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serpentface · 2 months ago

Note

Question for Faiza: what does the average day for an Odonii priestess entail?

We wake before dawn, and most of us spend the morning working around the temple. We maintain the shrines and grounds so- tending the hearths and burning the offerings, collecting water from the spring, feeding the lions. And there's always lay visitors milling around the temple while we're doing all this, but our attendants take care of the general public interfacing so. We can mostly focus on our duties.

There's always going to be some pregnant women or the odd soldier stopping in, so you might give out blessings once? Twice? On any given day. Rarely any more than that. But sometimes, you'll be right in the middle of something important- it's always when you're in the middle of something - and then, suddenly, in wanders an entire troupe. And you hear them before you see them. They'll have brought every single weapon and piece of armor they own, so they're clanging loud enough to wake the dead. And you'll just be standing there thinking, well, this is going to be my entire morning now.

...But it's very important work of course, attending our soldiers. Give a man Odomache's blessing, and he fights more bravely alone than twenty without.

Once the temple closes, we usually spend most of the afternoon just preparing the amenchalme. So- grinding the maize, then blessing the maize, then grinding the salt, then blessing the salt, then mixing the wine, then blessing the wine, then mixing the oil, then blessing the oil... It's a little tedious, I won't lie. But I think this is our most important duty, in a way. Out of every rite we perform, day in and day out, this is the one that serves all our people. The amenchalme that blesses a whore's nameless bastard daughter at birth and the amenchalme that blesses a great lord at his wedding is the very same, made by the very same hands. So when I see priestesses shunting the task off to initiates so they can go nap on the grounds or play with their muskets...

I digress.

So, when the rest of our duties are complete, we end the day with training. This is mostly practicing the six dances. Ideally, every Odonii in the temple should be assembled and practicing in unison. But in practice, there's usually some stragglers. So you'll be out in the yard and everyone is following the same drumbeat, but you'll see one group dancing the spear, another dancing the musket, and then another who's already finished and running laps around the grounds just to kill time.

Our core duties are over at sundown, and we're free to do as we please. Dinner is served at the temple, so most of us will spend an hour or two in the hall, you know, socializing, having a little wine, unwinding. I like to go down to the ocean after dinner, when I can. I prefer the quiet.

Uh, so that's an average day for the vast majority of us. It varies throughout the year, of course. Things get busy when we're approaching festivals. Or during wartime. And I'm a senior Odonii and liaison to the Usoma, so-. My duties tend to be considerably more complex, year-round. Sometimes I miss those long afternoons just mindlessly pounding maize, haha.

---

Notes:

-Temples to Odomache are open to the public from dawn until noon, and closed throughout the rest of the day. The temple consists of a great shrine that is publicly accessible by all, inner walled grounds that are prohibited to the public outside of certain festivals (tame lions are kept here), private spaces only Odonii and temple staff can enter (the Odonii's quarters and bathrooms, a dining hall, library), and ritually private spaces that only Odonii can enter (an inner shrine reserved for internal cult practice that is forbidden knowledge for non-Odonii)

-Odonii-attendants are high ranking servants to the priesthood. They start out as child servants given to the order by their fathers who perform most of the basic labor (this is a very attractive position to poor families in particular, as the family is paid until the child comes of age, and the child themself can acquire a degree of security and potential for class mobility that is otherwise difficult to attain). Those who choose to remain with the order upon adulthood (they have no choice in the matter beforehand due to children being under full legal jurisdiction of their fathers) may eventually graduate into attendant positions. This is a well paid and esteemed job, with attendants managing most of the practical logistics of maintaining a temple and interfacing with the public.

Servants to Odonii are only women and eunuchs. Those considered male are forbidden from this role (which entails entering some ritually private spaces, and sometimes seeing them naked in the course of bathing/being armored, etc) - the Odonii's body is sacrosanct and an analogue to the power and the security of the Wardi nation and God Itself, and the male gaze is considered uniquely dangerous to a metaphysically vulnerable female body and thus to be fundamentally violating of this sacred state.

-Outside of certain festivals and rituals, Odonii only perform blessings for royalty, soldiers, and pregnant women. Odonii also bless soldiers' weapons and armor.

