams? How many times had he run his fingers over her skin? Filled his hands with her perfect backside? Yet, when he was, by some mercy or a cruel joke, granted true sight of her, he was oblivious."

Title: i do take two Author: skywalkersamidala Status: complete Rating: T Summary:  Thirty years after their clandestine wedding on Naboo, Anakin and Padmé decide to finally do the proper wedding ceremony they never got to have, with all their friends and family present.

Title: i know your type Author: shelivesfree Status: complete Rating: M Summary:  "Am I dead?" It slips out, accidentally. She turns her head towards me, a confused look on her face and tips her head. "Excuse me?" Flashing her an impish grin, I lean casually against the wall. "I must have died and gone to heaven, because you look like an angel." The look she gives me is far from impressed. "Do you use that with all the girls, or am I just lucky?"

Title: i wish i could rewrite the stars Author: gemma Status: complete Rating: G Summary:  Suddenly, forever felt like something that could be real. They could make it real, the two of them together and out of nowhere, tears stung at Anakin's eyes. It just meant so much. Padme loving him too was the stuff of his dreams; something he'd only just dared to believe was possible. But she did.

Title: if blood be the price Author: cadesama Status: complete Rating: T Summary:  Anakin promised to free all the slaves and it is a promise he intends to keep. Struck by visions of a slave uprising on Tatooine, he runs away to join the fight. Five years later, it his new alliance of former slave worlds that the Republic fears, rather than a Separatist threat. Enlisted to negotiate a peace treaty, Senator Amidala is dispatched to find Anakin, alongside Obi-Wan Kenobi, who only wishes to bring his former Padawan home.

Title: imperial obligations Author: skywalkersamidala Status: complete Rating: R Summary:  Padmé's advisors suggest that she get rid of Vader and make a politically advantageous marriage. The Empress is less than pleased. One-shot.Series: The Empress and Her Sith Lord.

Title: in his very soul Author:  catiiasofia & misschrisdaae Status: complete Rating: R Summary:  Ten years ago, the effort to liberate Naboo from Trade Federation control failed. Chancellor Palpatine managed to rescue the young Queen Amidala and two of her handmaidens, formally adopting her as his own. The new father and daughter quickly manipulated the Senate into granting him emergency powers and creating the Grand Army of the Republic, letting the Clone Wars begin. Now, assassins are coming for Padmé Palpatine, and her father has entrusted her safety to his mysterious enforcer, Darth Vader. While neither bodyguard nor charge is happy about this arrangement, there is an attraction they cannot ignore.

Title: in search of absolution Author: rogue darth skywalker Status: complete Rating: G Summary:  Padme bit her lip as she placed one last post-it that had the name 'Shmi Skywalker' written on it. She didn't speak. She knew he needed a moment to think - to process what she was silently asking him. 'Are you ready to accept her forgiveness'"She'd want to come to her only son's wedding," She said. He shook his head, "I don't think so. After everything…"

Title: in the past Author: silverdaye Status: WIP Rating: T Summary:  It's been two months after Bespin, and Luke Skywalker is trying to come to terms with the events that happened there. During a dogfight with Darth Vader, both of their fighters crash. When they recover, they both find themselves on Coruscant at the end of the Clone Wars. Vader still aims to claim his son, but Luke has been taken to the Jedi Temple where he meets Anakin Skywalker.

Title: it’s a dangerous love affair Author: gemma Status: complete Rating: M Summary:  Lies, masks, blood and sex. The criminal underworld will swallow you up and spit you out again. One wants revenge and the other wants peace. Can their affair bring the downfall of the two biggest gangs of the underworld?

Title: it’s like deja vu all over again Author: shadowsong26 Status: complete Rating: M Summary:  Three days ago, Padme Amidala closed her eyes for the last time in a sterile white room on an asteroid at the edge of nowhere. Three days ago, she opened them again on a sleek, chrome starship, watching Dorme putting on the finishing touches to Corde's headdress, her own weighted braids a comforting blanket on her back. Padme decides to change things, decides she can save Anakin (and the Galaxy) this time. Except, as time passes, she starts to realize things aren't happening exactly the way she remembers...

Title: (it’s not so bad) being dead like me Author: estrangedlestrange Status: complete Rating: T Summary:  Recently deceased Anakin Skywalker (killed in an taco truck explosion) finds himself not in the after life but recruited as the newest member of the undead, he’s become a grim reaper. He’s told that it’s his destiny but really he thinks it’s just rotten luck. Rotten except for the fact that one of his fellow reapers is Padmé Amidala, the most beautiful woman Anakin’s has seen, dead or alive. As he struggles to come to grips with his death and his new role in the universe, Anakin finds that taking souls isn’t the easiest job out there, he also finds himself falling in love. One-shot.

[moonlightreal]

This is the “author’s note” I found on the amazon pages for the pretty hardcover Night World books.  My memory is that it was just there, the book-blurb at the top by the cover picture, was this. 

Like a bonehead I just copied the text without grabbing a screencap or noting the date.  The amazon page now has the publication date is December 2016 so this bit of optimism was just before Ms. Smith vanished.  Of course we don’t know when it was written or whose idea it was.  Was Strange Fate really finished or was someone just feeling hopeful? 

NIGHT WORLD Dear Readers, It’s hard to tell you how much the re-release of the Night World books means to me. It has allowed me to come full circle, to complete a cycle that began with Secret Vampire. It has allowed me to finish Strange Fate, which grew into an epic that included roles for almost every Night World character. And Strange Fate allowed me to show the origins of the Night World, the apocalypse that threatens to destroy it, and even a possible future in which the evil side of the Night World prevails. I am often asked how I conceived the idea for the Night World series. It began when I wanted to write stand-alone novels that would combine horror and romance. But I wanted more: I wanted to do a series in which this Night World—a vast, secret world that exists within the everyday world—would slowly reveal itself to readers. That’s why the first book is called Secret Vampire: the inhabitants of the Night World, composed of vampires, shapeshifters, witches, and other supernatural creatures I wanted to invent, are hidden from humans. A vampire is necessarily a secret vampire … because of the laws. I also wanted to write about a new kind of forbidden love. That’s not easy—most good forbidden love topics were old by Shakespeare’s time. But with this series, I could create the possibility of forbidden love simply by saying that the laws of the Night World prohibit a Night Person from falling in love with a human. But I still needed one more ingredient. I needed the rise of the soulmate principle to actively force Night People to fall in love with humans, no matter how hard they fought against it. Voilà! Then it was just a matter of making up interesting characters and setting them loose in my head to see what they would do. I often begin like that: sitting in a quiet room and searching for a sparkle in my mind that could become my new heroine. Sometimes it’s easy and a whole character shimmers before me. Sometimes I only get the faintest firefly glimmer of a new girl, and I have to hold my breath and see if that glimmer will materialize into a three-dimensional person. Heroes and anti-heroes are easier. It’s just a matter of picking one that will be a true soulmate for my heroine. I have a whole collection of these characters in my mind, all trying to crash the party. And they’re usually bad boys. The settings and in-depth plot development are another layer of work. But often the characters just run off and do what they want, and I have trouble keeping up with their antics on my keyboard. One thing I always do is look carefully at my characters and plot from all angles to make sure I’m not plagiarizing a book or series that I may have read before. That’s just normal procedure for ethical authors: we make sure our stories aren’t too much like another story we might have read. Of course, there are many ideas that have been around since the Babylonian myths, and many characters that are archetypal. But, really, it’s almost impossible to take many things from the body of another author’s work—say, someone else’s character(s) or plot or story device—without actually intending to do so. I can’t imagine wanting to do that. I wish I could say every author felt the same. Poppy North is a character I examined very carefully. I wanted to make sure she wasn’t too much like Bonnie McCullough, another petite character of mine from The Vampire Diaries. I didn’t even want to plagiarize myself ! But Poppy convinced me that she was a tough little squirt who by high school had already planned out her future, which is very unlike Bonnie. Poppy was going to marry her mysterious friend James—she just hadn’t informed him yet. Also, unlike Bonnie, she had a fatal flaw in her small body. In Secret Vampire, I knew I was dealing with a serious issue: terminal cancer in a high school girl. So I did a lot of research before deciding on a type of cancer that would be truly inoperable and give Poppy only a month or two to live. I went to several hospitals to talk to nurses in oncology wards. I always brought toys for the hospitalized children, but the whole subject was so heartbreaking I was almost afraid to tackle it. Once I did, though, I found that Poppy was even stronger than I had imagined. In the book, she makes the only choice she can to go on living, and she never looks back. Poppy is one of my favorite girls, and she ushers in Ash Redfern, who quickly became one of my favorite bad boys. Ash has a murky past of womanizing and … well, more womanizing. Ash returns in Daughters of Darkness because he has been ordered by the leader of all vampires, Hunter Redfern, to bring his three runaway sisters back to their cloistered vampire island. But when Ash locates his sisters, he runs straight into the human stargazer Mary-Lynnette, and the sparks begin flying—literally. Mary-Lynnette is a character I made up when I was a kid, and I’m always surprised by how many people like her and Ash together. Mary-Lynnette spends most of the time expressing her feelings for Ash by kicking him in the shins, but their dialogues are some of my favorite passages in the whole series. Ash, in turn, escorts Quinn into the series. And Quinn (who does have a first name, though he rarely uses it) is one really scary guy. A vampire since 1639 A.D., Quinn is sharp, cold, humorless, and heartless. Unlike Ash, who is mainly guilty of an incredibly long series of one-night stands, Quinn enters the series as a human slave trader. That is, he provides vampires with young girls, and he doesn’t ask questions about what happens to the girls afterward. This led to a problem: How on earth was I going to redeem this villain enough to make him someone’s soulmate in The Chosen? I really sweated over that. My first task was to make Quinn more sympathetic. The best way to do it seemed to be by telling a bit of Quinn’s own tragic story: how he falls in love with sweet Dove Redfern, and how her vampire father decides to make Quinn his heir. Dove’s father is Hunter Redfern, one of the most important vampire leaders in Night World history. This is the same Hunter Redfern who, nearly half a millennium later, sends Ash to drag his sisters back home. The same Hunter Redfern who sends his daughter, Lily, after Jez in Huntress. The same Hunter Redfern who tries to turn Delos into a merciless killer in Black Dawn. But, as a boy, Quinn doesn’t know anything about the Night World, and he is deeply in love with gentle Dove. When Hunter makes him a vampire by force and then when Quinn can’t save Dove from being killed, Quinn’s heart freezes over. For four hundred years it accumulates ice—until he meets Rashel. That’s another favorite scene of mine: when Rashel, a dedicated vampire hunter since (guess who?) Hunter Redfern killed her mother, encounters Quinn. A group of Rashel’s fellow vampire slayers have captured Quinn and plan to torture him, and Rashel is left alone to guard him. Quinn, feeling old and tired despite his youthful appearance and great power, gives himself up for dead—and is a little glad to do so. Rashel, however, can’t stomach the idea of torture. When Rashel talks to this most-hated vampire and hears his story, she deliberately sets him free. And that astonishes him. But it’s the soulmate principle working its magic. I loved making two such strong-willed enemies succumb to the silver cord that connects them. I especially loved hearing Quinn warning Rashel not to let him go—and then protecting her when her comrades arrive back in time to see that she’s let him loose. I really loved writing about Quinn and Rashel’s soulmate sequences. As Rashel enters Quinn’s mind, she sees “thorny scary parts” but also “rainbow places that were aching to grow” and “other parts that seemed to quiver with light, desperate to be awakened.” She begins to think that people ask so little of themselves. If the mind of a slave trader can look like this, an ordinary person must have the power to become a saint. It is with this revelation (and much penance on Quinn’s part) that Quinn is redeemed. That’s the thread that binds all the novels together: redemption. The possibility of a second chance. Everyone has choices to make, but even the most evil of vampires can choose to atone and be redeemed. It may not necessarily stave off punishment in this world or the next, but redemption is possible. I’ve been asked who my favorite characters are, and the answer always changes because it depends on the book I’m writing. Right now my favorites are three characters from Strange Fate. As for my favorite couples in the published books? Morgead and Jez—I suppose. Who would find themselves at greater odds than a vampire gang leader and his onetime superior, a vampire who finds out she is half human? I learned some cool martial arts moves as a bonus for writing about them. Then there is Keller, one of my all-time favorite heroines, and Iliana, the beautiful Witch Child, and Galen, ruler of the shapeshifters: the love triangle in Witchlight. Keller starts out seeming brusque and businesslike, but the love of Galen and of the unselfish Iliana help to heal her inner wounds. And I can’t forget Thierry and Hannah, and Circle Daybreak. I created Circle Daybreak because the Night World witches had only two clans: Circle Twilight and Circle Midnight. Those, like Thea in Spellbinder, who belong to Circle Twilight are not-so-wicked witches (that is, they don’t want to exterminate all humans like the darkest witches, those who belong to Circle Midnight), but they are still wicked enough. So what was to be done with all these new soulmates, when Night World law said that they must be put to death? Someone had to make a place for them where they would be safe, and I decided it was Thierry, one of the oldest vampires, and Hannah, his Old Soul soulmate, who has lived hundreds of lifetimes without ever reaching the age of seventeen. They are the ones who revive Circle Daybreak, where humans and Night People can forget about past tragedies and concentrate on a brighter future together. Although Thierry is an old vampire, he isn’t the oldest vampire. There is one older, the one who Changed him. She provides another thread that binds the series: the pitiless Maya. Maya is the first vampire, the witch who finds the secret of eternal life—and chooses to use it for evil. But there will be plenty more about her, including a look at the young Maya, her sister Hellewise, and their mother, Hecate Witch-Queen, in the upcoming Strange Fate. And so now I’ve come full circle, back to Strange Fate. But I can’t finish until I add the other joy that the re-release of Night World has brought me. It’s brought me into contact with you by e-mail. Night World fans write so many intelligent, articulate, courteous, exciting e-mails! I love to get messages from “old” fans, who say my works “got them through high school.” Thank you for them! And messages from new fans, who say they have just read all my reissued books—and are impatient for more. Thank you! And the messages that simply demand: “When is Strange Fate coming out?” Thank you, too! With a full heart, all I can say is thank you, thank you, and thank you again! I never thought I would have a chance to write an open letter to all Night World fans, and I can only wish that you knew how grateful I am … for this second chance. Sincerely, (LJ Smith signature image) P.S. I love to get e-mail, letters, and messages. Visit me at ljanesmith.net!

[sideblogformindtrash]

CW: Descriptive torture; mentions of body fluids; finger whump; whipping; branding; deshumanization; conditioning; pet/slave whump; creepy whumper; mentioned human trafficking; stress position; restraints; panic attacks; mentioning death/wishing for death.

It’s probably the goriest one I’ve written yet, so viewer discretion is advised and read content warning(?)

I think I’ll stop hurting poor baby Haru for a while after this, I’m almost feeling bad about it. And honestly mr. generic whumper here is so evil it’s boring;

He was curled up against a white, familiar wall, waiting for hell to break loose.

He had spent the night walking around the city, cold, hungry and lost. People stared at him weird, because he was disgusting and worthless.

And the more he walked the more he got lost, and all he wanted as to go back… Back to before he had done what he did.. He had run away… One of the worst offenses he could have ever committed. Useless, stupid, stupid.

It was already early morning when he saw one of the Black Coats, tall and scary, all dressed in the uniform of people he remembered so well. People who worked with… With taming and selling… those like him, who should never, ever be considered people.

He ran up to the scary person, and instinctively grabbed the side of their coat, wide eyed and desperate, pleading blue eyes. They took one look at him and looked at his collar with the contact for his owners.

The person thought he was lost and led him to the facility. Well he… He was a runaway. But telling that to the handler wouldn’t help him on any way, it would only make that handler treat him worse... And look at him with disappointment.

He knew he deserved every bit of it… But he wasn’t even sure he would survive what was planned as his punishment once he was............... home. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to survive.

He missed being in the facility. It was… familiar. It was also safer than he had ever felt at that mansion. He would never have dared escape the facility, he wouldn’t even want to. Where would he even go?

So he crawled up to the corner, hugging his knees, tired and scared. He tried to sleep, but the anxiety was too much. All he could do was cry, bracing against the comforting familiarity of those walls.

…But soon they came to take him back.

The same handler opened the cell, grabbed him by the collar and dragged him into the main hallway. He lifted his pale blue eyes just for a moment, just to see Young Master’s face. He was… calm, and smiling.

He lowered his head immediately, as the handler threw him to his knees and removed the muzzle. Master gave him a deadly glance, while he signed off the papers and paid the retrieval fee.

Part of him had prayed Young Master decided to give up on him and just… Let him be sold again.

But he knew he wouldn’t get off this one so easily.

…It was raining outside. He went for the trunk, but Master held his arm and pointed.

“…Go on the passenger’s sit” That calm, gentle tone was unfamiliar and dangerous. He shivered, but obeyed. He couldn’t be stupid and do things worse for himself. He looked upwards, trying to prevent the tears from falling, almost choking to swallow the sobs. He wished he had been kept muzzled.

Young Master turned the radio on, cheerfully humming the tune. He curled up on the car sit, not even interested in looking outside. He just wanted so bad to disappear. He was expecting Young Master to be screaming, furious, like he always was… But seeing him smiling like that was more terrifying than anything.

“You want to speak, little bird?” He was looking at the pet with the corner of his eyes “Well, you won’t. I’ve been wanting some really some good reason to hurt you for some time now, you know? I have some different things that I would like to try, but normally, it would make dad angry. He likes you more than you deserve…. Well, now I have a reason. Isn’t that wonderful, little bird?”

His eyes widened. Breathe. Breathe. A sob escaped. He quickly hid his face on his palms… Master kept humming the tune, driving idly trough the city.

“Oh, little one. Don’t look so sad now. If only you weren’t so stupid…” he laughed “I was just messing with you yesterday. I wasn’t really going to cut you open. Just make some markings, here and there, the usual. But today… I’ll make sure to cut off your little wings so you never dare to cross that door again.”

Young Master savored the sheer panic on his face, as he struggled so much not to beg, his heart  beating like a drum, the air seeming so scarce he couldn’t breathe. Safe for his sobs and the song, the rest of the car-ride was silent.

 ----------------------------------------------------------------

The servants gave him some pitiful, pale looks as he was guided to the basement. Young Master wasn’t being rough with him. He was just… gently pushing him, a hand on his back, still cheerfully humming… and that terrified him far more than he would if he had just been dragged. Young Master was never kind. Kindness wasn’t free. His kindness was poison.

He closed the heavy door behind them, guiding him to the center of the room, where he fell on his knees.  He had to be good. He couldn’t be dumb and make things worse.

The basement was always a bit dark, walls made of wood and a floor of stone. A lot of scary things hanging from the walls and shelves, and large hooks they could be chained to, a fireplace and old carcasses of cars.

“Hands”

He raised them as fast as he could, despite how much effort that took… they were shaking so much… So pale and so weak, against the heavy metal shackles master locked them with. Young Master lifted him without any difficulty and hang the chain on one of the hooks, leaving him hanging on his tip-toes.