-Amenchalme is the basic material used in public rites for blessing and purification. The finished product is a paste that is daubed on the body to give blessings, and consecrates animals/humans for sacrifice. It is exclusively produced by Odonii, but used in a broad variety of contexts.

-'Nameless' in the context of 'nameless bastard daughter' means not having a family name - ie an orphan of unknown parentage, or not being claimed by one's father, and therefore not having access to and the protection of the family as the foundational social unit in Wardi society. Namelessness itself is stigmatized, and its implications invariably entail ostracization and lowered status. Faiza saying 'whore's nameless bastard daughter' is her conjuring up like, the lowest possible status Wardi citizen she can imagine.

-The six dances are the core weapons-dances used in rites and for combat training, centered around the key weapons techniques- spear, sword, handgun, musket, spear and shield, sword and shield. Bow dances are still practiced by most soldiers (given that firearms are limited enough in access to have not fully replaced them) but are no longer part of the Odonii's core retinue.

-Faiza privately ascribes to a niche quasi-atheist strain of Wardi philosophy that posits that God fully died during creation and can no longer directly affect the world, and thus does not believe that the majority of rites her Entire Life is built on performing have any intrinsic divinely sourced effects. She is very good at not letting any of this slip, but tends to frame the benefits of rites around their practical effects (ie- soldiers who believe they are protected by God fight more bravely).

Her emphasis on the importance of amenchalme as is partly rooted in sincere conviction that all* (*Imperial Wardi citizen) people should receive the practical benefits of the state's religion regardless of class and she finds the ubiquity of the substance to be an equalizer, and partly because she absolutely believes in bad luck, ghosts, and evil spirits, and amenchalme protects people from those.

#ask meme #faiza haidamane

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multireese · 1 year ago

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Yandere Roommate x male reader

Your new roommate seems nice enough but a string of unfortunate events lead you to rely on him financially. (WARNINGS: financial abuse, dubcon, sex mention obviously

Yandere!Roommate who drops you off and picks you up from work since your car was in the shop due to mysterious damage. Youv’e tried to report the vandalism to the police but they are not of any help. This is fine because your roommate doesn’t have a 9 to 5 so he will drive you everywhere.

Yandere!Roommate is bothered when you try to leave the apartment alone without telling him. He will drop everything to walk with you to grab a coffee or to a convenience store, even to meet up with friends. He likes to know who you're with and make sure there’s no competition.

Yandere!Roommate is an only fans creator. This man is built like a Greek statue and is always wearing sexy cosplay and outfits. He walks around the apartment in the hottest underwear you have to force yourself not to stare. Your roommate asks you to oil him up and give your opinion before he films. He is adamant it's purely business so you help.

Yandere!Roommate offered you an opportunity when you were laid off at your job. You can wear a mask and not show your face if he can fuck you in some of his videos. He explains that it's just a business agreement but more importantly the money was too much to say no too.

Yandere!Roommate fucks you for your first time ever on camera. He played a nurse and you were the patient. After loosening your tight hole with his tongue and fingers for almost an eternity you were still not prepared for his big dick to stretch your hole the way it did. He talked you through the process which lined up with his character. The video got the most views to his page.

Yandere!Roommate thought he would be proud to show you off but the disgusting comments about your beautiful body actually angered him. He was fine with strangers sexualizing him but you were his and his alone. No matter how hard his fans begged they would only get that one video of you. This did not stop your roommate from filming more content with you and paying you out of his own pocket. The difference being these videos were for him alone.

Yandere!Roommate convinced you to sleep in his bed together at night to create a more natural chemistry for your videos. This usually led to off camera sex which you had realized you liked a lot more than you wanted to admit. The two of you agreed it was just practice for videos but you both craved each other’s bodies. His constant praise and amazing sex made it easy to fall for him

Yandere!Roommate you were too shy to look at the posts and see what people would say but after you were more comfortable you got curious. Scrolling through his promotional page there was no sign of your body. Only that one original video. When confronted, your roommate was honest.