He picked up a whip, first.

“Now… This one is for vomiting over my shoes” Master walked behind him. He ran his fingers over the scarred back, where bruises and marks from other beatings hadn’t healed yet, throwing the long hair over his shoulder so it wouldn’t get on his way “…Twenty. Keep count. Don’t speak, but keep count, or we start over.”

…The whip stroke hard. He whimpered, but otherwise managed to keep composure. Twenty wasn’t so bad. He could take twenty. The second one was worse than the first, and the one after that made him sob. Then again, and again, blood rushing to his back, warm, stinging.

“How many?” Master stopped hitting, he walked closer and led the whip over his back slowly, just, letting it slide over the wounds.

“F-five”

“Good” Master whispered, stepped back and hit again “You are allowed to scream, birdie”

He felt dizzy, he wasn’t strong enough to keep balance. His wrists hurt. The next hits were drawing blood. He wanted to scream but… He didn’t had the strength to do it. He let his head hang low and allowed himself to whimper.

“How many?”

“..A-a…S-six..teen..”  words were hard “P-plea”

“A-ah” Master said, grabbing his cheeks, his nails digging on his skin “We barely begun. You’ll be allowed to beg later. Now you can only scream and cry. I want to hear your pain.”

Master was so close to his face now, entangling his fingers on the white hair.

“Did you understand me?” he nodded “Good. Sixteen, is that your answer?”

He lifted his head slightly. Master had a mocking, dangerous smile… he… He was sure it was sixteen. He had been counting. Had he missed one? Was Master giving him a chance? Was this so he would get it wrong?

He couldn’t begin again. Not when this was just the start. He couldn’t he-

A hard slap, turning his head to the side. Fingers marked on his face.

“I made you a question, mutt” …anger. This was familiar. He nodded quickly. He wasn’t sure but… What else could he do? There was no time to think. Master smiled again “…You are correct. Four left.”

He sighed, relieved. It was a taunt after all… The relief was gone with the next hit, more vicious than the other ones, crossing so many of the other marks. He gasped, closing his eyes shut. Three more and he was sobbing once it ended.

He… Should be able to endure more than that. He had before. Was it the fear that was making it worse? Or… the fact that he really deserved it this time?  He deserved every one of the hits – and more. He hated himself for being bad, and stupid and dumb, just like Young Master said he was. He deserved it, and all that would come later too.

Young Master walked around him, admiring his work. He was still smiling, still calm, hiding… It wasn’t anger. It was excitement. Master hang the whip back on the wall. He dragged… an arm chair to the center of the room, before letting him off the hook and onto it. A chair that belonged to the dinner set upstairs, he recognized it. Young Master must have brought it to the basement before going to pick him up.

He dry swallowed, wondering how much thought had been put into this punishment.

“Now, stay still for me, will you?”

He made his best to, only slightly shivering as the handcuffs were removed and replaced by rope, so tight it dug into his skin. There was no room to move, except for his head. He let the hair fall over his face, trying to hide… But that prompted Master to pull his head back.

“Smile for the camera dear…” Camera? Was there one? He didn’t knew and it didn’t matter, really. Master pulled his hair, dragging his neck backwards so much it hurt. He whimpered, but didn’t resist. He wanted to be good. He deserved this.

He deserved this. It would help him. It would make him better.

He didn’t like pain if it wasn’t to make him better, to correct his mistakes… But this one was. It was pain he deserved. He needed to be grateful.

He swallowed hard, and tried to be grateful.

But it was too scary, and now he couldn’t really see, as tears and panic where clouding his vision. So when Master approached again, he wasn’t very sure what was he was holding. A gentle touch over his hand caught him off guard. He almost relaxed a bit as Young Master rubbed gentle circles on his hand… And then excruciating pain.

…He passed out.

…A second, equally terrifying pain brought him back to reality a few seconds later.

“Don’t you go passing out on me, darling. You know how angry that makes me”

Dizzy… Hurting. Hurting so much it made the lashes on his back seem like nothing. Trembling, he looked down, the world swirling around him, almost incomprehensible… Red.

Young Master lifted something to his field of vision. A pair of bloodied fingernails. His… His fingernails.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t breathe couldn’t breathe couldn’t breathe couldn’t breath-

Master took the pliers to the next one. He wanted to beg, he tried to lean forward… He finally screamed.

Blood. Red. Pain. No air. No air no air no air. Red. Pain.

“please”

A slap. He doesn’t care, it feels like nothing compared to what just happened. His eyes are wide, teary and shocked.

“Ah-a. No begging yet. I haven’t allowed it.”

“Mercy. P—lease. Mercy? I-it will-”

Another slap, and his head was pulled backwards. Young Master runs his thumb over his face, cleaning tears and sweat while the other hand is firmly tugging his hair.

“Now now, you crossed every single limit yesterday, dear little bird. You disrespected me. And I’ll make sure you never dare to do it again”

He lets his head go, taking some time to admire his pet’s face. He moves to the next nail, an almost childlike smile.

He is fully aware this time. No shock and no adrenaline rush to coat a bit of the pain. No feelings of being lost, just the pain of flesh tearing. He feels sick. He can’t choke his screams anymore, not when they are being pulled, exposing the tender, bloodied skin underneath. Master praises him, but it’s mocking. It doesn’t really matter; his voice is distant behind a wall of pain.

Time seems to slow down. All he has now is agony, his body trembling, pulling hard against the ropes.

“Last one now, baby” Master says “Then we move to your little feet.”

…A strangled whimper is all he can manage. At some point, his bladder gives out, much to Master’s amusement. He is mocked for it but can barely understand the words.

He stares into nothing, wide eyed, as the minutes drag themselves. Everything is red. Everything is pain. Everything is blood.

And at some point a hand… full of bloodied nails is placed in front of his eyes. He has no strength to react… No voice to scream anymore. He stares, wide blue eyes, drenched in sweat and tears, shaking so much his teeth clank.

“I should start collecting those” Master says… returning to the table. Sounds of metal. He shivers, trying so hard to just… breathe. It’s not over yet? What is it going to be now? How will he survive?

He can’t breathe, he feels like he will die, he wishes he would die.

Master comes back without anything. He holds the pets chin, gently pulling the hair off his face, using his sleeves to clean the tears, sweat and snot. He smiles.

“This was… very fun. You look so pretty now little bird. I think I can finally understand why father thinks you are beautiful” he laughs “…Now you think you have learned your lesson?”

He needs a moment to realize he has to… to answer.

“y-ye-s I-“ he sobs “P-please I, I … It will neve-r, nev-er, i-it it is… Mas-master, p-pleas-“

Master places a hand over his lips, shushing him. He tried to lean closer to Master, but is held back by the ropes. The burn they cause seems so minor in comparison to the sheer agony right now, he barely notices.

“There there, pet” Master smiles “Just one more thing, and we will be done. “

He whimpers.

“N-no…m-more…no…” His voice is broken. He mouths please, over and over and over even if his voice has given out.

“Shush, don’t discuss with me now, bird. I need to make sure you know your place” He smiles, the pet follows him with his eyes, terrified to even blink “It will be quick.”

Master moves away. He has no strength to hold his head up when Master lets his chin, but looking down is bad, he sees the bloodied fingers. Thankfully there is nothing on his stomach to throw up. Red. Blood. Pain.

“Tell me little bird” Master appears back in his vision field “You’ll never run again, will you?”

…blazing iron, held so close to his face he can feel the heat.

“i-iit w-wil n-ev-er run f-from… mas-master…ple-ase” so, so hard to speak. So hard to breathe. Nothing in the whole world exists anymore. Just Master, burning iron, the bloodied fingers and the pain. “it-is is is yo—rs f-for-e-vv-ver. M-mer-mercy…”

He can’t anymore. Teeth clank as he shivers. His tears have stopped, even. Master smiles, contempt with the answer.

“Good boy. Now let’s make sure you don’t forget”

…He presses the iron against the sole of his feet. His vision goes black, and then covered with spots of red pain. And he feels cold. A terrible shiver runs down his spine, as the heat seems to be drained from his whole body, except that one, awful burn. The smell is nauseating.

It’s just a few seconds, but it feels like hours. It’s only removed to be placed on the other one.

Everything seems to fade again, and he wishes… He wishes he was dead.

It’s all… Red. Burning. Blood. Pain.

…Cold water on his lips brings him to tears again. He barely realizes as the ropes are cut off. Young Master is speaking a lot, but he can’t make sense of it.

He is lifted from the chair, scooped by Master’s arms. He wants to grab Master’s shirt, but the bloody fingers hurt too badly. He lets his body limp, his head resting over Master’s shoulder, and the world goes dark again.

Taglist: @cupcakes-and-pain @whump-me-all-night-long @whumpzone

[gmfgravitymayfall]

I know it’s a few days late for Halloween, but let’s talk about witches for a minute

The Baba Yaga is the oldest and well known witch on the planet. She is immensely powerful, but her life is by and large shrouded in mystery. Some even say she is the first witch ever born. There are multiple stories about the Baba Yaga, ranging from her being a malevolent child eating ghoul, to simply being an odd, but otherwise matronly figure. The only thing that is specifically known about the Baba Yaga is that she is very old, very wise, very powerful, and generally does whatever she wants as long as it suits her disposition. 

In one such story, the Baba Yaga helped a young girl known as Vasilisa the Beautiful. Vasilisa was sent to the Baba Yaga by her cruel step-mother and step-sisters to retrieve fire from the witch. Baba Yaga agreed to give Vasilisa the light if she was able to complete three tasks, and if she isn't, she will kill Vasilisa. After completing the tasks, Baba Yaga delivers good on her part and gives Vasilisa a skull lantern filled with burning coals. When Vasilisa returned home, the lantern burned her step-family alive. Since then, the Lantern will incinerate  anything that threatens it's holder. 

Mabel broke into a Moscow museum and stole the Skull Lantern as an engagement present for Wendy. She was simultaneously infuriated and touched that Mabel would do something like that, Wendy completely wore Mabel out that night and then spent three days not talking to her. 

Ame no Uzume was a Japanese dancer and witch who could enrapture an entire audience with her performance. Uzume is widely considered one of the grand masters of Bardic magic. Many of her dances have been passed down throughout history and are still taught to young bards today. However, her most famed accomplishment is causing the sun to rise with her dance. 

After being personally offended by her brother, the Sun Goddess Amaterasu refused to leave a cave she had secluded herself in. Other mortals and gods attempted to coax Ameterasu out, but it was Uzume dancing completely naked and rausing the spirits of god and mortal alike that finally got Amaterasu to peak out of her cave, and the Sun to finally rise again. The Sun Goddess was so entranced by the witch's dance that Amerterasu took Uzume as a lover, effectively making Uzume the goddess of the Dawn. One of the many gifts Ameterasu presented to Uzume during their courtship was a mageficent golden mirror that will reflect light even in the blackest darkness. 

Eda stole the Mirror (No one, not even Luz or Lilith, knows how she managed to do it) to pay off some outstanding debts after "The Greatest night of her life" in Vagas. It's one of the things Eda is most proud of.

Aglaonice is a Greek astronomer and one of the first witches to use star and planet alignments to predict the future. Prior to Aglaonice innovations, the most reliable way to foretell the future was inhaling hallucinogenic vapors to send Oracles into trances. But even that was a wildly inefficient method; since the oracles would often be incoherent or slur their words, and would need interpreters who would regularly mistranslate or purposefully change the oracles predictions. And unfortunately, the oracles would rarely remember their own predictions.

Aglaonice's method of fortune telling was proven to be more accurate, reliable, and safer than previous methods. Aglaonice's powers were said to be especially potent during the full moon. Her teachings spread quickly to many other women of her home, leading to many scholars referring to Aglaonice and her disciples as the Witches of Thessaly. A number of artifacts have surfaced over the centuries that are said to be tools Aglaonince used to tell fortunes, but so far almost all of them have been fake. Wendy has, unfortunately, been duped multiple times over the years.

Makeda, better known as the Queen of Sheba, was a Ethiopian queen that traveled to Jerusilum to trade with King Solomon and test his intellect. After being satisfied with Solomon's show of wisdom, Makeda decided to form an alliance with Jerusilum and shared various mystical secrets. 

Together, Makeda and Solomon created multiple magical rites, tombs, and compendiums that are still used today. After Many years together, Makeda returned to her home with a son born from Solomon. 

Elizabeth Bathory a 16th century witch and murderer who used her position as a countess to lure virgin girls to her palace and kill them. She, and four of her servants, tortues and drains them of all their blood, and uses the blood as the central ingredient of a potion to retain her youth and beauty; which she shares with her collaborators as long as they help her and keep their mouths shut. Bathory’s favorite tool of torture is the Iron Maiden, and rather just drink a potion, she would occasionally even bathe in the blood of her victims. 

Countess Bathory supposedly claimed over 600 victims during her killing spree. Despite being over 60 years old, she still appeared to be in her mid-twenties. The Bathory palace was eventually stormed by an angry mob led by a Lutherian minister when her unnaturally long youth and the rumors of her crimes became too much to ignore. Elizabeth was arrested, tried, and convicted for being a mass murderer. However, The Bathory family used their power in the region to keep her from being executed, and instead she was to be imprisoned inside her palace for the rest of her life. 

A servant of the Bathory’s, whose sister was one of Elizabeth’s victims, succeeded in sneaking into her room while she was asleep and slit her throat. Unfortunately, the Elizabeth that was killed was actually yet another servant who had taken a transfiguration potion to make them look like Elizabeth. Bathory herself had managed to sneak out of her palace and was never seen again. 

In addition to the youth potion, Bathory was an expert alchemist and used blood to perform various other spells. One of her most well known spells Bathory employed was mind control through the use of the victim's blood. The servant who was disguised as Bathory, as well as the ones who helped her escape from her ancestral home were all under her mystical control. After the disguised dead body was found, blood samples for literally every servant, and even a few of her own family members, were found under her bed. Bathory’s diary, that contains all the secrets to her blood magic, disappeared the same day as she did. Wendy and Mabel eventually manage to track down the diary, and while Mabel suggest they just torch the damn thing, Wendy insists they just lock it away. 

It is nearly universally agreed on by witches all over the world that Elizabeth Bathory is still alive, still killing, and has only gotten better at it. 

Circe, the Greek sorceress known for transforming men into animals. She aided the hero Odysseus on his journey home (After trying, and failing, to turn him into an animal) by leading him to a way into the land of the dead. While spending most of history in seclusion, within the last few decades she had opened up her island to the women of the world. But only the women. Circe began taking in women who had suffered and been abused by men, but also allowed women, mostly other witches, to visit her island as a vacation spot. However, an enchantment had been placed on Circe’s island that would transform any man who set foot on it’s shore into an animal. Circe would then kill the man, cook him and serve him to her guests. Obviously, once people figured that out they stopped eating the meat dishes Circe served. 

Circe has since stopped this practice and instead just handed the transformed men to any guest who happens to be leaving to just get rid of them. 

Eda once took Luz to Circe’s island during a short-lived break up with Amity to get her laid and take her mind off the whole thing. Luz wasn’t particularly interested in a meaningless fling, and instead spent the whole trip reading, swimming, and taking advantage of the free buffet. Eda, on the hand, spent every night with a different woman, one of which was Circe herself. They left the island with a goat that turned into a blonde jock dude named Dash. Luz made up with Amity shortly after returning to Fortuna. 

Maman Brigitte is a runaway slave, witch, and voodoo priestess. She was originally a simple slave who retained many old stories from Africa and told them to slave children to keep their heritage alive in America. However, she also had the ability to communicate with various spirits and, after running away from her master, began practicing voodoo in order to facilitate more slaves' freedom. 

Brigitte became a master of harnessing the powers of various spiritual entities (Be they the human dead, nature spirits, gods, angels, and ever the occasional demon) and used the knowledge and power they give her to help many slaves to escape their bondage. She would even give the freed slaves fetishes (Look it up, it’s not what you think), and charms to protect them from being found while they tried to get to the north to safety. Wendy had managed acquire many of the fetishes Brigitte handed out during this time.

Maman Brigitte continued to free slaves for decades, and even though she was captured multiple times, her mystical knowledge always allowed her to escape. 

Unfortunately, Brigitte wasn’t always successful in getting slaves out alive. When a charge died, she would perform rituals to insure their spirit found rest in the afterlife.  As she got older, Maman Brigitte became a spiritual leader and started to teach young freed slaves the ways of voodoo. Continuing to keep their heritage alive and also give the younger generation a way to defend themselves. 

Psyche...Was not a witch. She was a mortal woman who caught the eye of Eros, the God of Love and eventually ascended to godhood to be with him. However, because Eros initially claimed to be an invisible monster and Psyche still agreed to court and sleep with him, she is to some degree idolized but many young witches who are attracted to the idea of having a monster boyfriend...including Luz.

[yasbxxgie]

This year’s clashes between protestors and the police from Portland to Atlanta to Kenosha are the latest flashpoints in the long history of policing in America. While the police today emerged from a hodge-podge of national and international iterations, one of the United States’ earliest and most storied forces, the New York City police, offers modern Americans a lesson in the intractability of problems between the black community and the officers sworn to uphold the law. That long history is both bleak and demoralizing. But this past also reminds us that real change will only happen by learning from the collective American experience, one in which those who supported systems of oppression were met by others who bravely battled against them.

As the nation’s most populous city for most of its history, New York has been uniquely affected by this dynamic. In the decades before the Civil War, when Gotham’s police force was becoming regularized and professionalized, Manhattan routinely erupted in riotous violence over the very meaning of equality.

No one individual embodied the brawling roughness of New York policing like Captain Isiah Rynders of the U.S. Marshals. Born in 1804 in the Hudson River town of Waterford, New York, Rynders was a gambler on Mississippi River steamboats. He reportedly killed a man after a card game and fled to his home state around 1837. Known for his thunderous voice, a powerful memory, and a penchant for histrionics, Rynders made an immediate impact on New York City. Black New Yorkers became his main target, and for decades, he patrolled the streets looking for runaways who had escaped enslavement in the South and who, against tremendous odds, had found freedom in Manhattan.

The Constitution’s Fugitive Slave Clause required northern free cities like New York to return the self-emancipated to their southern enslavers, and the NYPD and officers like Rynders were only too willing to comply, conveniently folding their hatred of black people into their reverence for the nation’s founding document. Armed with the founders’ compromise over slavery, Rynders and his fellow officers, men like Tobias Boudinot and Daniel D. Nash, terrorized New York’s black community from the 1830s up through the Civil War.

And, even worse, it often mattered little whether a black person was born free in New York or had in fact escaped bondage; the police, reinforced by judges like the notorious city recorder Richard Riker, sent the accused to southern plantations with little concern and often even less evidence.