Yandere!Roommate was probably too honest in admitting he fell in love with you and the subsequent damage to your car, firing at your job, and tricking you into becoming a pro at riding his cock. You weren’t dickmatized enough to not realize what he did was crazy.

Yandere!Roommate wasn’t going to just let you walk out of his life. He had ruined your career and you needed the money. “Do you really think someone else would provide you with a better life?” He directed your attention to the Richard Mille diamond watch on your wrist, then stroked your ear adorning the diamond stud you were wearing. “Will anybody fuck you like I do? You can have a good life with me or nothing at all. I promise I won’t let anyone else have you and live to tell about it.”

did this in 20 minutes let me know if you want a part 2 or expand story with this guy

#mlm yandere #yandere x male reader #Yan!roommate #x male reader #bottom male reader

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mothiir · 5 months ago

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romancing the lion

You are not going to be courted in any sense of the word - you think you’ll get knightly romance? Nope, you need to study your history and realise that most of the courtly romances were told to entertain and had no more bearing on actual Caliban courtship than mills and boon has on today’s dating scene. Even if they were the norm, the lion is a feral child of the wastes who believes he is quite literally gods gift. He’s not doing any of that.

instead, the first indication of his interest is going to be indistinguishable from literal kidnap. You’re a serf? Well done, you’re not serving him exclusively. You’re a noble woman? Congrats, you’re now a serf serving him exclusively. Diplomat? Guess. And try telling him no. Go on. Try it. This is a promotion you do not get to say no to.

does this mean that he is now nice to you - absolutely not of course it isn’t. He isn’t nice to anyone. He doesn’t even really have the words for the feelings he is feeling for you. This applies to him in the 30th millennium and the 41st btw. Either iteration is equally bad with emotion. The older version of him is less likely to start killing people you love so you’ve got that going for you.

the fact is that now you have his total attention and that means you get ordered about constantly because his love language is acts of service which means you will be serving. Think the princess bride but a little less wholesome. “Mend my armour. Make my food. Prepare my beard oil. Spend time with my watchers.”

At this stage you probably think he is planning to kill you. He can’t stop staring at you. Every little thing you do seems to to infuriate him. You’re not to know that this is his brand of cuteness aggression.

he will kill things for you. Like a cat dumping dead lizards on a doorstep. It’s what he’s good at and it’s how he shows affection. If you have enemies they are now dead. If you are a normal person with no mortal enemies he will just kill the biggest scariest things and ensure you see him do it. Do you feel aroused yet?

when he takes you to his bed he will be under the impression he has been incredibly obvious with his intentions and you will be completely taken aback

he is not suave. His pick up line is: “come to bed with me.” Or: “come to my chambers to see to my needs.”

he’s a virgin. War always took priority over sex for him. He will try and mount you without any prep, flipping you onto your front and clambering aboard.

he will blame you for not being open for him. For being too tight to fit him. He’s seen women give birth he knows how this works.

(he saw one woman give birth once and has extrapolated)

40th millennium him will be a little less grumpy about this but will still insist that you are doing something wrong. You will have to coax him through the business of foreplay which should be easy enough as long as you suck his dick. As soon as he realises that’s an option he’ll be happy to hold off on actually penetrating you as long as you keep licking

Will get annoyed at you for walking too slowly and carry you. There is no choice in this

basically be prepared for the most aggressive care you’ve experienced in your life - on the one hand he will yell at you for being stupid and human and frail, on the other he will carry you on his shoulder like a tame kestrel and hand feed you “because you’re too foolish to take care of yourself”

#headcanons #lion/reader

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azsazz · 2 years ago

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Dioxazine

Modern!Rhys x Reader

Summary: While at the art shop looking for the necessary supplies for your first semester of art school, you get a bit distracted by the cocky cashiers intriguing eye color.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2,254

Notes: It’s 1am and now it’s Sunday so I’m posting rn so @writingsbychlo can see this when she wakes up. This one’s for you babes! I hope you love it.

P.S. Gosh I just love young, cocky Rhys so much. 😭

_________________________________________

You really should’ve grabbed a basket.

Your arms are stuffed with supplies: sketchbooks, pencils, oil paints, a roll of canvas, anything and everything you could need for the start of your classes in a few days.

They’d given you a list of all of the tools needed for your first semester at art school and yeah, you could’ve ventured to the nearest chain store, but you thought it’d be better to support the local art supply in town.

That is, until you meet the cashier.

He looks anything but friendly, leant over the expanse of the counter, flipping through a magazine ever so lazily. The boy doesn’t even look up when you drop your supplies down, spilling across the surface with purpose.

“Hello?” you crow when you’ve been standing there for a solid minute while he reads whatever article is next to the full page perfume ad with a half naked model on it. You catch sight of his long fingers rubbing the corner of the pages, separating them from each other so that he can turn to the next.

“Hi,” he responds blankly, like you’ve just run into him and he doesn’t know why you’re speaking to him. Your brows knit together as you stare at him, wondering if he always acts so careless about his job or you’ve just caught him at a bad time.

“I, um…” you trail off, frustrated because all you want to do is purchase your supplies and you’ll be out of his inky black hair. “Can you look at me?”

A muscle twitches in his jaw in annoyance, which is fine because his rudeness is irritating you as well, so at least you have that in common.

Finally, he snaps shut the magazine and looks up at you. His glaring eyes are startling, not because he looks menacing, but you’ve never quite seen a color like that before, bright violet with flecks of a dark hue that reminds you of the stars in the night sky.

They make you itch to test out your new paints.

Your breath hitches in your throat as he stands to his full height, and holy Gods, he towers over you by at least a whole foot. “Is there something I can help you with?”

You clear your throat, “Yes, actually. If you’re not too busy, that is.” You glance at the magazine, now facedown on the counter.

The side of his mouth quirks in a wicked smirk, “You’ve caught me at a good stopping point.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes, muttering something under your breath that only makes him smile wider.

“I’m looking for the umber oil paint but I didn’t see any on the rack.”

“Freshman then?” his teeth are bright in his grin. He rounds the corner of the counter, leading you back the way you came. There aren’t many students milling about the small shop, and as you pass the pen section you have to talk yourself into not purchasing another just for the sake of how pretty it looks.

You make a face at his insinuation. “You can tell that just from my paint selection?”

“Yes and no. No, because umber is a staple color for most painters,” he glances at you over his shoulder as he slows to a stop before the rack of organized paints. He takes his time, giving you a once over that makes you flush and hug your arms across your chest. His smile only grows and you scowl in response. “And yes, because If you weren't a freshman you would’ve asked for a specific one. There’s burnt umber and raw umber.”

He plucks both tubes of paint from the shelf and holds them out to you, “Very different colors.”

“They look the same to me,” you mumble, studying the swatches on the tubes. They’re a few shades off from each other, surely that can’t make that much of a difference.

You definitely don’t take into account how small the tubes look in his large hands, and you’re absolutely not thinking about taking one just to compare the size difference between your hands.

“Trying to decide which one to get?” His question is innocent but the look on his face is anything but.

You flush and the collar of your shirt seems to tighten out of nowhere. “Yes.”

He stares down at you for a moment, making sure that you know he’d given you an out.

“You’re going to need both.”

“I guess I’ll take your word for it, since you seem to know so much about art.”

“That’s why I work at the art store,” he replies bluntly, letting you lead the way back to the register, “Because I know my shit.”

“Well it’s definitely not because of your less than charming personality,” you retort, shocking yourself. You’re usually not so rude to people but there’s just something about this guy that’s getting under your skin.

All you want to do is go back to your dorm.

“You think I’m charming?”

You scoff, “Absolutely not,” You catch yourself peeking at how well fitting his pants are against the round of his ass as he makes his way back to the register side of the counter. You shake your head, scolding yourself. “Now are you going to ring up my stuff?”

“No, but I will check you out.”

You groan, “That was terrible.”

“Terrible or cute?”

You give him a pointed look, face straight. “Terrible.”

“I can try another,” he says as he finally starts ringing up your art supplies.

“No thank you, just the supplies for me today, thanks,” you try, silently praying that he hurries. You can’t stand the thought of being around him for much longer if he spouts another cheesy line that you know he’s probably used on plenty of girls before. You don’t care how cute he is.