Thanks to Rynders, Boudinot, and Nash, the New York police department had become an extension of the powerful reach of southern slavery, and each month—and often each week in the summer months—brought news of another kidnapping or capture of a supposed runaway. Black New Yorker John Thomas, for example, was claimed by an enslaver from Louisville, Kentucky. Thomas purportedly fled slavery along the Ohio River, then travelled through Canada, and ultimately found a job as a porter in a Manhattan hotel. In late 1860, Thomas was arrested as a fugitive by the Manhattan police. While in prison, Thomas hastily drafted a note, dropped it out his cell window, and asked a passing boy to give the note to his employer, who submitted a writ of habeas corpus.

Unfortunately, the marshal on duty was none other than Rynders, who produced a different black man in response to the writ, and the judge declared the writ satisfied. In the meantime, Thomas’ employer and friends learned, too late, that one of Rynders’ deputies had taken the real John Thomas to Richmond, where he would be transported to Kentucky, lost in the darkness of American slavery, like untold numbers of other kidnapping victims.

Fortunately, New York’s black community was not without heroic defenders like David Ruggles, the tireless activist and journalist. Ruggles led the city’s antislavery community while the likes of Rynders, Riker, Boudinot and Nash, a group so wicked that Ruggles had labeled them “the kidnapping club,” patrolled the streets and docks in search of their next prey. Joined by activists like Horace Dresser, Arthur Tappan, Charles B. Ray and other antislavery protestors, Ruggles fought relentlessly against those officers and marshals who threatened black liberty. Just as modern protestors decry the role of the police in the quest for order, black and white activists in pre-Civil War New York claimed that the force was little more than a vigilante expression of the worst tendencies of white residents. A more professionalized police force, however, did not mean one more suited to the protection of black civil rights. On the contrary, in the early 1800s, the police proved sadly and persistently indifferent to the black lives they were supposed to protect.

By modern standards, the early NYPD was a ragtag band of barely organized and only partially trained officers. The daytime police remained inadequate to deal with the robberies, violence, prostitution, gambling and other crimes of a city approaching 300,000 people in the 1830s. Only 16 constables, elected by citizens of each ward, along with about 60 marshals appointed by the mayor, patrolled the city. Only constables and marshals had the power to arrest under a magistrate’s orders. Armed with warrants issued by Riker, marshals like Rynders could terrorize Gotham’s black residents, who came to fear the police presence in their neighborhoods.

Part of the fear emanated from the fact that Rynders’ confederates Boudinot and Nash did not wear uniforms or carry any kind of badge signifying their authority. The familiar dark blue uniforms of the NYPD were not instituted until the 1850s, so African Americans harassed or arrested by the police could not even be sure that they were being accosted by legal authorities. Equally problematic was the fact that neither Nash nor Boudinot earned regular salaries on which they could depend; their ability to support themselves and their families came from fees set by state law, which virtually required officials to arrest as many people as possible. The situation almost guaranteed corruption, and tied the financial interests of the New York police force to the financial interests of southern slaveowners. Not that they needed any push to over-police the black community, but patrollers like Nash and Boudinot had every incentive to use their blanket writ to arrest as many accused fugitive slaves as they possibly could. In fact, their financial well-being depended on it.

Boudinot and Nash operated almost like independent agents in a police force that was itself in disarray, an institutional chaos that only rendered Black lives even more vulnerable. Fernando Wood, elected mayor in 1854, controlled the police department and relied heavily on Irish immigrants to man the force. But by the 1850s, anti-Irish politicians were trying to establish a new police force, soon to be called the Metropolitans, that would replace Wood’s Municipals. A clash erupted in 1857 when Wood refused to back down, and for months, the city actually had two competing police departments who battled each other as much as they combatted crime.

Both Wood’s Municipals and the state’s Metropolitans were guilty of malfeasance and dereliction of duty. In fact, the Municipals, led by police chief George Matsell, had been called “slave catchers” by the city’s black community and its allies in the Republican press. Matsell, a member of the NYPD since 1840, himself was suspected of corruption, and rumors spread that he extorted money from criminals, seized stolen property for his own use, and skimmed the profits of illegal activities. By the time the Municipals and Metropolitans vied for control of the New York police, Matsell had managed to build a sprawling summer mansion within a vast vineyard in Iowa, where local landmarks still bear his name. New York politician Mike Walsh labeled the heavy-set Matsell a “walking mass of moral and physical putrefaction.”

The crisis between the Municipals and the Metropolitans was only resolved when Wood and the Municipals finally backed down and the Metropolitans emerged as the city’s permanent and only official police force. Yet, the new police force proved no more respectful of black lives. Boudinot became a captain in one of the city’s main wards and Rynders became a Democratic elder statesman during and after the war. In fact, New York City, always ready to defend the cotton trade with the South, voted against Lincoln in 1860 and harbored racial conservatives like Wood during the war and after. Embodied by newspapers like The New York Weekly Caucasian, one of the nation’s most prominent promulgators of white supremacist ideology, the city remained an unfriendly place for African Americans.

One hundred and fifty years later, policing has changed a great deal, particularly in its militarization and organization, but the tensions between the nation’s black communities and the police are still very much evident. Black Americans have been fully aware of this history for generations because they have been the objects of so much of the violent quest for law and order. Although many people might assume that Riker’s Island was named after the city recorder, it appears that the name originates less from an individual and more from Manhattan’s general Dutch heritage. But though their origins may be different, both the prison and the city recorder share a similar past of neglecting the plight and suffering the New York’s most vulnerable residents.

Now, with some white Americans learning the fraught history of policing for the first time, have they come to realize that the last moments and utterances of Eric Garner, George Floyd, Breonna Taylor and untold others are but modern expressions of a deep and deadly struggle that stretches back to America’s earliest beginnings.

[poemsforpersephone]

The third and final book rec list for fans of The Last Sun!

The Infinite Noise by Lauren Shippen has really cool empathy powers which, although not the two way bond Brand and Rune share, does remind me of the emotion reading aspect in TLS. The m/m relationship in it is also super sweet. 

The Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue by Mackenzie Lee. This one I’m recommending because the protagonist is a snarky asshole just like Rune, and the writing style is so well done. It’s m/m and genuinely such a fun and quirky book. Also the cover art is gorgeous!

Silver in the wood by Emily Tesh. This is an LGBT novella where a wild man called Tobias lives in a place called “Greenhollow,” , where, and I quote, “Old secrets better left buried are dug up, and Tobias is forced to reckon with his troubled past—both the green magic of the woods, and the dark things that rest in its heart.” So im recommending this one simply because of the involvement of secrets and troubled pasts haha. 

Gideon the Ninth by Tamsyn Muir. The front cover of this one gives me The Hanged Man vibes like, all the way to the bone, which is initially what prompted me to rec it on this list. But also: “Gideon has a sword, some dirty magazines, and no more time for undead bullshit.” Idk about the dirty magazines but the rest of it scREAMS Rune. and the main character is a lesbian!!! yay!! 

The Black Veins by Ashia Monet. “In a world where magic thrives in secret city corners, a group of magicians embark on a road trip—and it’s the "no-love-interest", found family adventure you’ve been searching for.” It’s like someone looked into my heart and picked out my deepest desire and then wrote it and gave it life. This book is super diverse and super awesome. 

The Deathless Girls by Kiran Millwood Hargrave is a f/f take on Dracula basically. I’m recommending it because the main character and her sister go through a traumatic event similar to the loss of the sun court, when men come and burn their home to the ground along with their people and they’re captured and taken as slaves. It’s about family, friendship and survival, and it’s beautiful. 

The Never Tilting World by Rin Chupeco. An LGBT book where climate change deniers are the villains? ... you have my atttention. 

Prosper’s Demon by K.J. Parker. This is about a morally questionable exorcist!  It’s a satirical, interesting take on the topic of possession with a kick ass cover. 

The Wishing Heart by J.C Welker. An LGBT fantasy novel where our protag, Rebel, finds a jinni’s vessel and is thus thrust into a whole new world of trying to keep said jinni from everyone else and find a way to free her! The world building is awesome and so are the characters.

Tarnished are the Stars by Rosiee Thor. “A secret beats inside Anna Thatcher's chest: an illegal clockwork heart. Anna works cog by cog -- donning the moniker Technician -- to supply black market medical technology to the sick and injured, against the Commissioner's tyrannical laws.” i have the hardbook version of this and the cover??? is so?? beautiful.

The Weight of the Stars by K. Ancrum. TALKING OF PRETTY COVERS. “Ryann Bird dreams of traveling across the stars. But a career in space isn’t an option for a girl who lives in a trailer park on the wrong side of town. So Ryann becomes her circumstances and settles for acting out and skipping school to hang out with her delinquent friends.”

Predatory by Brooklyn Ray. WERELEOPARDS FRIENDS!!!! god damn wereleopards im?? so happy. m/m 

The Lost Coast by Amy Rose Capetta. FOUND FAMILY QUEER WITCHES. need i say more. 

Portraits of a Faerie Queen by Tay LaRoi. The fey run amok in this one! f/f with a gorgeous front cover.

Unbroken by Brooklyn Ray. step 1: rent haunted house. step 2: fall in love with witch-turned-demon who inhabits it. step 3: profit???

The High King’s Golden Tongue by Megan Derr. This one is lovely! Nice world building with an emphasis on languages and kingdoms, and a lovely m/m romance that builds from kind-of-enemies-but-not-really to lovers. the audiobook of this is great. 

Salt Magic, Skin Magic by Lee Welch. SORRY YOUR BOOK IS SET WHERE? MY HOMELAND? MY COUNTRY MY COUNTY MY HEART? we never get any attention imma go cry in the corner. its a historical fantasy m/m romance in YORKSHIRE gosh im here for it. And let me tell you... this is one fantastic book. I really, really enjoyed it.

Swordspoint by Ellen Kushner. fantasy, m/m, lotsa swords!

Of Fire and Stars by Audrey Coulthurst. f/f fantasy with a princess who has fire magic in a kingdom where magic is forbidden! 

Freedom’s Fate by Jennie Taylor. SPAAAAAAACE i love books in space.

Pegasi and Prefects by Eleanor Beresford. “Charley's final year at Fernleigh Manor is complicated by a runaway pegasus, unwanted Games Captainship, a dangerous new rival and, most of all, falling head over heels in love with another girl. What is a reluctant Senior Prefect to do?” catch me while i swoon.

The Necromancers Dance by SJ Himes. m/m vampire/necromancer romance, urban magic and fantasy, very fun and smooth read, a little bit insta love but not totally. 

The Star Host by F.T. Lukens. “Ren grew up listening to his mother tell stories about the Star Hosts – a mythical group of people possessed by the power of the stars.” a m/m fantasy book set to a sci fi fantasy background.

Empty Vessels by Nicholas Williams. “Lucas Mahler babysits clones all day, but he's trapped under the legacy of his body-builder father and his genius girlfriend. When Lucas tries to rise above, he's murdered. Waking up in the body of a clone, Lucas embarks on a mystery full of blood, old friends and lost loves.” idk the whole clone thing in this just always reminds me of lord tower making all the different fake versions of people he knows lmao. 

BOOKS NOT YET OUT

So, the thing is. 2020 is very close friends, and some awesome books are even closer. These below are books I’ve not read yet, since they’re not out and I am a poor ARCless girl, but they’re books you definitely want to keep an eye on.

Witches of Ash and Ruin by E. Latimer. Bisexual OCD protagonist who is a witch D: its everything i could want. 

Wild Sky by Zaya Feli. LGBT fantasy with dragons! It sounds so, so fun.

Girl, Serpent, Thorn by Melissa Bashardoust. “A captivating and utterly original fairy tale about a girl cursed to be poisonous to the touch, and who discovers what power might lie in such a curse...”

The Fascinators by Andrew Eliopulos. “The Raven Boys meets Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda, about an openly gay high school senior in small-town Georgia.” m/m fantasy which looks super sweet.

Cemetery Boys by Auden Thomas. “Yadriel has summoned a ghost, and now he can’t get rid of him.” THIS SOUNDS SO COOL oh my god. Yes PLEASE. 

When We Were Magic by Sarah Gailey. “A sly, witchy dark comedy about four teens whose magic goes wildly awry.” Magic, darkness, comedy, what’s not to love for fans of the tarot sequence??

The Extraordinaries by T.J. Klune. I absolutely love T.J.  Klune’s writing so I can’t wait to get my hands on this. m/m superheros!! friends!!! get excited!! I think anyone who likes how witty K.D. is will enjoy this writing style. 

The House in the Cerulean Sea by T.J. Klune. YES ANOTHER ONE this looks so good too we are BLESSED. “A magical island. A dangerous task. A burning secret.”

Fragile Remedy by Maria Ingrande Mora. “Sixteen-year-old Nate is a GEM—Genetically Engineered Medi-tissue created by the scientists of Gathos City as a cure for the elite from the fatal lung rot ravaging the population. As a child, he was smuggled out of the laboratory where he was held captive and into the Withers—a quarantined, lawless region.” The idea of the Withers kind of reminds me of the westlands.

The Fell of Dark by Caleb Roehrig. UHM im always here for lgbt vampires in young adult fantasy fiction. The author says that “this book is gay and filled with monsters” which also fits the last sun so i figured it belongs on the list lmao. 

Ruinsong by Julia Ember. “In a world where magic is sung, a powerful mage named Cadence is forced to use her power to torture her country’s disgraced nobility at her ruthless queen’s bidding.”

[nuray-ffxiv]

LFRP- Crystal - Ayşe Nuray

BASICS.

full name: Ayşe Nuray

pronunciation: [ ai-sha nur-ay ]

nicknames: Ays [ ice ]

race: Miqote - Mixed: Keeper & Seeker

gender: Female

sexuality: Pansexual, panromantic.

height: 4′9

age: Mid-twenties

birthday: 13th Sun of the 2nd Umbral Moon

zodiac: Nymeia [ Aries ]

languages: Common, Eorzean sign language, and Ayla’sebnem, the name and language of her clan (Derived from Turkish & Arabic).

[ Ayse can understand all language spoken or written due to possessing a variation of the Echo, but she cannot inherently speak or write them all. ]

PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS.

hair colour: Light grey.

eye colour: Silver, with slitted pupils.

skin tone: Warm Ivory

body type: Slender hourglass

accent: The occasional rolled/purred ‘r’, though only when she’s distracted.

dominant hand: Left

posture: Good posture, often relaxed but rarely slouched, unless at her desk. She can often be found hunched over her desk for worrying amounts of time.

scars: Little ones here and there from her travels. Two symmetrically on each side of her face. Once, whip scars could be found on the back of her legs and shoulders, but they’ve long been removed.

tattoos/markings: White markings on her face, hands, ribs, chest, and thighs. Some are curving lines, and others are circular. A black underline on her lower lashline.

most noticeable features:  The white markings on her face, alongside the symmetrical scars.

CHILDHOOD.

place of birth:  Abalathia's spine

hometown: Abalathia's spine, with the Ayla’Sebnem clan. [ Ayla’sebnem means Moonlight Dew. ]

birth weight/height: Smaller than average

manner of birth: Delivered by clan healers, born right after her twin sister. Both born healthy, if small.

first words: “Ma!”

siblings: Azmi Nuray, twin sister, missing. Cemre’a Nuray, older brother, alive.

parents: Cemre Nuray & an unknown seeker male. an unplanned pregnancy from a tryst, but one her mother was more than happy with as she returned to her clan grounds, alongside her mate and Cemre’a’s father. Her mother is currently missing.

parental involvement: high involvement from her mother’s side, as a single mother within a very loving clan, at least until the scourge that found nearly all of them enslaved. It has only been recently that Ayse discovered her father’s tribe, since it’s burgeoning connections to her clan.

ADULT LIFE.

occupation: Clan archivist and healer.

current residence: The Ayla’Sebnem clan grounds.

close friends: Simi and Basim’a Jinkjahl.

relationship status: Single, polyamorous.

financial status: Moderately wealthy.

vices: The occasional recreational drug. Does not drink.

SEX & ROMANCE.

sexual orientation:  Pansexual.

romantic orientation:  Panromantic.

preferred emotional role: submissive | dominant | switch |  unsure

preferred sexual role:  submissive | dominant | switch |  sex repulsed [ Ayse is very open to love - and loving - in all of its many forms, and will often defer to whatever position her partner is most comfortable with. ]

turn on’s: Wittiness, compassion, like-minded interests, boldness, physical intimacy, and certain voices.

turn off’s: Ignorance, cruelty, superiority, laziness, unprovoked rudeness, unsanitary/unclean appearances.

love language: Ayse is complimentary to most everyone she meets, but when true feelings begin to develop, this becomes more physical. The desire to be close, touching even if it’s simply innocent grazes or hand-holding, becomes far more prevalent.

relationship tendencies: While an unrepentant flirt, Ayse enters into relationships slowly. The archivist likes to take her time, and fully court potential romantic interests before entering into anything serious. Plentiful dates and time spent getting to know one another, and for the Miqo’te to truly gauge the person’s intent. She is remarkably cautious, for one so coquettish.

MISCELLANEOUS.

hobbies to pass the time: Research, research, research. Ayse loves her job, and there is always something to do - Be it a relic to study or a ruin to excavate or clan history to peruse, Ayse affords herself little down time because she enjoys what she does so deeply. Often, it can take the combined force of others to make her take a break and really relax, in which case she will find people to socialize with.

mental illnesses: Has some remnants of post-traumatic stress disorder due to her past, and very rarely will be triggered into a panic attack. She is very good at avoiding her triggers, but they can occasionally blindside her.

physical illnesses: None to speak of, though she has a sensitivity to bright light, and hates being surprised by touch.

left or right brained: Left.

fears:  Ayse deeply fears she will never find her mother and sister again, no matter that she hasn’t given up. Following that, she fears losing the family she has since regained since escaping slavery herself, as well as being enslaved once more.

self-confidence level: Overall quite healthy, with the exception being during and after a panic attack, where it dips quite severely.

vulnerabilities: Moodiness, tendency to run herself ragged, occasional melancholy, and the penchant to use flirtation as a shield.

HOOKS

She’s the shimmer on the water, in a river of moonlight.

Ayse is very attuned with the elements of water and ice, and uses both in healing practices for those inside of her clan and out. She would take no issue with aiding a passerby if they seemed wounded, though is also not above using the talent for trade when it comes to information. 

Injured PCs looking for help without judgement, or else those looking to barter information for occasional medical services would find a good companion in her. 

Your eyes are hollow, your heart is shallow, and your words mean nothing to me.

There are very, very few things on Hydaelyn that Ayse hates more than slavers, and the practice of human(oid) trafficking. There are no lengths the woman will not go to stifle the abhorrent practice, and as an ex-slave she is honour-bound to try and free any and all slaves she comes in contact with. 

Any runaway or current slave PCs looking for help to free themselves would find a wonderful ally in her, and all slaver PCs a chilling enemy. There is no shade of grey in this to her. 

She had a mischevious smile, a curious heart, and an affinity for running wild.

An archivist for the Ayla’sebnem, Ayse has an interest in nearly all historic sights and artifacts. She records any that may be related to her clan, or even general Keeper heritage, but she is fascinated by ruins and tales of all lands and cultures. This is in part due to having the Echo, which manifests in visions of the past when she comes into contact with highly spiritual artifacts, or places. 

It is not uncommon to stumble upon the Miqo’te wandering ruins, or meditating within them. Adventurous types could very well happen upon her by chance, or she them.  

Her revenge was silent, as growth cannot be heard.

A pacifist by choice, the historian will do whatever it takes to avoid harming another soul ( exception: slavers ) and will use her talents with magic to stop an attack, render her opponent unconscious, or try to bind them so she can escape. This was not always the case, however. 

In her youth, the Keeper-Seeker mix was quite fond of duelling with a crystalline rapier. On occasion, Ayse can be found staring a bit wistfully at such weapons, and would not decline the chance for some friendly duelling partners. 

LOOKING FOR

On a character level, I am looking for all sorts of different interactions for Ayse, be they friendly or antagonistic. People that may have met her during her time as a slave, or else people who are just meeting her now. Friendships and rivalries are both welcome, though I am very hesitant on romantic relations, and will require much IC and OOC communication before committing to a romantic ship. I’m open to scenes with violence, matures themes, gore, etc...

On an OOC level, I am looking for people who know the difference between IC and OOC. I do not tolerate blending, metagaming, or godmodding. Open communication is very important for me, especially if our characters are going to obtain a relationship of any kind of depth. 

If you’re interested, you can contact me here, or in-game on Ayse Nuray or Rhysa Verkoh (main). I can give out my discord on request as well! ♥

@crystalxivrp 

[diariesofthehermit]

The Political and Economic Origins of Systemic Racism

“In Barbados, as in Virginia, the historical foundations of race and slavery can be traced back to the struggle between the planter elite and a labor force of bound servants and African slaves who resisted oppression.” - Edward B. Rugemer, from “The Development of Mastery and Race in the Comprehensive Slave Codes of the Greater Caribbean during the Seventeenth Century”

A couple weeks ago I attempted to provide a unifying solution to the question of “why are things so fucked in 2020?” and I provided what is, I suppose at least on the surface, an economic answer: capitalism. I then briefly attempted to show how the blind pursuit of profit, engendered by our own economic system, is in fact the very heart of many of our contemporary crises, from climate change to racism. 

This week I want to focus on racism. I’ve been doing some research with my favorite search engine (JStor) in order to clarify, for myself, the vague memories of what I learned in college in regards to race and American history. So, if you’ll forgive my arrogance, I would like to propose what I would posit to be the formula for modern racial oppression: a social elite’s desire for profit + human ignorance + vulnerable populations = systemic racism.

It may seem like an obvious statement, but I think a lot of people would like to chalk up White Supremacy to white ignorance alone, which is dangerous. If you think racism comes solely from the masses of white people just not knowing any better, then the solution is simple and obvious: educate the racists, make them see the error of their ways and thus eradicate racism with a single, equitable blow- oppression be gone!  We tend to see racism as a disease. I would not deny that racism is, in some cases, comparable to a sickness. However, you could just as easily look at it as a tool. This shift in perception, in turn, alters how you analyze the whole situation. If someone has a sickness you ask if there is a cure. If someone is using a tool, you ask yourself why they’re using it, how they’re using it and what the effect of that use is. The problem with our conceptualization of racism is that we look at it as an inevitable aspect of nature (like a disease) and not as something consciously produced (like a machine). Racists then universally become victims (since they’re sick) who need to be healed because they are hurting, instead of oppressors who need to be stopped from hurting others. 

Certainly, there are racists (particularly the poorer ones) who are victims of their own ignorance- but this cannot be said for all of them. White Supremacy is profitable and we can never forget it. Everyone cheers when a disease is cured, but try to take a valuable tool from the hand wielding it and you can expect a fight. So, in the interest of preparation, let it be said: modern racism is not simply the result of human nature run amok, it was created and improved over time by amplifying and codifying our tendencies to tribalism in a manner that primarily benefited a small, economic elite. In short, racism was and is the tool of the bourgeoisie. 

With that being said, I would like to illustrate this by briefly providing a few notes on the origins of racism in the United States of America. In order to do so, however, I must speak about places outside of the U.S. as well. The United States started out as an English colony, and learned how to successfully oppress and exploit African human beings from the other English colonies who paved the way before them: Barbados and Jamaica. Jamaica largely borrowed its laws concerning slavery from the English colony of Barbados, and South Carolina borrowed her slave laws from the colony of Jamaica. Human exploitation has always been a global business.

So with no further ado, I present a brief account of the origins of modern racism (I will provide a bibliography for all this information at the end of my post): 

The English settled in Barbados in 1627. By 1640 they had cleared much of its forests and began cultivating indigo and cotton. Later they would expand into producing sugar. 

At first, most of this labor was done by white indentured, landless servants in the service of wealthier landowners. This labor source was occasionally supplemented by people of African or indigenous American descent, but they did not yet supply a majority of the labor.

Indentured servants were treated poorly, especially after sugar production began in earnest. They were given inadequate food and lodging and routinely beaten. In fact, conditions were hard enough that in 1634 they attempted to organize a rebellion. 

In 1636 the Barbados Council resolved that “Negroes and Indians, that came here to be sold, should serve for Life, unless a Contract was before made to the contrary.” From the start, we can see that there was some form of racialization at work here. However, it was still vague and incomplete: not all Africans or “Indians” would theoretically be bound for life, and the primary division in society was largely between the “free” and the unfree, the latter including both white and Black laborers. 

Whenever a colony began to seriously invest in a profitable crop (like cotton or tobacco), they usually ended up requiring more labor than what the flow of European immigrants could provide. As demand increased relative to supply, the cost of indentured servants grew as well. This led many planters to turn to slavery in order to solve their labor issues. 

Meanwhile, in 1649, “rebellious servants formed a conspiracy to ‘cut the throats of their masters’ and ‘make themselves not only freemen, but Masters of the Island.’ According to one contemporary source, this rebellion involved the whole island and most of the servants; 18 people were executed.

In the 1650s increasing numbers of Africans and “undesirables”, such as the Irish, were being sent to the colonies. According to one of the servants' accounts, they could be bought and sold to planters, beaten at pleasure, slept in styes and ate nothing but potatoes and drank nothing but water. The enslaved Africans were treated, of course, no better.

By 1655 many enslaved Africans and Irish servants were out in rebellion.

There were definitely distinctions in the ways servants and slaves were treated, but many of the laws passed by the Barbados Assembly did not actually distinguish between the two groups and “treated indentured servants and African slaves in the same act.” (Rugemer)

The legal term for the economic elite was “masters”. Regardless of their ethnic origin, no one who served another was “worthy of a master’s civility.” (Rugemer) Both servants and slaves were treated by the law as property that could be seized to satisfy debts, thus being placed in the same category as cattle and horses. 

The inhumanity with which their laborers were treated, however, caused the masters problems- not the least of which was rebellion. In order to better order their society, in 1661 the Barbados assembly set down two methodical and exhaustive pieces of legislation. They were titled: 

“An act for the good governing of Servants, and ordaining the Rights between Masters and Servants.” and

“An act for the better ordering and governing of Negroes”

As you can see, both servants and slaves needed to be “governed” by their masters (I wonder who watched the watchmen?), but under these laws only servants were recognized as having rights. Also, the word “Negro” was codified into being interchangeable with “slave.”

The acts went further in describing the distinctions between the two groups. Both slaves and servants were, naturally, labelled as criminals. Rebellion against oppression, as opposed to oppression itself, has always carried the stigma of criminality. Africans, however, were further described as “heathenish, brutish and an uncertain dangerous pride of people” who required harsher laws “for the benefit and good of the colony”.

“The law defined Africans by pointing out their dark complexions, by asserting offensive cultural characteristics, and by animalizing them as dangerous, exotic lions who needed to be caged.” (Rugemer)

Presumably, “the barbarism of Africans precluded them from the possession of rights as the English understood them.” (Rugemer) The 1661 Slave Act did not attribute any rights to slaves whatsoever.

White “informers”, including indentured servants, were expected to alert the authorities to any unauthorized movements of the enslaved off of their plantations. Slaveholders or overseers who failed to capture and whip a runaway slave were fined; this was not the case for servants. 

“The law aimed to compel Europeans to control the movements of Africans through the threat of a hefty fine. And with the use of informers, a group that included indentured servants, the law created an incentive structure for all Europeans, free and bound, to monitor their neighbor’s management of enslaved Africans.” (Rugemer)

The 1661 act provided a financial incentive for whites to capture a runaway slave by offering a bounty of a hundred pounds of sugar.

Thus, the laws passed by the Barbados assembly in 1661 raised the status of (soon to be known as “white”) indentured servants and codified their rights even as it lowered the status of African slaves (the two acts were passed within three days of one another).

It’s important to note, however, that at the time the Barbados assembly divided their laborers into “Christians” and “Negroes”, a distinction which worked because they believed Africans did not have the capacity to become Christian. “Whiteness” had yet to fully evolve into its present meaning.

Meanwhile, the colony of Jamaica was experimenting with slavery as well. In 1681 they passed their own versions of the Barbados servant and slave acts, with only a few differences between them. 

Around the same time, Quakers (members of a fairly radical Christian denomination) began inviting Africans to their religious meetings and initiating the process of conversion in earnest. As could be expected, this upset the slave masters, who tried unsuccessfully to stop this from happening.

The slave masters reasoning should be clear: if Africans were to become Christians, the cultural differences that necessitated those “harsher laws” and differential treatment would begin to fade. The problem with the earlier distinction was therefore exposed: it was unsustainable to differentiate on the basis of culture and religion because “Negroes” could convert.

A moral solution, of course, would have been to emancipate converted slaves...this was not done for obvious reasons.

By 1684, Jamaican law had begun to use “white” instead of “Christian” to identify their European laborers. Religious conversion would not compromise their labor source.

A byproduct of this change is that Black subjugation was no longer justified on the basis of cultural differences but on the innate racial, and not the religious superiority, of “white” people.

In 1691, the South Carolina Assembly adopted Jamaica’s revised 1684 Slave Act as their own, with only a few slight differences.

South Carolina’s assemblymen were, nevertheless, innovators as well. Under South Carolina law, for example, a runaway would be branded for a first offense. A second offense, however, would require a woman to lose an ear and for a man to be castrated. The inspiration for castration was the cattle-rearing practices of slave-owners and implicitly identified African laborers as simple beasts of burden.

“Severe whippings, the slitting of noses, the slicing off of ears, and ultimately gelding [or castration]—all of these punishments had the same aim, the bestialization of black people and the consolidation of racial slavery.” (Rugemer)

In the continental United States, as in the Carribean, “White servants had rights, and after freedom, options. Blacks enjoyed neither.” (Main)

The inhumanity of African laborers was maintained even when they bore the children of their masters: “Like other British colonies in the New World, Maryland reversed the usual English custom in which the condition of children normally followed that of the father. Many white men, therefore, came to treat their own [mixed race] children as property, denying them all claims on themselves as a parent. Illegitimate white children could press no claims under English law, either, but they were born free. The zealous protection of property rights so characteristic of English society, with its rigorous insistence on the sanctity of contracts and patrilineal priority, here seems to have gone awry. Racism and greed combined to override English justice.” (Main)

In the earliest years of slavery on the American continent, indentured servants and slaves dealt with similar overlords and encountered similar material conditions. They were divided, however, by differences in status within an ideological system that privileged whiteness and condemned Blackness. Indentured servants, despite their oppressions, generally chose their lot and could find freedom after a set period of service. African laborers, being reduced to the status of chattel, had neither consolation. 

“The most burdensome legacy of enslavement, surely, was its hopelessness.” (Main)

There are few general observations that should be made about the developments that I have outlined here. The first is that the only real agency within this story is held by a small economic elite. The legal and ideological tenets of systemic racism were adopted by the common masses of white people, but they were engineered primarily by and for the benefit of wealthy landowners. Actually, in the early days of the continental American colonies, it was only a small portion of landowners who could afford slaves in the first place. The second observation that one should make is that systemic racism was not a spontaneous event. Rather, it came about only after colonial elites passed legislation that increasingly dehumanized their African laborers and justified that dehumanization by highlighting and exaggerating their “otherness.” 

The development of racism then allowed for three very important things. The first and most obvious result is that the total dehumanization of people of African descent allowed for their unlimited economic exploitation without any regard to their existence as human beings. Of course this benefited the “Masters”, or the only ones actually able to afford slaves, more than anyone else in colonial society. The second result was the pacification of a once rebellious white labor force. Surely, indentured servants and landless whites still lacked political will or agency after the codification of racial hierarchies and they still suffered at the hands of their overlords. Despite this, their newfound “whiteness” offered them some sense of dignity, if not some social mobility, and ideologically connected them to the “master” class. The final effect was the weaponization of the white working or servant class, as they were financially and legally incentivized to assist the master class in the oppression of their African laborers. 

These three effects of early systemic racism can still be seen today. Whether it is through Black prison labor, Mexican field labor or the government revenue generated by the court fees of people of color- one can see how vulnerable populations are still economically exploited to fill the bank accounts of twenty-first century economic elites (sometimes referred to as the “1%,” though that numerical value may be too small). One can also see how appeals to patriotism and ethnocentrism ideologically binds the “white” working class to those who in actuality oppress and exploit them, and how they are made to feel closer to billionaire CEOs than to struggling African and Latino Americans. Finally, it is apparent how conservative rhetoric, and even the “colorblind racism” of white liberals, mobilizes and incentivizes whites to silence minority led movements for equality and equity. 

It is not the billionaire, or the millionaire class that attacks and suppresses protesters or holds “counter-rallies” at BLM protests. The super wealthy do not don police uniforms and enforce an inequitable form of order in communities of color. The foot-work of oppression is done by the white working and middle class. The political legitimacy of racist politicians, and in extension their policies, is supported by working and middle class whites who would actually gain more by aligning themselves with the causes of their non-white neighbors than by those who wouldn’t even dare to live in the same neighborhood as them. In short, the white working and middle classes are very often still weaponized against people of color. The functions that racism fulfills today are largely the same as the functions it fulfilled centuries ago. Racism may not be profitable to society as a whole, but it is certainly useful and profitable for powerful elements within our society. Is racism a sickness? Perhaps, and perhaps we should seek to cure those afflicted. Racism, however, is also a tool, and we must seek to disarm those using it and heal those who have been struck with it. It is my belief that this will not happen without a significant fight, but it’s a fight that is well worth it. The same elites who manufactured racism manufactured capitalism, our modern class divisions and the destruction of our environment. The fight to end their hegemony is a battle to undo their ideological programming and to gain political agency. It is a battle to cure the disease and disarm the oppressor. I can think of no other battle more worth fighting. Bibliography: 

Rugemer, Edward B. “The Development of Mastery and Race in the Comprehensive Slave Codes of the Greater Caribbean during the Seventeenth Century.” The William and Mary Quarterly, Vol. 70, No. 3 (July 2013), pp. 429-458. JSTOR, https://www.jstor.org/stable/10.5309/willmaryquar.70.3.0429

Main, Gloria L. Tobacco Colony, Life in Early Maryland, 1650-1720. Princeton University Press, 1982. JSTOR, https://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt7zvk1d

Galenson, David W. “White Servitude and the Growth of Black Slavery in Colonial America.” The Journal of Economic History, Vol. 41, No. 1, The Tasks of Economic History(Mar., 1981), pp. 39-47. JSTOR, https://www.jstor.org/stable/2120891

[fyrapartnersearch]

Find the Light

heyo, i’m jo! i've posted before, but life and Depression™ got in the way. if we've chatted before but things fell through, my sincerest apologies and feel free to contact me again! about me: -early 20’s -she/her pronouns -GMT+3 -Tired my roleplaying: -originals! -long-term -chill and flexible af -usually 3rd person, past tense, multi-para -lover of most (all?) genres -platonic lover, romance lover, will do non-hetero (m//, f//, nb) pairings ONLY -good with including or excluding mature themes e.g. smut, alcohol, drugs, etc. -more than one main character is great but not required! -if smut is involved, i refuse to play out top/bottom dynamics. my characters are more than that and i hope yours are too -NOT a rapid-fire response type of person. i need time and patience, and i will offer the same right back to you 120%! this is a No Pressure zone

-can go from 250-2k words depending on what the situation calls for

-i adore ooc talk! please be my friend and create something beautiful with me -diverse cast of characters (just a heads up, none of them are straight) -limits: adultxminor, slaves, romanticized abuse, scat, vore, rape as fetish you, hopefully: -over 18 -lgbt+ friendly -not extremely demanding when it comes to response time -like ooc chatter & plotting/talking about our dumb characters plot ideas that can 100% be edited to our liking:

character A intentionally or unintentionally summons a demon, character B. other demons are attracted to the summoning spot and character A ends up intentionally or unintentionally making a pact with character B, forcing B to protect A from the demons and any future enemies. B is now stuck with A because of the pact, and if A is ever killed, B would face the same fate. shenanigans ensue. basically begrudged partners in crime/survival! (bonus if the demon summoned is the grim reaper because the irony would be delicious)

character A is a fallen angel who has recently been kicked out of heaven. character B is a human delinquent who’s known for causing trouble. character A decides to take B under their wing and attempt to reform them as a way to get back into heaven and regain angel status. who will influence whom in this situation? alternatively: character B is a literal demon instead of a human delinquent, for extra Angel Points

vampires have taken over society and now control everything whilst humans are treated like cattle and bloodbanks. however, there is a hidden human rebellion group that wants to dethrone the vampires and make things better for humans. one day, their leader, character A, is captured and taken to some of the top vampire 'leaders' to be interrogated on the rest of the rebellion's whereabouts. plot twist: turns out one of the vampire leaders, character B, and this captured rebel were actually best friends before the vampires took over, and they had both thought the other was dead. old feelings crop up, morality is questioned, confusion and frustration galore.

  there have been more and more rumors and alleged sightings of vampires cropping up lately, so character A, a 'vampire hunter' is hired to take care of them. thing is, vampires are a relatively new thing and the humans don’t have them completely figured out yet, so the vampire hunter is given a vampire partner, character B (who probably has something on them like special handcuffs made of some material that's like kryptonite to vampires so they can't try any funny stuff) to help in tracking down vampires and generally figuring out what they’re all about. getting along immediately is probably not in the cards for these two.

  a dnd-like adventure where a pair or group of people are aiming for the same goal, whether it be a sacred treasure or otherwise, and decide to work together. personalities clash, infighting ensues, and irreplaceable memories are made along the way.

  the seven sins of hell are represented by seven demon princes/princesses/royalties. i don’t actually have a real idea for this but i think the concept is rad. we wouldn’t have to use all seven but yeah! maybe representatives of the seven heavenly virtues make an appearance or are a key part. idk, let’s talk!!

  character A is a detective, character B is their new deadpan android assistant. that’s it, that’s all i’ve got. i just think the concept is interesting as hell and apparently already done in D:BH, but i have Not played that game so i have no idea what they do with it.

  alternatively, we can just discuss characters and create plots out of them! i’ll also throw out some keywords/concepts that i have 0 plots for but would love to make something out of:

  witch academy / earth pirates / space pirates / elemental spirits / rivals / superheroes / supervillains / werewolves / gangs / mafia / magical girls/boys/people / ghosts / best friends to lovers / hate to love / amnesia / opposites attract / assassins / bands / cyberpunk / royalty / runaways / alchemy / bounty hunters

i’ve got a discord i use for ooc stuff (which i will give out after initial contact), and for the actual roleplaying i usually use email or gdocs, but if you use other mediums for ooc chatter and/or roleplay, just let me know! i’m willing to try new stuff out. you can hit me up at 32nd.of.august@gmail.com. hope to hear from y’all!