“You know what else these are good for?” He holds up the tube of Dioxazine purple paint, the one that looks like a bottled color of his eyes.

“I really didn’t ask.”

“Finger Painting.”

The retort rolls quickly off your tongue and just as swift to wipe that smile off of his gorgeous face. “Should’ve known that’s what you’re into, since you act like a three year old.”

His eyes glow, taking the card you’re holding out for the transaction. You don’t even care how much the total is, you just want to get the hell out of here.

“Feisty.”

“Just give me the damn receipt,” you’re pretty sure your cheeks look like they’ve been brushed with the cadmium red paint in your bag as you hold out your hand for your card and the thin sheet of paper.

“Yes, ma'am,” he obeys, passing both over to you, sliding your bag of supplies across the counter.

“And don’t call me that.”

“What do you want me to call you? Darling? Or your name, perhaps?”

“No.”

“Any other requests?” he asks cheekily, planting his hands on the counter so he can lean toward it, towering over you.

You take the bag, fully planning on ignoring him in favor of taking a brisk walk towards the door but he’s shuffling around under the counter and trailing after you.

“Yeah, you can stop following me,” you remark, catching sight of the bunched up sweatshirt in his hands. It’s nowhere near cold yet so you don’t understand why he has that on him. Maybe it got cold in the store while he was sitting on his ass doing nothing.

“My shift just ended, Darling.”

You halt as you step onto the sidewalk. He takes a few steps further, swinging around to face you when he realizes you’ve stopped.

Narrowing your eyes up at him, you say, “Didn’t I just tell you not to call me that?”

“You didn’t tell me your name, so I guess I’ll just have to keep calling you pet names, Darling.”

“(Y/N),” you nearly growl, “My name is (Y/N).”

He repeats your name and you clutch your bag tighter in your hands because you’d never heard it sound quite that lovely coming out of someone's mouth. It gives you goosebumps.

“I’m Rhysand, but you can call me Rhys.”

“I’m honored,” you respond sourly, hating that he’s smiling at your annoyance. “Can I go now?”

You try to step around him but he slides into your path again, blocking your way back to campus.

“You know my friends and I are throwing a party at my place tonight,” he starts, glancing up at the street over your head before returning those piercing eyes on yours. He shrugs. “You know, before class starts up and all that.”

“Cool.”

He barks out a laugh that licks up your spine in the best way. “That was me inviting you, if that wasn’t clear.”

“It wasn’t,” you say, even though it was.

He cocks his head, grinning crookedly at you, “Don’t be like that.”

You can’t help but to roll your eyes at this cocky boy. You blurt the next question that comes to mind instead of giving him an answer. “Why are you even working here?”

“So I can meet pretty girls like you,” he responds innocently, dark lashes fluttering against his cheeks in an exaggerated manner.

You can’t help but to laugh, shifting your bag to the other arm, “Try again.”

The corner of his mouth pulls up into a wicked curve and your heart definitely doesn’t stutter and you certainly aren’t thinking about breaking out the oil paints you’ve just bought.

“I might work at the art supply store to get a discount on my own supplies,” he starts, “Or I might work at the art supply store so that my father thinks that I can be independent and make a living off becoming an artist instead of taking over the family business.”

And well, you weren’t expecting him to be so open about it.

Unsure of what to say, you focus on the fact that he said he was also taking classes for art.

“You’re in art school?”

“I know, the patchwork tattoos make me seem like something much more scholarly,” he grins and you had taken notice of the array of…interesting patchwork tattoos littering the tanned skin of his arms.

“Yeah,” you huff a laugh, “The Mickey Mouse one really screams finance major.”

Rhys’ smile falls, an offended scowl taking over his perfect face. “It’s not just a tattoo of Mickey Mouse,” he protests, turning his arm so the both of you can see the silly tattoo better. “He’s…on drugs, so it’s cool, ya know? An aesthetic if you will.”

You stare at it, then at him, an eyebrow raised.

He gives in. “Okay…so it was a dare but there’s a good story behind it, I swear! I can tell you more about it on our date.”

“Date? I thought it was a party?”

“So you’re coming?”

You purse your lips, unimpressed. “I didn’t say all that.”

The blaring sounds of a horn cuts off his response, drawing both of your attention to the street. There’s two boys in the front seats of the gorgeous vintage Bronco, painted your favorite color. Your mouth nearly drops at the pristine condition of the car, and then again once you catch sight of the handsome passengers.

The boy driving the car leans over the one in the passenger, “C’mon Rhys, hurry up and get her number or we’re going to do this thing without you!”

The boy in the passenger seat glares at the driver, your cheeks heating up under their stares.

“You heard him,” Rhys says, smiling so wide you’re afraid his cheeks might split open. “Can’t have them thinking I didn’t get your number, right?”

“You didn’t.”

“(Y/N),” he sighs, yielding only a small step when you take one forward. When you don’t say anything he continues, “At least come to the party.”

“No, thanks.”

“Please?”

You exhale an exasperated breath. He just won’t give up. “If I say yes will you get out of my way?”

“Definitely,” he nods his head eagerly.

“Then yes,” you finally relent and he beams, “I will see you there.”

“Sick,” he mutters proudly to himself. He shoves his hand into your bag and you fumble for a second, yelping and straightening the paper sack as he rifles around for something.

Rhys pulls a sharpie out and grabs your arm. You’re so caught off guard that you just watch as he writes his number on your forearm in thick black letters. Your mouth drops open in shock. You’ll have to scrub your skin raw to try and get it off.

He steps back, admiring his work. He caps the marker and tosses it back into your bag, “My number looks good on you, you should consider getting that inked. I have a friend, if you want.”

“Let me guess, he’ll be at the party.”

His grin is shit eating.

Rhys winks, pulling out a can of spray paint from beneath the bunched up fabric of his sweatshirt as he retreats towards the car, and it’s then that you realize he's only brought the jacket so he could take the paint, hiding it in the fabric so no one would see.

He shakes the can in the air for emphasis, swinging a leg up into the backseat of the convertible. The grin on his face is something you'll be thinking about for the rest of the day.

“I'll paint something pretty for ya, (Y/N). See you tonight.”

#rhysand #rhysand x reader #rhysand/reader #rhys/reader #rhys x reader #night court #modern!rhys #art school rhys #modern au #art school au #acotar #acowar #acomaf #acotarxreader #azsazz

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britt-kageryuu · 8 months ago

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A video of clips from a VTurtles! Vod.

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

The brothers are in front of a huge tier list board.

Leo: Okay, so we're doing a teir list of the many Pizza Places we've eaten at.

Mikey: We must agree to Run of the Mill in it's own teir, I work there, amazing Pizza, but we would all be braised.

Donnie: Very much agree, Señor Hueso would be a bit annoyed to have his fine establishment compared to some of these excuses for Pizzeria.

Raph: As long as this doesn't get worse than the Pizza festival route arguments.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The camera has been zoom out so the names already on the board aren't cut off.

Leo: Wait, was this place the one near that weird Bodega that sold snake oil, or the one close to the 'Always Going Out of Business' electronics place?

Donnie: You forget the are TWO 'Always Going Out of Business' Electronic stores. Both with pizzerias nearby.

Mikey: Are you sure that isn't the one that got bought out by that pizza chain, and shut down?

Donnie: Shelldon, River some assistance pleace!

Shelldon: Dude the one Blue is asking about is the Chinese/Italian fusion place!

River: Yeah, the name doesn't really fit, but a search does bring up the menu.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There is currently a shouting match featuring the brothers top places, and weather they belong in A or S Tier.

River: Makes me almost glad I can't eat real food.

Shelldon: True that Sis.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mikey: Can we all agree Albeartos was overrated, and their pizza is lacking?

Raph, Donnie, Leo: Agreed!

Donnie: Especially after their Animatronics went haywire at that kids birthday party.

Leo: The poor server who had to clean up, because the boss was a major Jerk!

Mikey and Raph look at the camera each with a lifted eyebrow ridge.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Donnie: Well I believe that was all of them, Mandarin?

Mikey: Yeah, at least so far, apparently there's a few places we haven't been to yet.