[everlarkficexchange]

1,498 mph (Part 1)

Written by: @alliswell21

Prompt 47: Modern. Peeta is back home on his time off from the Air Force or army. He meets the newest employee in the bakery, a younger Katniss, who’s working hard to help her family while still going to school. They fall for each other and they didn’t even know when it happened. [submitted by @animekpopxx​]

this chapter Rated: Mature for language 

Warnings: This is the first part of a multiple chapter story. The rating will still be Mature for adult situations and smut once the rest of the pic is posted to AO3

Un-betaed. All mistakes are mine. Several Songs have been quoted in this fic, Rocket Man by Elton John; Girls, Girls, Girls by Motley Crue; Bungle In the Jungle by Jethro Tull… if you see anything else I forgot to create let me know.  

———————-

  “She packed my bags last night pre-flight Zero hour nine AM”

  I’m quietly mouthing the lyrics of Rocket Man to myself while the whistle of engines zoom by at the speed of light filling the muggy Florida afternoon sky.

  “And I’m gonna be high as a kite… I miss the earth so much… miss my wife…”

The chatter of men talking animatedly mixed with tools dropping on asphalt, stomping boots, and even the obnoxious scraping of step ladders being dragged around from place to place, is just another layer of the hubbub in the yard. Just another day at base, working away the hours,  pretending we aren’t swimming in our own sweat and our skin isn’t sizzling under the harsh sun beating down on us.

  “I think it’s gonna be a long, long time ‘Till touchdown brings me round again to find I’m not the man they think… nonono… I’m a rocket man! Rocket maaaaaaaan… dadada up here alone.

Rocket maa—”

  “Mellark!” Someone calls at the top of his lungs. “Move your ass here, quickly.”

  I jump out of a trainer aircraft I was familiarizing myself with, to find one of my superiors looking annoyed as shit for having to come out here to fetch me.

  “Sir!” I salute and wait to be addressed.

  “Lieutenant, your fairy godmother must’ve thought you were a good boy.” He practically spits, as he hands me an envelope. “You’re going home on break. Now don’t let the news interfere with training, keep your head in that cockpit, and you won’t lose any privileges, capisce?”

  “Sir!” I’m saluting again, but this time I’m so giddy with excitement I can’t keep my face straight in front of this bad tempered badger.

  “Go back to work!”

  “Yes, Sir!” I scramble back to my fighter smiling from ear to ear like this is a redo of the day I got accepted into the F22 Raptor training class.

  Holy shit! I’m going home! Can’t remember the last time I was able to go home for a long chunk of time, but my leave papers say I’m excused for four weeks!

  “Rocket man is coming home, baby!”

——————

  Air Force personnel have all the flight benefits they can aspire to, which includes free rides all over the globe during vacation, and since I’m trying to save every penny in my bank account for retirement, I hitch a ride home, to Panem, North Carolina, all the way from Tyndall Air Force Base, in sunny Florida… well, actually I got dropped off at Charlotte Douglas International Airport, and had to call my pal Finnick to pick me up, since I’m trying to get home and surprise my dad.

  What I’m not expecting is for a reception complete with balloons, signs and a man wearing a tuxedo t-shirt with a bouquet of red roses.

  My first instinct is to cover my face in embarrassment, but Finnick spots me and starts waving exaggeratedly while I walk slowly towards him, pretending he’s not there for me, even though his “Welcome Home First Lt. P. Mellark, we love you!” sing has a huge picture of me in uniform, pasted in the middle of the banner, surrounded by hearts.

  The closer I get, the more details I see, like all the glitter on the sign, or how big the bouquet really is. Finnick is not alone either. His wife Annie is there holding the sign up over her head for every soul to see, and their two sons Finnick Jr. and Andy hold the balloons and point at me excitedly.

  Finnick tells the boys something and the pipsqueaks charge at me like a pair of helions, giggling and chanting “Uncle Peet, Uncle Peet, Uncle Peet!” the whole time.

  I admit the part with the boys is actually pretty espectacular, so I drop my bags, get down on one knee and open my arms wide just in time to get tackled by two little boys I love with all my heart, as if they were my own blood.

  “Finny! Andy!” I wrap them both in a bear hug, their little arms circle my neck. I pick them up and spin them around for good measure.

  Out of nowhere, I feel another body collide with my side, and before I can recognize the slim arms hugging me and the kiddos, a bigger body slams into the group hug, knocking the air out of my lungs.

  Finnick uses his longer arm to choke hold me and plants a kiss to my temple, while the boys laugh hysterically at their father’s antics. The boys slide away from me, and as soon as my arms are free, I playfully shove Finnick away and hug Annie fully, tipping her back in a dip and whispering loudly for Finn to hear.

  “Leave the fresh water sailor, baby. I’m way more interesting, I’m an Air Force pilot!”

  Then I proceed to kiss Annie all over the face, except the mouth. “I so much rather kiss you, than that gorila you married,” I tell her dreamily.

  Annie gives me a belly laugh right before Finnick pulls her away from me with a mock frown.

  “Hey! No fair. I slaved all night making that welcome home banner!” My best friend protest, but everything is so ridiculous and silly, we all just end up laughing like lunatics.

  Finnick and I hug quickly, clapping each other on the back.

  “Good to see you man!”

  “Is good to be home!” I tell him.

  “Sure is! Now, let’s get this show on the road or we’ll end up with a pair of cranky boys if we miss bedtime.”

  Finnick dumps the bouquet of roses in my arms, picks up my duffel and walks towards the parking lot, leaving me and Annie to deal with two chatty boys.

  It’s truly great to be home.

  I pick up Andy in my arms and start whistling Mötley Crüe’s Home Sweet Home.

  ———————

  I open the door to my family’s bakery, and the bell above betrays my presence before I can call out to anyone.

  I’m taken aback when a sultry voice I don’t recognize reaches me with a greeting. “Welcome to Mellark’s!”

  A petite, dark haired girl steps in from the back wiping her hands in one of the familiar aprons embroidered with the Mellarks logo. She looks up from her hands to fix on me the most stunning gray eyes I’ve ever seen. The world stops turning for a whole second while we stare at each other.

  Her eyes widen as she takes me in, and then fly to my latest official portrait, on display on the wall besides the registers.

  The girl blushes violently and stammers at rapid shot, “Oh… um… w-welcome home… sir… um, Lieutenant? I didn’t know… I mean… I don’t think Mr. Mellark didn’t he was expecting you… oh my gosh, I’ll go get him!”

  The girl slips back to the kitchen, leaving me standing there like a moron.

  Finnick walks into the shop and looks at me quizzically. “What’s the matter?” He asks, just as my father runs through the doors leading from the back of the bakery.

  My old man’s hands are covered in flour, and his apron has dried up orange frosting in the chest— which I guess is appropriate, since orange is my favorite color. The man bounds up to me like a runaway mastodon, and before I can even form a greeting, he’s squeezing the breath out of me.

  “My son!” Dad cries into my shoulder. He releases me to pat my cheek with his flour covered hand. “What a surprise!”

  “Peeta!” My brother Ryen yells from behind the counter, before jumping over it to hug me as well. “You didn’t call! I could’ve come pick you up, thickhead!”

  I laugh. “It would’ve ruin the surprise. Plus, what else does Finn have going for him besides picking people up from the airport?”

  Finnick glares at me, “I’ll have you know, even wealthy, trust fund babies, have jobs to report to. You ingrate son of a gun.”

  “Yeah… whatever!”

  We are all laughing merrily, when the bell above the door chimes again, this time for a real customer trying to get some pastries.

  The raven haired girl diligently takes the patron’s order as quickly and quietly as possible, trying to give our reunion space, although between my bags, three bulky Mellark men plus Finnick, who’s no dainty daisy either, we take up most of the front of the shop.

  After the customer is gone, Ryen turns to the girl. “Hey Squirrels, come meet my baby brother!”

  The girl with awesome eyes gives my brother a positively murderous glare, just as dad rolls his eyes and shakes his head. The girl steps out from behind the counter, but her eyes— Gray with specks of blue— stay stubbornly on Ryen.

  “Hi!” I pretty much run up to shake her hand— firm grip and a bit rough to the touch, but that just means she’s use to working with her hands. “I’m Peeta. And I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess ‘Squirrels’ isn’t your name, and you actually hate it almost as much as you dislike my brother?”

  I’ve take the girl by surprise, and then it occurs to me I may be crowding her, judging by her stunned expression and the fact she takes a step back from me.

  The girl gives her head a little shake, and smiles awkwardly. “My name’s Katniss Everdeen. Is an honor to meet you sir, and… um… thank you for your service.”

  I’ve heard the same words a few dozen times today, having just walked through a civilian airport, full of appreciative people nodding at me or wanting to shake my hand since I’m wearing my uniform, yet, coming from this blushing girl, Katniss, makes me feel like I’m actually doing something that matters. Even if I’m just training right now. It’s taken a lot of hard work to be where I am.

  “No, ma’am, is my honor to serve this great country. And you.” I’m about to bow, but my brother starts laughing, completely ruining the mood.

  “Wow, ease up the cheese, Captain Braggy Pants. Squirrels will lose respect soon enough after she hears you singing while you bake.” Ryen guffaws.

  I can’t believe I’ve only been home ten minutes and already I have the urge to strangle Rye. It’s gotta be some kind of record for him.

  “Come on boys. I’m sorry, Katniss. My sons don’t usually behave this way.”

  “No. They behave worse.” And just like that, my mother waltzes into the bakery front, sucking the joy right out of the room. “Peeta,” She says by way of greeting. “I’m assuming your on leave since you’re in your uniform. For a moment there I was afraid the Air Force finally kicked you out.”

  Dad sighs, “Matilda, the kid just got home…”

  My parents have a little staring competition, but as usual, dad turns away after a few minutes, letting my mother win the spat.

  Dad sighs again, tiredly, picks up my bag and mutters under his breath, “Come on Peeta, bring your stuff to my office and I’ll get you a snack, you must be hungry.” Then he turns to my friend, “Finnick, are you staying for supper?”

  “Uh… no, no. The boys are asleep in the car with Annie. I gotta take them all home. But another time!” Finn smiles widely. “Hey, Peet, call me when you’re settled in,”

  “Sure thing, man. Thank you!” I tell him and give him a quick hug. “Say by to Annie and the kiddos for me.”

  “You got it.”

  My mother rolls her eyes, snorting. My father gives her an exasperated glare, but she’s too busy counting the cash in the till to care.

  “Everdeen,” Mom calls not looking up at the girl, “You’re closing the shop tonight. I’m leaving $100 in change in the register, and putting the rest of the money in the safe. That should be enough to tie you over until closing.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Says Katniss stoically, her face devoid of emotion.

  I’m impressed.

  My mother is not the nicest person ever as a mom. As a boss, she’s even worse. Luckily, she only comes around a couple of hours before closing time to check on the books and put the cash away for bank deposits in the morning.

  “Ma’am, about Wednesday—?”

  “Yeah, yeah… take the whole day off if you need to. Peeta is here, so we’re back to fully staffed. The least he can do is pick up the slack for a few hours on Wednesday.”

  Katniss blinks at my mother for a moment, but then I’m turning away so I don’t accidentally punch mommy dearest in the mouth.

  I’m a fucking First Lieutenant in the USA Air Force. I fly fighters for a living! I’ve been deployed in flight missions twice in the last few years; I refuse to let my mother’s bitchyness ruin my vacation… it’s gonna be a long month, and it starts right now, with me showing how many fucks I give!

  ——-

I’m splashing soapy water all over the sink, holding the brush I’m using to scrub clean the trays like a microphone, like a dork. I keep forgetting where I am and with whom, all I know is that washing pots and pans at the bakery is way better than doing it at the kitchen of the training center.

  “Friday night… need a fight My motorcycle and a switchblade knife Handful of grease in my hair feels right But what I — mmm— me tight are those

Girls, girls, girls Long legs and burgundy lips Girls, girls, girls—“

  I turn around and find myself face to face with Ryen going purple, holding in his laughter. I feel myself jump out of my skin.

  “Geez, Rye! The fuck is the matter with you?!” I yell at my brother, ripping the headphones out of my ears angrily.

  Ryen keeps laughing, but when he steps out of my personal space, I wish the earth would open up and swallow me whole, because Katniss is standing by the swing door taking off her apron.

  She blinks at me once with eyes as big as saucers, then looks away, blushing. I’m not sure why she does it so much, blush when she realizes I’m looking at her. Honestly, I don’t know what to think, although I’d be lying if I said I’m not flattered, especially when she regards me with as much respect as if I’m personally some renowned war hero or something.

  “You taking off, Squirrels?” Asks Ryen pulling a tray of muffins out of the oven still shaking all over with a case of the giggles.

  “I am. Mrs. Mellark already knows I have class tonight. She game tomorrow off as well” she says glancing at me apologetically. She adds quickly, “But I’m only taking half a day. I’ll be here in the morning for the rush. See you tomorrow, Mr. Ryen. Lieutenant.”

  “You can call me Peeta, you know.” I tell her with my friendliest smile, hoping she doesn’t think I’m harboring any resentment towards her.

  As if on cue, Katniss’ eyes grow to saucers and her cheeks flush a pretty pink. She nods in agreement and says another hasty goodbye before gathering her stuff and flying out the back door. I watch her go, wondering how long it’s going to take her to get used to me?

  Ryen comes back from the front and squints in my direction. “Dude, if you’re gonna hang out here in the back, you need to keep an eye in the oven, man. The baguettes are gonna burn if you don’t hurry.”

  I glare a Rye and put on oven mitts. The baguettes are fine, just a bit crispier than usual.

  “So, what’s the story with this Katniss chick?” I ask checking on a sheet cake that’s close to being done.

  Rye shrugs, rinsing a rag he brought from the front. “Uh, she replaced Cecilia during her postpartum leave. She was supposed to be temporary, but then Cecilia wanted to stay home with her children, and the girl pretends Mom’s the boss and goes to her scheduling issues, which Mom adores, so she was offered Cecilia’s full time slot.

  “Katniss is finishing her GED. She’s got three nights at week off to attend school, and has a second, part time job when she’s not here, which is pretty much every hour she doesn’t have to sleep or study.”

  “Two jobs and a GED at night? She looks like she should still be in High School.” I say.

  “Meh. She’s nineteen. I think she dropped out and had like three part jobs until we offered full time hours, but I may be wrong. Wheaton was the one who hired her.”

  “So, Dad liked her? I mean if Wheat hired her, and she stayed after he left.”

  Wheaton, my eldest brother, used to manage the bakery before moving out of state. His wife wanted to live closer to her elderly parents to keep an eye on them, so about six months ago they opened up a bakery in a suburb near Atlanta, Georgia.

  Ryen chuckles. “She hunts. Dad likes her squirrels.”

  Now I’m confused. “What do you mean?”

  “Ask him when he comes for closing. He’ll tell you.”

  Later, Dad strolls into the kitchen, ready to help with clean-up and prepping for tomorrow.

  “Boys,” he greets and goes straight to wash his hands after donning his apron.

  I smile at that. Some things always remain constant. Familiar. Like home.

  “Dad, Peeta’s asking if you like Squirrels?” Rye snickers.

  Dad smiles. “Squirrels are delicious. I don’t care if you naysayers disagree with me.”

  “Dad, I think Rye meant Katniss, not the critters…” I’m totally confused now. “Either if you care to elaborate?” I ask watching my father grab ingredients from a shelf and a mixing bowl from another.

  Dad starts talking in that deep voice he used when teaching us a new recipe, “When I was little, my grandpa had this BB gun. He’d take us to his yard and had us shoot squirrels, then we would butcher them, fried them up, and eat them. Best comfort food ever.”

  I make a puking face. I know my grandpa used to make roadkill stews and other mountain folk fare, but I don’t remember dad ever talking about them actually shooting up their own supper like that.

  “Anywho, Katniss comes to me one day, maybe a year ago, and it takes all the courage she’s got, but she offers me a trade. She finds out I actually enjoy squirrel meat and asks if I would take a handful of her squirrels for a loaf, or at the very least a couple of buns.”

  “What? You’re joking right?” Now I’m concern about this girl: GED at night, multiple jobs, now she hunts squirrels and trades bread for them?

What’s going on here? “Is Katniss, okay?”

  “Oh, she’s better than okay,” Says dad smiling fondly. “She gets the squirrels right through the eye every single time! Born huntress, that one.”

  “And you traded bread with her? Isn’t there some kind of regulation or something against that kind of shit?” I balk at my father’s cheerful face.

  “I was hesitant at first, I mean, this is some urchin from the Seam, trying to barter with me like we’re in the 1800s or something. But then she shows me her squirrels, and I’m telling you, that kid has skills with a bow and arrow.”

  “Get out here! Is that even real?”

  “True story, baby bro…” Says Rye smiling wickedly.

  I’m flabbergasted. At least Ryan’s nickname makes sense now. “Why would you do that? How do you know it was her who do the shooting, if she’s got this amazing superhuman aim? I mean, how does she even know to trade with you? That’s just so random.” I ask skeptically.

  “She’s the one shooting. And the reason she knows I’m partial to squirrels, is because I grew up next door to her mother. In fact, and don’t tell your mother this, I used to be a little sweet on Katniss’ mother way back then. But her mama was a couple of years younger than me, and then she met Everdeen, and I realized it wasn’t meant to be.” Dad shrugs, and goes back to measuring his ingredients.

  “Okay, but a kid hunting down squirrels and trading them away, doesn’t sound very sanitary, let alone legal.”

  “So what? Are you gonna report her? Leave her alone, man.” Rye throws me an aggravated glare.

  Dad shakes his head sadly. “Katniss, needed the trades desperately. Wheaton decided to offer her a part time job to help her out precisely for the same reasons you just listed. He gave her a condition, though, she had to go back to school and finish up, she’d just drop out. When I was able to offer her a full time position, I kept the school deal, she’s about to get her GED diploma, and we’re talking community college for her next step, we will see.”

  The bell above the front door rings, and Rye goes tend to the newly arrived costumer.

  “Where are her parents?” I ask dad still puzzled. “She sounds like an orphan.”

  “Mr. Everdeen passed away a while back. Some work related accident. The mother is still around, but she’s not exactly well. Katniss has a little sister, a few years younger than her. She’s pretty much raised the girl herself.”