Leo: Let's hold off on that idea, we just listed what 200 places? We can leave those for later.

Raph: And hopefully not scared the servers.

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

Masterpost

This and two other ideas were stuck in my head all day. Opinions are welcome!

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dameronscopilot · 2 years ago

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Taking Flight

Poe Dameron x f!reader

Summary: In which you and the handsome aviation technician that strolls into your coffee shop most mornings finally get the nudge you both need with the help of an aptly placed sprig of mistletoe.

Word Count: 1.5k

Content: modern au, fluff, first kiss

Prompt: Mistletoe + dialogue prompt

DECK THE HALLS MASTERLIST

The lively, pleasant chords of holiday music trickle throughout the café, the interior of which is currently lit by the soft glow of brightly colored lights strung up amongst an array of seasonal décor. Groups of people mill about, talking animatedly over hot drinks and browsing the selection of books for sale on the shelves set along the back wall. You smile to yourself as you wipe a spot of powdered sugar off of the countertop before leaning against it.

You’d spent the past week handing out flyers to customers, inviting them to drop by the shop for an evening of free hot cider and half-off pastries. In turn, you’ll be donating a portion of all proceeds from book sales during the event to a local animal shelter. Though you initially wondered if you’d doomed the turnout by scheduling the event just days before Christmas, the store is thankfully teeming with regular and new customers alike, though one familiar face is nowhere to be found.

At the feeling of something brushing up against your leg, you bend down to scratch the ears of the large orange cat at your feet.

“I don’t think he’s coming, Bee,” you sigh, and the feline offers up an unimpressed noise in response as she stalks off, likely to wage war with the tinsel hanging in the front window display again.

He, being Poe Dameron. A man with a smile as devastatingly warm as his laugh. While you’ll never outright admit to picking a favorite customer, he holds the title by a landslide

Several early mornings on any given week will find Poe striding into the shop with a grin that you like to imagine is reserved just for you, boots scuffing against the floor as he makes his way over to the register. Donning the leather jacket that you hardly ever see him without and a pair of sunglasses slung over the silver chain around his neck, the aviation technician will run a hand through his dark curls before pulling out his wallet. You’ll normally already have his coffee ready by the time he’s begun twisting his credit card between his fingers, if only because you’re not confident in your ability to actually pour the hot liquid successfully while he makes casual small talk with you from the other side of the counter.

When Poe arrives, Bee usually makes an attempt to steal his attention, butting up against his ankles, tail curling around his leg while he asks how business is, remarks on the weather, and talks to you about the planes he’s working on that week. Meanwhile, when you gesture toward the day’s assortment of pastries, he’ll shrug good-naturedly as he tells you to pick out whatever you think he’ll like. As if the question doesn't send you into an absolute spiral each and every time.

After months upon months of these interactions, you’re certain he’s just naturally this friendly with everyone, but you can’t help the way you fall a little bit more in love with the man each and every time the tinkling of the bell above the shop door is accompanied by the familiar scent of engine oil— something you’ve fondly come to associate with him.

Thinking too hard about the way his nose scrunches and his eyes crinkle when he smiles sends a tide of longing unfurling in your chest, one that’s becoming more and more difficult to contain.

When you finally worked up the nerve to invite Poe just moments after he’d turned to leave one morning with his coffee in hand, you’d called out for him, brandishing one of the small flyers for the event. He'd looked pleased as he scanned the paper and told you he'd do his best to drop by.

“Can’t wait!”—you were still banging your head against a figurative wall for what you’d chirped back in response, the eagerness that your tone had been brimming with, your complete and total unawareness in the moment of the fact that he was likely just being nice. The insinuation that you'd be leaning against the register all evening, gazing at the door waiting for him to waltz in.

You’re so lost in your own thoughts that you jump at the sound of a voice beside you—

“Hey. Decent turnout.”

Warmth blooms in your chest as you turn your head to find Poe standing there, arms crossed as he surveys the bustle of people filling out most of the tables and chairs throughout the room. Snowflakes still linger in his hair, and the tip of his nose is red from the cold.