  Well, now I feel like shit for distrusting everyone’s judgement, particularly Katniss.

  “She seems nice.” I say awkwardly.

  “She is. Hard working, smart, fast study. Honest and a trustworthy. She’s one of my best employees.” He gives me a pointed look and goes back to baking.

  “Yeah… I bet. So… where’s Thom?” He’s been with the bakery since I was in high school. Him and my ex, Portia, were hired the same day. In fact, Portia stayed with the bakery after we broke up, which blowed.

  “Thom is off this week. Jury duty. Your mother was so annoyed she almost wrote him an excuse from serving.” Dad rolls his eyes.

  “And Um… Portia?” I feel a nervous swoop in my stomach at first, but it doesn’t go beyond that.

  Portia was angry I decided to enroll in the Air Force instead of going to college with her, like she wanted. We were both interested in art and design, but she was passionate about it, while I just enjoyed it as a hobby… one I truly loved. I still doodle, and my drawings are still great if I say so myself, but nothing compares to flying a bird capable of breaking the sound barrier.

  Portia couldn’t understand why I had to go away and become a pilot, I just couldn’t stay cooped here, while the sky is so big and free. She accused me of just wanting to run away from home, but the truth is, I love my family, I love North Carolina; being away from Mom is just sweet, gooey icing on the cake, but it’s been ages since I’ve develop a thick skin against her.

  Dad takes his time kneading the dough before answering my question. “Portia got married. Nice fellow named Cinna. I made the cake myself. She left the bakery maybe two months before Cecilia announced her last pregnancy.” He stays quiet for maybe ten minutes, then he speaks again. “Delly has been coming in more often to pick up the slack. But the whole Cartwright clan is in Dollywood, celebrating Grandpa Cartwright’s 90th birthday. Ryen was supposed to be there, but stayed since Thom had jury duty.”

  “Is that why Rye looks so broken up?” I ask sarcastically, because my brother seems happy as a clam.

  Talk of the devil, Rye bursts into the kitchen chewing on a pastry. “Dodged a bullet there.” He says coming to lean by the big fridge, smiling at me.

  “Yeah, it spending time in an amusement park with your wife and in-laws must be nightmarish.” I deadpan.

  Ryen laughs heartily.

  “Its truly is a blessing that you showed up now. It gives us tons of wiggle room to work, and maybe we start training Katniss in more technical stuff. I’ve been meaning to do that, but I never have the time.” Says Dad ignoring Rye’s interruption and the small rude gesture war we’re silently having between us. “She’s still not a very good froster, but she’s a heck of a saucier.”

  I look at my dad for a moment, and then I put the sheet cake on a rack to cool.

  Dad keeps talking placing a batch of cupcakes in the oven I just emptied. “I want you to know how much I appreciate your help here, Peeta. I know you could’ve gone anywhere else in the world, enjoying a well deserved break like a normal person, instead you came home and started working in the bakery right away. All I can say is, thank you. You’re a godsend and very good son.”

  I smack Rye with a tea towel when he starts making kissy faces, addressing my father like nothing’s going on with my brother.

  “Dad… you know I rather be here than anywhere else, even if I’m free labor.” We both chuckle at that. “Seriously Dad, I love being here. More than anything.”

  “That’s good, Peet. Listen, I talked to your mother last night, and I told her it would be a good idea… and you tell me if I’m wrong, but, I was thinking you could use the apartment above the shop while you’re here.”

  “Dad… that’s… I wouldn’t want to impose—“

  “Is no imposition, son. The apartment has been vacant since Ryen and Delly moved to their new place; its fully furnished and you’ll have privacy…”

  “Oooh! Bachelor pad!” Ryen wolf whistles, and Dad fixes him with a glare Rye ignores.

  We all know Dad means I’ll be away from mother, and her nippy remarks and passive aggressive comments.

  “Son, you’re twenty six years old, you’re used to being in your own. Mom and I are just a block away, and Ryen and Delly will be here every day.”

  “I don’t know what to say, dad. That’s awfully generous.”

  “Nonsense! Say you’ll take it and enjoy your time in town. You’re not a kid anymore and you don’t need to live in your parents guest room, when you can have a place for yourself.”

  I smile. “Okay, Dad… if you insist.”

  “No heavy partying without me!” Announces Rye, kicking off the fridge and grabbing his stuff to go home.

  Dad and glare at him, but I’m still so grateful. My vacation just got more relaxing!

  ——————

  I don’t see much of the bakery the next two days, because I take time to clean up upstairs and then decide to take a day off to hang out with Finn and his family at their cabin by the lake.

  Finnick comes from an affluent family, that made their fortune in the seafood business. Finn is a ‘lawyer’ who only represents his family’s business. Annie on the other hand, is a Public Defender who mostly works pro-bono, “to balance the karma” according to Finn.

  Ironically, Finnick’s favorite thing to do, is sit in a kayak in the middle of the lake doing nothing. Sure, he has fishing equipment, but as he puts it, “unless you skewer them with a trident, fishing is not an exciting sport.”

  The thing is, anything we do together, whether is fake fishing in his kayak in the lake, going out for some beers with my brother and his friends, or simply sitting in the porch with the little minions, telling them about what it’s like to fly a fighter, everything is fun with my best buddy here at home.

  “I heard Portia got married,” I say offhandedly late in the evening, when Annie takes the kiddos inside for baths.

  “Yeah. Saw her the other day. She looks good. I think you’d like the husband.” Finnick says scanning my face, like he usually does when he’s trying to gauge my moods.

  I only shrug. “Good for her. She deserves to be happy.” I wait a moment and then ask after another girl I used to date on and off, “How about Cash? She doing okay?”

  “Yeah.” He chuckles. “Cash is on her second divorce, and on her fifth Mercedes. Prettiest thing around… if you’re into fake boobs and artificial asses, that is.”

  We both smirk and shake our heads ruefully, Cashmere was never a subtle one, and her only love has always been bling. Can’t blame the girl when her mother named her kids so ridiculously vain: Cashmere and her twin brother, Gloss, and little Glimmer, who’s got to be around Katniss’ age. All three, golden haired children with the world at their feet, on the back of a dad who could barely afford his utility bills, but hey! His kids had the most expensive clothes, toys and stuff in town. No wonder Cashmere grew up with that askew rich-or-die mindset.

  “And you, loverboy?” Asks Finnick, “any lady friends you’d like to share about? I hope you have some juicy stories for me, I can’t go back to Annie tonight with the same old gossip as always, you know.”

  I laugh at that. Then grow wistful. I shake my head.

  “There hasn’t been anyone in a very, very long time.” I sigh. “I had an arrangement with one Major in my squadron while on assignment. But she’s actually married, and wasn’t looking for a full blown affair. She just needed to scratch and itch and I was the helping hand. But since I’ve been in the training program, I barely have time to whine about my sore shoulders, let alone romance anyone.”

  “Aww, buddy… I’m sorry.” Finnick says sadly, then glares at me and tells me in a serious tone, “You stay away from my wife! I’m onto you and your home wrecking ways, Top Gun!”

  I have to laugh at that, “As if I could snatch her away from you!” because there’s nothing more ridiculous than the notion I could ever try anything funny with Annie.

  She’ll slap me silly for starters, and then there’s the deal of how much I love my friend to ever hurt him. He’s always been there to support me, and when things got rough at home with mom, he was the only one who could help me see the good in life and in myself.

  “You’re an idiot, you know.” I punch him in the shoulder and he punches back.

  “No more than you, buddy.”

  ———-

  “Let’s bungle in the juuungle!

Well, that’s all right by meeee…

I’m a tiger when I want looooove,

I’m a snake if we di-sagreeeeee…”

  I look up self conscious that I’m being watched and mocked, although I’m barely audible, humming under my breath.

  I’m only mildly surprised to see Katniss by the sink, towel drying a few utensils. She’s got the ghost of a smile on her lips and she’s nodding her head rhythmically while mouthing what I think are lyrics to the song I’m singing.

  She most have felt eyes on her, because she looks at me with the corner of her eyes, and actually smiles when it’s confirmed I’m watching her. She stops what she’s doing and rotates her torso towards me.

  “I take it your iPod is allergic to music from this millennium.” She says with a lopsided smirk, gesturing to my earphones with a wooden spoon.

  “Has there been music produced this millennium, though?”

  She rolls her eyes, but her smirk stays in place. “Jethro Tull I can understand. My father was quite the fan and they were geniuses. But I have to question your taste when you sing anything from a band so demeaning to women as Mötley Crüe.” She arches her eyebrows daring me to contradict her. “Those guys were so foul, the Me Too Movement would’ve had a field day burying then in lawsuits.”

  “Ma’am, I have nothing but respect for women. Is not my fault good music is extinct nowadays.” I risk saying something else, and pray she doesn’t crucify me instead. “I think women back then needed the Me Too Movement, maybe groupies would’ve had someone looking out for them, telling them they didn’t have to let some asshole use them like they were trash just to show their love for the scene.”

  Katniss’ lips twitch, her sparkly gray eyes study me for a moment. And then she switches topics.

  “What’s the newest thing you have on your playlist, lieutenant?”

  “Call me Peeta, please… every time you call me Lieutenant I feel underdressed out of my uniform, and I don’t know if I should salute you or order you to do push-ups.”

  She her shoulders shake a little with her silent laughter. She licks her lower lip, and smiles at me. “I hope you don’t make me do push-ups. That will be the end on my employment here. There’s only so much a girl can put up with at work,” Her eyes twinkle in amusement.

  “Well, don’t call me Lieutenant, and nobody has to exercise.”

  “Okay… Peeta. I won’t ever call you by the title I’m sure you worked hard for, then.”

  I go mute for a solid second. My name in her lips sounds… otherworldly. I’m oddly aware that my mouth is hanging open like a dying fish, but by the time I gather my wits around me to respond, Ryen bursts into the kitchen with another set of empty trays.

  “Squirrels, you’re done with that? Good! I need a favor, watch the counter for me. Gotta tinkle.”

  Katniss scowls. But says nothing else immediately marching to tend the front counter.

  Me on the other hand, cry out, “Ewww! TMI, dude! Nobody wants to know that shit!”

  Ryen gives me an outraged face, with his mouth forming a wide open O and his eyes equally rounded. “Language, Lieutenant! What will Captain America say? Shame on you, sir.”

  “Shut up, fuckward.” I tell him laughing.

  “When did you change branches, little brother? You’re supposed to be an airman not a potty mouthed sailor!”

  “Shut the hell up and go pee already!” I ball up a small portion of the dough I’m kneading and throw it at him.

  “My goodness! What’s going on here?” Gasps a clear female voice from the back door.

  Rye and I turn to the voice at the same time, just as my beautiful, extremely pregnant, sister-in-law, dumps her purse and a big tote bag on an empty chair by the door.

  “Delly!” I call excitedly. I leave my station, dusting the flour off my hands on my pants, to hug the woman, boxing Ryen out of the hug. “You look—“

  “Good enough to eat!” Ryen speaks over me, elbowing me out of the way.

  Delly blushes mortified, I gag, and my mother who’s just walking through the door oblivious to everything stares at us suspiciously.

  “Why is everyone just standing around lollygagging?”

  I decide we need to put a bell over the back door too. Too much traffic we missed coming in, in my opinion.

  “I’m on a potty break, Peeta is a potty mouth, and Dells just got here from Dollywood!” Says Rye kissing Delly in the cheek and rushing to the restroom just outside the counter at the front of the store.

  Mother doesn’t react to anything, but marches on to the office and leaves Delly and me finally alone.

  “I will never understand what you see in Ryen. He’s loud, annoying and as mentally advance as a thirteen year old boy, but hell I’m so glad you can stand that idiot!”

  Delly laughs, “Aww… he’s a cute idiot though. At least the baby will be a looker.” We hug each other and she kisses my cheek. “I’m so glad you’re home! Sorry I wasn’t here to welcome you properly.”

  “Well, you’re here now, looking amazing, and I can’t wait to meet the little rugrat. Being an uncle will trump flying any day!”

  The office door opens up bringing my mother back into the kitchen. She stands just outside the office to glare at us. “You’re still just loitering around? Get back to work people!”

  Delly tries to tie her apron on the back, but she’s having trouble, Katniss comes in from the front just as my mother starts for the swing doors, and before I can offer to help Delly with the string, Katniss is making a neat little bow with the very tips of the of the ties.

  “There!” She says.

  Delly turns her head towards the raven haired girl and smiles gratefully. “Thanks!”

  “No problem at all, Ms. Delly.” Katniss nods at my sister-in-law and goes to her peg with her messenger bag hanging from. She sticks her hand in the bag and ruts around blindly for a bit, pulls out a phone to send a text. Then she drops the phone back in the bag and returns to the front.

  As Katniss is passing us by, Delly asks, “Is your shift over, Katniss?”

  “Forty five more minutes. But Jo is picking me up today.”

  “Car problems again?” Asks Delly washing her hands.

  “As usual. The poor girl is in her last legs. Pretty soon I’m gonna have to break down and get a new car. Is too bad, Old Green has been a trooper for sure.”

  “Well, if you need a ride at all next week let us know, you hear?” Says Delly drying her hands on a paper towel.

  “Sure thing! Thank you, Ms. Delly.”

  I try not to eavesdrop, but is just impossible when I’m not wearing my earphones. I simply watch Katniss walk back to the front, and file away the information I just heard in my mind, without any real reason to. I finish my bread, put it in the oven and tell Delly about it so she can pull it out when it’s done. I plan to make myself scarce by time Mom is done with the registers. The less I see of her, the better my vacation will be.

———-

  Saturday morning comes, and I’m too restless to stay in bed past 0600.

  I’m slowly coming down the internal staircase to the apartment, the office sits directly under it, so I’m trying extra hard to be quiet, in case Mom is here. But then I have to snort at myself, because Mom hasn’t been to the bakery before noon in years.

  When I’m halfway down the stairs, a soft, pleasant sound starts filtering up from the kitchen. Some vaguely familiar ballad, and then my heart gives a little jolt, when the sweetest voice I’ve ever heard puts lyrics to the music.

  “Down in the valley valley so low Hang your head over hear the wind blow Hear the wind blow dear hear the wind blow Hang your head over hear the wind blow.”

  I keep trying to stay quiet as I step down, this time because I don’t want to disturb the singer, in case it’s an angel from heaven in the kitchen. I don’t want to spook it away before praying for its blessing.

I reach the landing, just as a new stanza begins, and when I come around the corner, see the long thick braid of Katniss’ hair, swing lazily down her back every time she sways to the song.

  “Roses love sunshine violets love dew Angels in heaven know I love you Know I love you dear know I love you Angels in heaven know I love—-

  “Oh my God!” She screams when she turns to place a tray of cinnamon rolls in the oven and sees me standing in the middle of the kitchen just staring at her like an awestruck dumbass.

  Years of training as a pilot, plus the ones of being in my high school’s wrestling team, not to mention ducking out of my mom’s projectile trajectory when she was pissed off with us, has afforded me great  reflexes. Thanks to those, I miraculously save the tray with rolls without missing any.

  “I’m so sorry!” I start apologizing.

  She’s clenching her chest with one hand, while holding herself upright with the other one grabbing the edge of the counter behind her. She shakes her head vehemently. “No, serves me right for doing it to you the other day.” She says massaging her chest. She cocks her head sideways and peeks at me with one eye half open while the other is shut tightly. “You startled me. I didn’t hear you come in. I thought I had locked the back door when I came in. Not many people can sneak up on me like that.”

  “Oh no… I’m staying upstairs!”

  “That explains it then,” she gives a nervous laugh. “I had no idea you were living upstairs.”

  “Well…” I tell her lamely. “I’m still sorry for startling you.” I tell her over my shoulder, placing the tray in the oven for her. “You have, the prettiest voice I’ve ever heard by the way.” I try not to sounds so stalkerish.

  She smiles but shakes her head. “Hardly. But thank you.”

  “So, uh… you’re here…” I cringe at myself. What kind of stupid thing to say. “I mean, I wasn’t expecting to see you here this early. Not that I have any idea of what anyone’s schedule is. I know I’m supposed to help anytime I’m awake, but that’s just me—“

  She lifts a slightly greasy hand up to stop my rant, and smiles. “It’s okay, sir. I swapped schedules with Thom, the other baker, so he could sleep in after a week of just sitting in the waiting room for his jury duty. Apparently the poor guy is exhausted from doing nothing but reading whatever controversial title that drunkard Abernathy recommended him to read in the waiting room to avoid actually sitting in court.” She shrugs, “I figure I rather have the afternoon off to spend it with my friend Jo or my sister, Primrose.”

  “Cool.” I say feeling like a sixty year old coot trying to sound young. “Uh, that song you were just singing…?”

  She chuckles turning to the sink to wash her hands off. I’m pleased to see a nice pink take over her olive skinned cheeks.

  “I guess you’re not the only one who enjoys old music.” She turns down the volume on the iPod dock by the sink. “It’s a mountain air. My dad used to sing to me all kinds of old, folksy songs. But I don’t sing much unless I’m alone.”

  “Why? You’re voice is incredible.” I tell her earnestly.

  Is a good thing she’s preoccupied wiping down her working station, because I can’t stop gawking at her. I’m noticing all kinds of traits I find just adorable; like the way her nose wrinkles at my words, disturbing the faded smattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose. Or how perfectly shaped her eyebrows are, and how her blush makes her look so pure and innocent.

  “I’m okay, I guess. My father was the real deal. But he’s been gone for a long time now, and all I inherited from him were a bunch of old Appalachian ballads.” She doesn’t sound sad or bitter, just factual.

  “Well, I wouldn’t mind working with your voice as ambience noise.” I smile, hoping she takes it as a light hearted compliment.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to serenade me with your 70’s and 80’s jams?”

  It’s my turn to chuckle. “I’m fine, but by all means keep abusing my self esteem.”

  Her eyes go as round as silver dollars, “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to—“

  “Katniss! It’s a joke! And remember, it’s Peeta.”

  “I— I know. I’m sorry. It’s just, my father always taught me to be respectful to servicemen and women, and it’s just ingrained in my mind. Um, thank you for volunteering to protect our country. I have a little sister, you know, her safety is the most important thing in the world to me. I’ve thought several times of joining the army. They have so many benefits I could use, but I just can’t leave Prim alone so long, so I’m very appreciative of people who does leave home to train and become… uh, our defenders?” Her blush is so intense now, I feel bad for the poor thing, but my heart is beating wildly in my chest eating up all this undeserved praise.

  “Ugh… I’m sorry. I’m not very good at talking. I always say the most awkward stuff.”

  “Oh no! You’re great!” I try to assure her. “I’m the one who’s done nothing much to begin with. At least not something I’m terribly proud of, other than flying like a fiend when I need to. Your dad sounds like a stand up guy, I’m glad you had a man like him in your life. And as for joining the army, you can serve plenty around home.” I’m not entirely sure about the last part, but in my head it sounded like the right thing to say.

  “Well, I think you’re great.” She says, but as soon as the words leave her mouth, she goes into a mortified rant, avoiding my eyes at all costs. “I mean… um, I think what you do is great. And your folks are so proud of you too!” She stammers and talks so fast I barely catch up everything she said.

  “Oh yeah,” I say before I can stop the sarcasm, “Mom is real proud of the free labor I provide for her while on leave.”

  I look up defensively, not wanting pity from her, but there isn’t any of that in her soft eyes at all. Instead, she smiles at me, and nods towards the swing doors; she waves me to follow her, and then she points at my picture by the register.

  “Mrs. Mellark is not the nicest person around, but see how that picture hasn’t the tiniest speck of dust on it? She pulls a rag or a handkerchief if she forgets the rag, and cleans the frame every day after counting the money in the till.”

  She lets the information sink in for a bit, letting the door leaf she’s holding open for me swing back into place. She walks back to her station and starts on a batch of muffins.

  I stay there for a moment longer before stepping to the shelf with fresh laundered aprons, grabbing one for myself. The cynical part of me can’t accept that my mother would have a sweet gesture towards me without an ulterior motive; maybe she wipes down the frame so her bridge club friends believe she’s a proud, dedicated, mother… or maybe it’s to show up that church deacon lady she’s got this unspoken rivalry with, I don’t know what her angle is, but I keep it to myself, because I don’t want Katniss to think I’m ungrateful or whatever.

  I just get to work on kneading bread. Methodically and repetitive, relaxing and familiar. I work my frustration with each fold and every time my hands squeeze the malleable concoction on the table. I feel like this is where I belong. I’m actually happy working the dough. It’s not the same rush adrenaline flowing when I get in my cockpit, but here, in this place with a sweet country melody in the background, I feel content.

  Me and Katniss start working on the same station when my dad shows up fifteen minutes later. It’s actually nice sharing the counter with her. She’s tidy, efficient, and meticulous and takes suggestions gratefully. So when dad asks if I’d mind teaching her some frosting techniques, I make a stupid joke, but jump to it with both feet in.

  “Katniss, if you want to decorate cakes like the masters, Peeta’s the guy to learn from.”

  “I don’t know, Pops,” I say eying the girl in mock suspicion. “Can she be trusted with my trade secrets?”

  Cue in the blushing and shying her gaze away. I can’t help thinking she’s cute… pretty, really. I feel like I should be doing something to impress her with my baking and frosting talents.

  “Come, Padawan, I’ll show you the ways of the frost!”

  Katniss looks up at me and tries to hide the curl of her lips. “Okay, but I’m not calling you master,” she says low enough I have to strain my neck to hear her.

  “Peeta will do!” I say winking at her, and her cheeks go impossibly scarlet; the sight enthralls me and I wonder if I can keep doing and saying things to make her blush. “Alright!” I give a clap, “let’s do this!”

  We spend the next couple of hours icing cookies, stacking cakes and practicing the basics of mixing colors. She’s very studious, doesn’t blush as much while we’re actually working on the task at hand, which I respect very much about her. Katniss asks questions confidently and tries to figure out things from her own perspective until she has a solid hold on a concept or skill I’m showing her. She’s serious, but scowls less than when Ryen is the one talking to her.

  Delly and Ryen arrive a few minutes into our decorating techniques class, and Dad comes to our station to tells to take a break, but we’re almost done putting on the base layer of frosting on a birthday cake, and Katniss insists she wants to see it through.

  At around 0930, Rye peeks his head through the swing doors and calls loudly. “Hey, Squirrels, you’ve got visitors.”

  Katniss looks up scowling. “Who?”

  “Your sister and her friend.”

  “Uh… I’m a bit busy—“

  “Take a break, Everdeen!” Says Dad walking by us with a steaming mug of coffee, heading to his office. “Or I’ll dock you thirty bucks!”

  Katniss’ face sours right away, and I have to shake my head ruefully at myself for thinking she’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t help it. I think I’m infatuated with the girl, which is so strange to me. I know things about her, but I don’t know her, and then, there’s the issue of our age difference. We’re like six years apart… it hurts my head just thinking of it.

  “Okay, Mr. Mellark. I’m taking my fifteen minutes.” She says morosely, stepping away from the counter, untying her apron and dusting her hands from flour.

  She wipes herself clean, straightens her Mellark’s uniform, and nods at me. “Thank you for taking time to show me how to decorate a cake. I appreciate your help.” She tells me very politely, with a businesslike edge.

  “Hey, I’m not done with you yet,” I tell her and see the color fill her face before smiling, “I’ll make the best pastry chef around out of you. Count on it!” I wink again, and she doesn’t disappoint with her shy smile.

  “Thanks. It means a lot.” She nods, and goes out the front, to see her sister.

  I’ve been in the back on my own for a bit, and Delly calls from the counter, “Hey, Peeta? Are there any more cheese buns in the cooling rack? We need some out here.”

  “Cheese buns coming up!” I answer already grabbing the tray.

  The bakery is packed. There’s a line snaking around the side of the counter, mostly people try to grab something and go, but we also have a few tables by the back wall, cafe style, completely full. My eyes go straight to the long, thick, dark braid in the very back corner. Her back is to me, and a pair of teenage girls sit facing the display case I’m stoking with pastries.

  Katniss’ table is a picture perfect diversity poster. One of the girls is blonde and blue eyed, with ivory skin; her friend has a smooth ebony complexion, with a riot of dark curls framing her thin face, and soulful brown eyes that light up when she notices the cheese buns have arrived; and then there’s Katniss, with her olive skin and gray eyes with streaks of blue in the irises. A beautiful palette of people.

  “Peeta, would you mind taking two cheese buns and an apple turnover to table five?” Asks Delly bagging a loaf for a customer.

  I look up at Rye, who’s busy taking a cake order over the phone.

  “No problemo!” I tell her reaching for a plate and forks.

  As it turns out, table five is Katniss’ table. Objectively, I knew that already from years working in the bakery, but for some reason the two things didn’t correlate until I looked towards table five, and the two teens were craning their necks around a stiff looking Katniss to gawk at me.

  Aw! High schoolers! Not much has changed.

  The girls start giggling quietly and elbowing each other while their amused eyes flit from me to one another; they start swapping hushed comments behind their hands but their voices carry anyway.

  “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, he’s coming over!”

  “Gah! Are you seeing those baby blues?”

  “No! I’m preoccupied with his biceps! Lord have mercy!”

  Katniss pounces forward, leaning closer to the girls. “Cut it out! He can probably hear you two!”

  “Morning, ladies!” I say loudly, not to startle Katniss since her back is to me. I hold up the plate of pastries to them. “Two cheese buns and an apple turnover. Enjoy!” I give them a polite nod and place the plate in the middle of the table, trying to remain professional for Katniss’ sakes.

  “Thank you, Captain Mellark,” Says the blonde, who’s obviously Primrose, judging by how much her features favor her big sister, except for her hair color.

  “First Lieutenant!” Katniss hisses at her sister, eyes alarmed and full of aggravation.

  “It’s fine,” I assure them. “No worries. Call me Peeta if you’re in doubt.” I smile at them beatifically and then move on from the table.

  I can hear the girls giggling and Katniss’ mortified groan.

  “Oh my gosh, he’s hot!”

  “Primrose! Mind yourself!” Katniss berates her sister in a harsh whisper.

  “What! I’m fifteen, not blind.”

  “Rue, what are you doing? Put the phone down! Oh my god, you’re gonna get me fired!”

  “I’m texting Jo! I’d be in trouble if don’t.”

  “Oh yes! Jo will like to hear all about yummy airman here!”

  Katniss grunts, “Ugh! Eat your snacks and go home! And please, leave Jo out of this.”

  Is the last thing I hear them say. I’m wondering who this Joe person is? It’s the third time the name creeps up in conversation, and I just don’t like the little flash of annoyance I feel when I hear it.

  ———

  It’s a slow Monday, so I give myself the day off and run a couple of errands around town: fill up the tank of the car Delly let me borrow while I’m home, call up a couple of friends to say hi, hang out with Finn during his ‘lunch break’, then go grocery shopping, because I’ve been subsisting on bakery scraps and junk food for the first week of leave, and I should at least try to maintain a healthy diet, so I don’t get too fat. Getting back in shape at training isn’t my idea of fun.

  It’s bizarre how many times I have to stop to say hi to some acquaintance while pushing my buggy around the store. Most of them are my folks’ friends, that want to see the ‘fighter boy’. Sometimes it can be too much, but I try to think of it as supportive. This people saw me growing up into what I am today. It’s understandable they want to let me know I’m making my little hometown proud, just for doing what I’m passionate about.

  What I’m not expecting is to literally bump into Katniss Everdeen in the frozen vegetable aisle.

  She’s walking backwards from the fridge with an armfull of assorted veggies, and I just happened to come around the corner too distracted, because I’m waving a little old lady from mom’s knitting club bye, to see where I’m going.

  All of Katniss frozen bags fall to the floor.

  “I’m so sorry!”

  “Oh my god!”

  We exclaim at the same time. After a second of staring at each other in disbelief, we dive down to pick up the bags.

  “No, no. It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have grab all these at once.”

  “No, the fault is mine. I should’ve been looking where I was going.”

  We bring the veggies to a shopping cart a foot away from Katniss, and filled to the brim with groceries, and dump the lot on the very top.

  Katniss pulls a piece of paper and a pen from the back pocket of her jeans and scratches something out, stuffing the writing materials back in their spot. She finally looks up at me, blushing as usual.

  “Um… so, Monday, Monday.” She says nervously, staring hopefully at me while balancing on the ball of her feet.

  It takes me a minute of just gawking at her puzzled, before figuring out why she’s acting so peculiar, until it clicks.

  Lyrics. She’s quoting a song.

  I smirk and answer, “Can’t trust that day.”

  She bites her lower lip, that does nothing to suppress the biggest smile I’ve seen on her so far. “Sometimes it just turns out that way.”

  I’m so enthralled watching her lips that the next line comes all choppy at first. “Every other day. Every other day of the week is fine,”

  “Yeah.” She actually sings the word, which makes me chuckle.

  We continue lobbing lyrics back and forth for a bit.

“But whenever Monday comes,”

  “But whenever Monday comes, you can find me cryin´ all of the time.”

  “Monday, Monday.”

  “So good to me.”

  “Can’t guarantee.”

  And now we’re just staring at each other in the middle of the deserted aisle, and suddenly we’re laughing loudly.

  “That was…”

  “Ridiculous!”

  “Oh, but it was great!”

  “No it wasn’t! It was so… cheesy! I’m just glad you knew the song, otherwise I would’ve looked like a total idiot.”

  She actually puts her hand on my forearm— for balance I assume— and I think this is the first time we touch, other than when we met and shook hands. My skin is all tingly where her fingers lift from.

  But our bubble of merriment gets obliterated with the literal pop of loud gum bubble popping right beside us.

  “Wow… Sunshine is onto somethin’ here, Brainless.” Says a girl with spiky, short, brown hair, wide-set brown eyes with one eyebrow arch in scrutiny, and the most obnoxious gum chewing I’ve ever seen in a female. “Aren’t you gonna introduce me to Captain Muscles here?” She spares Katniss a devious glance, and then returns to scan me head to toe.

  Katniss’ lips thin out, she’s fighting off a blush, but the blood filling her cheeks is winning. Reluctantly, she turns to me, “Lieutenant, my best friend, Jo. Jo, First Lieutenant, Peeta Mellark.” She gives her friend a murderous glare.

  “You’re Joe?” I ask idiotically while narrowing my eyes at the girl… clearly female. “I thought you were Katniss boyfriend.” I extend my hand for her to shake.

  She watches my hand and lets it sit in the air for a second or two before taking it and squeezing hard. She holds a penetrating eye contact while shaking my hand. “Who says I’m not, just because I’m a girl?”

  My mouth goes dry. I scratch the back of my neck embarrassedly, I open my mouth to say something, because really, Katniss could be in a same sex relationship for all I know. Just because she gets all pink in the face when I’m around doesn’t mean she’s attracted to me… or any man for that matter.

  Katniss groans, but just as she’s trying to say something her friend speaks.

  “Johanna Mason,” Says the girl eyeing me with a devilish gleam in her brown eyes, “as deliciously awkward you guys look right now, I have to admit Brainless is not my type. Too stoic and hero like for me. But you on the other hand…” she gives me a mock roar, and Katniss turns beet red with the deepest scowl I’ve ever seen.

  “Jo!” Katniss hisses.

  Johanna rolls her eyes, “I’m just joking, for fucks sakes! Don’t get your panties in a knot, KitKat.” She blows another irritating bubble gum and smirks at me, “see you around Fly Boy!” She winks and takes the handle of the shopping cart. “Come on girlfriend, let’s pay for your shit. I’m tired of meander around like a headless chicken.”

  After waving goodbye at me woodenly, Katniss follows her friend to the registers, and I stay there wondering how the hell such a goofy, cute encounter could have just fizzled down so fast with one single pop of a gum bubble?

  ———-

  Thom is back from jury duty and the workload evens out easier with another experienced baker in the kitchen.

  Katniss has school in the evening, so her shift starts around 0800, until 17:30. Since I get to chose my own hours, as long as I show up a minimum five times a week, I decide to show up after lunch to work on an order of cupcakes easy enough for Katniss to practice the basic frosting I showed her on Saturday.

  After we’re done with those, Thom slips me a piece of paper with an order for a four tier wedding cake in fondant and sugar flowers. Thom looks absolutely delighted passing on the task to me, because after all, decorating the cakes was my specialty growing up.

  “When is this due?” I ask scratching my head with the back of my wrist, trying not to get vanilla filling on my hair.

  “Friday evening.” Says Thom gleefully turning to some easier pastry to deal with. “Figured you’d like the chance to get back on the saddle!”

  “Gee… thanks.”

  Thom smiles, “What can I say? It’s good to have you back!”

  “Let me guess, the bride is a perfectionist. A real bridezilla.”

  “Nah. Bride’s sweet as pie, the mom on the other hand… total bitch.”

  I groan. It’s always my luck, having to deal with crazy cougars, trying to live up their dreams through their daughters weddings.

  “Shit. This thing says the order was placed yesterday. Why am I getting it today? This only gives me three full days to finish.”

  “Well, your lazy ass didn’t come in yesterday, and the boss said to give you the work order, he thinks you’ll have a field day with it, ha! Better start baking those cakes, dude.”

  “Fuck it!” I hang my head low, and shuffle to the pantry to get the ingredients. It’s four tiers in a different flavor each, and one of them is supposed to be filled with fresh strawberries.

  “Mmm, I can help you… if you want. I’ve never worked with fondant, but I can mix a cake no problem, and you need four of those.”

  I look up to find Katniss’ hopeful grey eyes, watching my tower of ingredients shyly.

  “I guess I can teach you how to work with fondant while we’re at it. I’ve heard you take evening classes. We can work on the technical part of the decoration during the morning…”

  “I can come back after classes too.” She offers eagerly. “I get out at 8:15, which puts me here around 8:40 or so. Unless that’s too late?”

  “No, no, that’s perfect. Okay, partner, let’s kick some cake ass!”

  Working the cake with Katniss is actually a lot of fun. We listen to music on the iPod dock, and she makes fun of me for not liking the Beatles, but having all of Johnny Cash’ collection. It’s a moot point, since she knows all the lyrics to every Johnny Cash song that pops up in my device. It’s nice.

  She goes to school, and I take a nice three hour break. No sense working in the cake if I have to show Katniss how to work with it.

  She shows up again at 21:45, and I let her into the back door, promptly locking us in after she steps into the kitchen. The front has been closed for hours already, but I’m not very comfortable with the back unlocked at this time.

  “I just don’t get it,” she says pulling a face, sifting in the flour on the table top to knead the fondant.

  “What’s that?” I ask without lifting my yes from my own batter.

  “Oh, nothing, is just that you’re this greater than life legend here in town— you should hear Abernathy’s tall tales about you— but you’ve been cooped up in the apartment, pretty much all week, instead of going out and stuff.”

  “I’m a house wart. I rather stay in than going out. You?” I look at her under my eyelashes.

  She makes a face. “I’m antisocial according to Prim.”

  “You seem to do pretty well around me, so you’re not completely antisocial.”

  She smiles gratefully. “And I’m not sure how I manage that.” She says softly, looking down at the block of fondant we’re supposed to be working with.

  “Why is that?” I ask haltingly, a small thrilling swoop in my stomach tells me to tread carefully with her. I don’t want to do anything stupid.

  Katniss eyes take an earnest shine, and I finally understand that “Windows to the soul” thing they say about eyes. I can see so many emotions in those big, gray eyes that stare at me like I’m something really special.

  She turns to the fondant, “So, after kneading this thing, we use the rolling pin… how thin do we need it?”

  Oh she’s good! Master deflector I see. I nod almost imperceptibly staring her in the eye.

  “Well, for this cake they only want white, but other times we would have to add a couple of food coloring drops, if the order calls for it. Then we knead with a bit of flour so it doesn’t stick to the table or our fingers, and you’re welcome to wear gloves if you want to, so you don’t stain your hands.”

  I show her for a minute, then let her take over, and keep giving her tips here and there to work more efficiently.

  We put filling in all the separate flavored cakes, and prep them with frosting to place the first layer of fondant down. I tell her we will work on the individual tiers before stacking them together and go on about the correct way to lay fondant down, but her first attempt is a disaster. The fondant is too pasty and thin, so it sticks together and brakes apart like melted marshmallows.

  “I’m so sorry,” she winces. “I promise I’ll get the next one right.”

  “It’s okay, nobody gets everything perfect the first time they try something new.” I tell her softly, wiping away the table so we can start again. “It’s just sugar, you’ll get it. Here, let me help you.” I offer, standing behind her and putting my hands over hers to guide her while rolling the piece of solid icing.

  As soon as I feel her small hands under mine, and feel her lithe body shiver against mine, I realize what a total mistake this is. I should move away, really, but I don’t want her to think she’s done anything wrong, so I bite down on my stupid nervousness and keep teaching her how to make a cake.

  “Like this,” I say softer than I intended.

  Katniss follows the instructions, and then I really should move away, but she says she needs help placing the newly rolled out fondant, and I’m her teacher, I can’t just leave her there on her own; but fuck if my body is not reacting to her like I basket of hormones.

  “We… pick up the rolling pin with the layer of fondant, and carefully… unroll it on top of the cake. Don’t let the rolling pin fall on the cake. That’ll be bad.”

  She chuckles that silent laugh of hers where only a puff of sound escapes her, and her shoulders shake until she’s done laughing.

  I almost groan. The slight of her ass momentarily grazed against the front of my pants, and my dick immediately reacted to it, as it had been called to action… hell… when was the last time I had sex with anyone other than my hand?

  “Okay! Done! I’ll take it from here!” I speak breathlessly and too fast.

  “But it’s my turn to lay it down.” Katniss protests.

  “You don’t have to. I can finish myself…” fuck, “The fondant, that is.” Fuckety fuck! Shut up mouth… now!

  I have no idea why am I still bracing my arms at each side of her on the table, I really should step away now, but she tilts her head almost around to look at me, and those twin moons are so pretty and full of wonder, I can’t move.

  “How’s this?” She asks in this thin voice that tugs at me.

  I look down, and realized she’s been working on the icing all along, and other than a crinkle here, and another there, she’s pretty much done with the last cake.

  “That’s great. Thank you!”

  She smiles widely at me. “Now we just need to set it aside.” She tells me turning in my arms, with the cake in her hands. It’s the only thing that forces me to move away.

  Once she places the last tier on a shelf to rest. She looks up at me. “Thank you, mister Peeta. Working with you is such an amazing opportunity, I have no words to tell you how grateful I am for all your family has done for me.”

  “Peeta. Please.” I say quietly, coming closer to her like a magnet to another. “It’s an honor helping you. You’re a very dedicated apprentice. Tomorrow we will make flowers.”

  “Okay.” She exhales breathily, and her eyes keep dipping to my mouth. “I can’t wait…”

  I’m standing five inches from her… or at least I think that’s how far my chest is from hers.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask her suddenly.

  “I— Yes. I could eat.” Her eyes focus on my face intently. “I’ve never seen the apartment upstairs. Is it comfortable?” She asks.

  I can feel the blood pooling in my groin. “It’s great. I grew up there. I can give you a tour, if you agree to have a sandwich with me.”

  She bites her lip and nods. “Okay.”

  “Let’s go then.”

[cupcakecoterie]

Sessions to Date: the Chasm

SESSION 14

Party: Nora Bailey (human paladin), Hazel Hearthheart (half-elf cleric), Darvin Taylor (human bard), Clarity Meloreth (tiefling rogue), Froseth (dragonborn monk)

Session begins at Hearthhome, to collect Clarity and get some supplies from Twilly and Miranda. Also giving most of the gold they made on selling a bunch of gems to Twilly and Miranda to pay taxes on the property. It more or less paid for the health potions, rations and Scroll of Teleportation expended in getting them within a few hours’ travel of the Chasm, where they were seeking the sword Pelor’s Beacon.

Party woke early, said their goodbyes, and teleported to the Chasm, courtesy Twilly.

Party appeared in a forest clearing and were immediately set upon by centaurs. Nora had to fight a duel with one as a sort of trial; they were deemed reasonable enough and told to respect the forest before the centaurs went away.

Party then walked into a collection of vine blights and twig blights. They were less reasonable than the centaurs. Darvin did significant damage to two party members with injudiciously-placed Thunderwave, eventually leading to the deaths of Hazel and Clarity. Thankfully for them, Lira’s blessing on their pendants included a Death Ward, and both were revived. They eventually triumphed over the vine blights and twig blights but were too exhausted, shaken or angry to continue so they made camp for the night, Nora settling herself far away from the rest of the party to try to pray away some of the anger.

SESSION 15

Party: Hazel Hearthheart (half-elf cleric), Darvin Taylor (human bard), Clarity Meloreth (tiefling rogue), Froseth (dragonborn monk)

With Nora still fuming in her prayer-corner, the other four remained to talk things out. Clarity was more shaken by the idea of a god bringing her back than she was about dying, and Darvin was in throes of self-flagellating remorse.

Party discovered that Flitty, the little blue faerie dragon, had stowed away to ‘keep an eye on them’. Mostly they just shrugged this off but seemed glad enough for the company.

Flitty was useful when a series of subtle and largely harmless pranks were played, calling the party’s attention to a young pixie. Said young pixie said that someone needed help, so the party followed the pixie to see if they could be of any aid. Also located pixie ‘village’ of sorts in the trees.

Pixie led the party to a young tiefling boy (Candor) who was ill, badly injured and caught in a bear trap. They got him free of the bear trap and after a great deal of conversation, convinced him to join them at the fire for food and medical care. Candor informed them that he was a runaway slave, fleeing from people in robes who had bought him as some kind of sacrifice.

Party members went to sleep for the night, but Froseth was woken fairly early by centaurs sending them a robe, apparently belonging to one of the cultists who had purchased Candor for sacrificial murder. The symbol on the robe appeared to be a bastardised symbol of Pelor, and the robe itself let out a poisonous gas when burned. Froseth, now attuned to air, blew the poison away before it could harm people too much.

SESSION 16

Party: Nora Bailey (human paladin), Hazel Hearthheart (half-elf cleric), Darvin Taylor (human bard), Clarity Meloreth (tiefling rogue)

Nora returned to the party, apologised to Darvin for her outburst and was brought up to speed on their new arrival. They decided they could leave Candor in the antechamber of the Chasm while they went to seek Pelor’s Beacon. First, however, they decided to ask the pixies about the cultists, leaving Candor in the care of Froseth and Norman the very tenacious Bag of Tricks-generated badger.

Pixies were of moderate help despite Hazel’s broken Sylvan. Pixies gave Hazel a scroll they said would help her Sylvan, but Hazel did not look at it straight away. The matriarch of the tiny clan became angry when she learned that these ‘biggers’ had named her granddaughter ‘Meep’. Matriarch pixie asked who had done such a thing. Hazel blamed Darvin. Matriarch retaliated by using Polymorph to turn Darvin into a rabbit.

Hazel read the scroll, discovered that it was enchanted to have her as fluent in Sylvan as Hazel gets in any language. Swearing ensued. Clarity attempted to get the pixies’ attention so that Hazel could apologise in now unbroken Sylvan. First they dispelled her Mage Hand. Then they cast Confusion on the party. Hazel attacked Clarity, Clarity ran away, Hazel followed suit; Nora, meanwhile, threw Darvin at a tree, leaving the bard confused and stunned and making this ... noise.

Eventually the Confusion wore off and Clarity found herself in the camp of the few cultists the centaurs managed to miss. Combat ensued, two rounds of which was four cultists vs Clarity, Brandon the Dire Wolf and Ernesto the Panther. When Nora and Darvin arrived, battle got a bit easier to manage. Hazel helped largely by healing. Two of the cultists were turned to ash by radiant damage. The largest of them was turned into a rabbit by the friendly young pixie (who gave Geloe as a name they could pronounce). The last, unfortunately, cast Confusion on the party and escaped.

Party decided to camp and recover another night.

SESSION 17

Party: Nora Bailey (human paladin), Hazel Hearthheart (half-elf cleric), Darvin Taylor (human bard), Clarity Meloreth (tiefling rogue)

Party woke to discover the pixie village had been burned, probably by the surviving cultist. Young Geloe was the only survivor, and her only barely. Party decided to take Geloe home with them, same as Candor.

Party finally reached the Chasm, and were set to trials. First, a jumping puzzle - spelling out the name of a long-lost and largely forgotten god in floor tiles. Second: a banshee. Combat party: Nora, Hazel, Darvin, Clarity, Froseth ... and Norman the Undaunted (who could not reach the banshee to hurt it). Killing blow: Darvin (rapier through the eye).

SESSION 18

Party: Nora Bailey (human paladin), Hazel Hearthheart (half-elf cleric), Darvin Taylor (human bard), Clarity Meloreth (tiefling rogue)

Nora faces Nessor the Androsphinx guarding the Chasm. Nessor sets Nora one last test - endure what her friends have endured, to see what it is to truly rise (above one’s circumstances and scars, presumably). Nora takes significant psychic damage in the process, but gains insight into her comrades.

Nora wins Pelor’s Beacon. It is revealed that Pelor’s Beacon is a sentient weapon, with very interesting properties, largely to do with protection. It (although it turns out ‘she’) was apparently once a paladin, who agreed to have her soul tethered to the weapon on her death, choosing ‘a life of extended service’.

Nessor offers ‘insight’ to the party - for Hazel, an image of the Hearth, a clan of halflings set to guard Star Coast from things like the fog tragedy (all Miranda’s family, most having disowned her for daring to leave her ‘duty’); for Darvin, an image of what became of his mother after the fog; for Clarity, an image of her lost foster brother, alive but lost and hurt and trapped; for Froseth, his parents’ final moments as they sent his infant self with a dwarven comrade to whatever safe haven the dwarf could find. Nessor also offers to teleport them back to Hearthhome. Very shaken party collects their gear and their badger and their pixie and their Candor and go home.

Arrival at Hearthhome reveals renovations. Over the several days the party has been absent, Twilly and Miranda made alterations to turn the ‘guest cottage’ from a rather functional bunking place to a home for their ‘new children’, so each has a room of their own, decorates as much to their tastes as a simple country place could manage. Geloe is offered the dollhouse to live in. Party kind of gets made of happy-meebles.

Party has late dinner and hugs the new adoptive mothers a lot. Also discusses what next - largely, the plan seems to be gear up again and travel to the Hearth to gain what information they can before going to somehow cleanse Star Coast of the corruption.

Next up: more travel planning and the road to Star Coast.

[gabibrann]

Week 9 Content Response

1.) Emerge pgs. 36-50: I took a lot of interest in the discussion of “reductionism” - the belief that the human body is nothing more than organized cells. I have never understood how someone can cane reductionist beliefs even without looking at it from a “nature of human beings” point of view. From a strictly physical reality standpoint, there is an unfathomable amount of irreversible complexity in the physical world even when just viewing a single cell. It’s crazy to me that people so simply fall back on reductionism when, according to their “scientific” beliefs, every cell in existence had to descend from another cell... so where did the first cell come from? There is no possible way that one day the perfect types, ratios, and ions of atoms came together to interact in such a way to create the most basic building-block of life. ---The rest of the reading was interesting too. I just take a particular interest in this topic.

2.) “How Artists Explore Identity”: Before watching this video, I didn’t know much about Frida. After the beirf background they did on her, I found that her self portrait had so much more meaning behind it than it did before. I see so much emotion and reason behind her painting with the scissors, cut hair, and suit. It was like her way of saying “my identity is not my husband”. There is a strong sense of independence and freedom behind it.

Also, my unpopular opinion regarding Glenn Ligon’s “Runaways” is that he is combining his identity with the problem of slavery and creating a present problem that does not necessarily correlate. If I were to ask my friends to describe me as if I had gone missing, they would describe me in a very similar way to how Glenn’s friends describe him. Glenn did not ask his friends, “how would you describe me”. He asked, “how would you describe me if I went missing?” which shifts the description from his primary qualities to his physical appearance. Don’t get me wrong- I have seen what runaway slave posters from the past have looked like and it is extremely dehumanizing, disturbing, and at its root, evil. I also understand how his cultural identity is effected by that his ancestors went through. I just don’t agree with how he presents his thoughts and correlations between topics. For instance, my family is Lithuanian and fled Lithuania on foot because of the Nazis and communists during world war two. The first-hand stories of what they experienced are bone-chilling to say the least. But I am definitely not going to draw parallels between them and myself and say I am a survivor - I have absolutely no right!! I have never experienced anything close to what they have. My identity therefore is not “I am a survivor”, rather, it is “I am free” because of the sacrifices they made to come to America.

3.) “Exploding the Myth of the Scientific vs Creative Mind”: I thought that this article did a great job in simplifying a much bigger discussion. Yes, just like any other function of the human body, there is a balance to maintain in thought and reasoning. For example, working at the pediatric therapy clinic, several children come in with either extension pattern problems or flexion pattern problems, both of which strongly effect their mobility and lifestyle. In order for us to develop and have full mobility, there has to be a perfect balance between flexion and extension muscle tone. The brain acts similarly when forming thoughts. There must be a balance between convergent and divergent thought for a method of thinking to reach its full potential.

4.) “The Myth of the Starving Artist and Other Misconceptions about Creativity”: I understand what this article is getting at but while it’s all good in theory, I have to disagree.  The article said, “What I think we all fear is not discovery of or compensation for our work. But I think that we creatives are afraid that in caring too much about marketing or business, we will somehow lose the purity of our art. And that’s a valid concern, but not an entirely rational one.“ I think this is rarely true especially in this day and age where we live in a world where our artistic - and maybe even personal - value is determined by likes and followers. More and more so, people are feeling like they are entitled to being discovered. Social media has created a platform where everyone has the opportunity to brand their essence so a lack of likes and followers could be taken as a lack of interest in an individual on a much more personal level. As much as we try to make it about the purity of what we put out into the world (art in this case), we will never truly be able to do so because of basic human psychology.

I also have to agree with the claim that the starving artist myth is not true. A lot of people take this stereotype too literally. I’m know that a good amount of artists don’t have trouble putting food on the table. I also know several artists who are swimming in wealth. Personally, I look at the stereotype from the viewpoint of security. I never had the option to pursue art because of all of my pre-existing health problems. I need a job where I know for a fact that I have good medical care - it is a life or death concern for me. There is rarely security in the art industry and a lot of us simply do not have the option to take that risk.

[whereareroo]

JURY NULLIFICATION

WF THOUGHTS (1/16/21).

Have you ever heard of the legal topic called "jury nullification"? That's my topic for today.

Stick with me. First, I'll explain a bit about jury nullification. Then, even though nobody else is talking about it, I'll explain why it's a very, very relevant topic right now.

We all know what a jury is. Today, I want to focus on jury verdicts in criminal cases that are brought in federal courts. Pursuant to the Sixth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, a unanimous verdict is required for a conviction in a criminal case.

Let's spend thirty seconds on the "unanimous" requirement. If a single juror votes to acquit, there cannot be a conviction. That may seem unfair, or illogical, but that's how our system works. The purpose of the "unanimous" requirement is to protect against wrongful convictions. Got it? A single juror has enormous power.

Let me give you another fact that significantly increases the power of every juror. A juror doesn't need a reason to vote against conviction. A juror has no obligation to explain his or her vote. Unless the juror is somehow wrongfully tainted during the trial (by bribery, blackmail, corruption, or failure to follow sequestration rules), a juror can follow their conscience and vote however they wish. Jurors are supposed to follow the law, but there is no way to stop jurors from considering other "real life" issues.

There's a final factor that amplifies the power of a single juror. If a defendant is acquitted, because one or more jurors oppose conviction, the defendant cannot be tried a second time for the same crime. The prosecution doesn't get to "try again" in front of a different jury. If a juror blocks a conviction, the case is over and the defendant walks free.

In movies and on television, we've all seen depictions of jury selection? What are the lawyers doing? The prosecutor, in addition to weeding out jurors with biases that might run in favor of the defendant, is trying pick jurors who will exclusively follow the law. The defense lawyer, in addition to weeding out jurors with biases that might run in favor of law enforcement and the prosecution, is trying to pick jurors who might ignore the law and focus on other factors. Many trials are won, or lost, during jury selection. It's an interesting game.

Are you starting to see where this is going? "Jury nullification" occurs when a juror, or a group of jurors, blocks a conviction for reasons that aren't set forth in the law. Maybe the juror disagrees with the law. Maybe the juror thinks the prosecutor has been too tough on the defendant. Maybe the juror thinks that the probable prison sentence is too long under all of the circumstances. It doesn't matter why the juror votes against a conviction. Without a unanimous jury there cannot be a conviction.

In America, there's a long history of jury nullification. A few examples will give you a better understanding of the topic:

▪In the Slavery Era, it was against the law to harbor a runaway slave. In the North, despite irrefutable proof that the law had been violated, many juries refused to convict defendants who harbored runaway slaves.

▪During the Prohibition Era, juries routinely ignored the law and refused to convict barkeepers who were flagrantly violating the alcohol control laws.

▪During the Vietnam War Era, it was illegal for young men to evade the draft or to ignore mandatory military service. The Vietnam War was very unpopular. Most jurors knew somebody, perhaps a family member, who was evading the draft. Juries routinely ignored the law and failed to convict young men who refused to participate in that terrible war.

Today, 10 days after the siege on the Capitol, I was thinking about jury nullification. For the past week, federal law enforcement officials have been saying that the terrorists will be brought to trial and convicted. Sadly, because of jury nullification, I'm not so sure.

Recent opinion polls say that 35% of Americans believe that the 2020 election was "stolen" from Trump. Many of those people think it was appropriate for Trump supporters to occupy the Capitol in an attempt to block Biden's confirmation. After all, that's what Trump told them to do. I'm not saying that 35% of America approves of the violence that occurred, but they do sympathize with the underlying beliefs of the terrorists. People from that 35% of the population will sit on the juries that hear the trials of the terrorists. Will they vote to convict, or will their sympathies for the defendants motivate them to vote against conviction? I'm not confident. Remember, one renegade juror can stop a conviction.

The location of these trials will be crucial. Most, if not all, of the cases will originally be filed in Washington D.C. In the 2020 election, 94% of the Washington voters cast their ballot for Biden. If the trials actually occur in Washington, the odds of jury nullification are low.

I think there is a risk that the trials will be relocated out of Washington. The defendants will claim that the jury pool is stacked against them because it's 94% Democrat. The defendants will claim that they cannot get a fair trial in Washington because of the extensive media coverage that has occurred on the local media. The defendants will claim that the jury pool is full of people who either work at the Capitol Complex or who know people that work at the Capitol Complex. The federal prosecutors may have a difficult time overcoming these objections. After all, the defendants are entitled to a fair trial before a fair jury.

If the cases are moved out of Washington, it's not clear where they will be sent. Virginia, where Trump got 44% of the vote, is nearby. So is Maryland, where Trump got 33% of the vote. If the cases are sent to either of those states, jury nullification becomes more likely.

It's possible that the defendants will convince the court that their trials should be in their "home" states. Many of the terrorists came from places like Alabama, Arkansas, Florida, Louisiana, Mississippi, North Carolina, Ohio, South Carolina, and West Virginia. Trump won at least 50% of the vote in those states. Would jurors in those states vote to convict, or would we see massive jury nullification? Remember, a single juror can block a conviction.

If I was a defense lawyer for one of the terrorists, I wouldn't be doing any plea bargaining right now unless we were talking about a quick plea for a minor misdemeanor. I'd be waiting to see if we can get the case moved to a location that is more favorable than Washington D.C. If I can get the case out of Washington and I'm facing a serious charge, the chances of jury nullification go up and the chances of a conviction go down. If I could get the case moved out of Washington, I'd automatically have more leverage in plea negotiations and I'd be far less fearful of a trial. My client might become the beneficiary of jury nullification. I'd have to educate the client about jury nullification and let the client make the decision between a trial or a deal. I suspect that many of these defendants, believing that they have comrades in the jury pool, will take their chance and hope for jury nullification.

Let me make a few things perfectly clear. I don't want the terrorists to be saved by jury nullification. I hope they all rot in jail. I realize, however, that jury nullification exists in the world. Given the very strong beliefs of the pro-Trump forces, these cases might be jury nullification "magnets." The federal law enforcement officials should stop sounding so confident about convictions in these cases. It will be a long process and, unfortunately, they need to be worried about jury nullification. Sometimes jury nullification is very moral. Sometimes it's totally wrong. I'm worried about what might happen here. For better or for worse, our system fails or succeeds based upon the whims of individual jurors.