“You came,” you remark dumbly, unable to hide the surprise in your voice.

Poe unfolds his arms, and you spy a flash of something wrapped in gold paper clutched in his left hand as he lets them fall to his sides. “Of course I did. I couldn’t say no to the hot cider,” he winks.

You snort as you make your way behind the counter to pour him a cup. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you order something that doesn’t have caffeine in it.”

“Coffee is just for the morning so I’m awake enough to make sure those planes get up in the air in one piece,” he chuckles.

“If that’s the case, you’ll have to stop in after work once in a while then. I’ve been told I make a mean peppermint hot chocolate.”

“A woman after my own heart.”

Your face heats up at his words, and you fiddle with your apron in an attempt to find anything to do to busy your fingers, the ones that ache to reach out and see just how soft his curls really are. Before you can mull too hard over how many seconds of silence have passed between the two of you as you attempt to come up with a witty response, something gold flashes in front of you. You turn your focus to Poe’s outstretched hands, which are holding a thin, rectangular package.

“For me?”

He places it in your own hands and nods.

“But I didn’t get you anything,” you argue, mind racing as you wonder what could possibly be waiting for you underneath the wrapping paper.

“Just open it,” he patiently encourages you, voice laced with a hint of amusement.

You carefully peel open the gift and find a small, worn, leather-bound book, eyes quickly spotting where 'Dameron' is written across the front of it in the bottom right corner. Raising an eyebrow, you shoot a confused look in Poe’s direction, but he simply tips his chin at you, urging you to look inside.

As your fingers untie the thin leather straps wrapped around the book, Poe’s shoulder brushes against yours when he comes to stand closer to you. It’s a journal. The lined, off-white pages are full of ink, and it takes you a few moments of flipping through them to realize that it’s more than that—it's a handwritten glossary of aviation terms and other related notes.

Poe clears his throat. “That’s the journal I used when I started studying to get my pilot’s license.”

There’s a fluttering caress of emotion that sends your insides careening at the admission as you carefully run a finger over one of the pages, eyes scanning the notes left in the margins and the hastily drawn diagrams. Early on, Poe had explained to you that although he works on planes for a living, he also flies in his free time as a hobby.

He continues, scratching the back of his head, “I hope it’s not too, uh, presumptuous of me. But you always seem so interested in the planes I work on, I thought maybe I could take you out for a ride sometime.” Tapping a finger against the page the book is opened to, he adds, “And I know how much you like researching things, so I figured you might want to study a little first or something.”

You’re at a loss for words, heart fit to burst out of your chest at the gesture, at the hopeful look on his face, at the fact that perhaps he might look forward to seeing you every morning just as much as you look forward to seeing him.

When you don’t say anything back, Poe hastily adds, “You don’t have to say ye—”

“I’d love to, Poe.”

The lines of worry creeping across his face quickly smooth out as he flashes his teeth in a smile that leaves your knees weak, eyes shining. And as if you weren’t already caught off guard, he leans in, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek.

Your lips fall open slightly, and he looks slightly sheepish as he points above you. “Mistletoe.”

Fuelled by the hope that you’re not reading into all of this terribly wrong, you finally offer Poe Dameron a smooth response of your own for once. “If you wanted to kiss me you could have just said so. You didn’t need to wait until we were under the mistletoe.”

Poe turns to you fully, carefully taking the book from your hands and placing it on the counter. There’s determination and resolve in his gaze as his eyes meet yours, and he tilts his head to the side, the corner of his mouth quirking upward.

“In that case…” he murmurs.

Poe cups your face in his hands, the cool press of his palms a balm against your hot skin, and your eyes flutter shut as you lean into his touch. And when he slots his mouth against yours, kissing you gently with lips that taste of apples and spices, a soft sound escapes you as you press in closer.

—

Comments, reblogs, and/or asks are always appreciated!

» POE DAMERON MASTERLIST » OSCAR ISAAC MASTERLIST

#deck the halls with dameronscopilot #poe dameron #poe dameron x reader #oscar isaac fanfiction #star wars fanfiction #poe dameron fanfiction #dee writes

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minioilmill · 5 months ago

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#cold press oil machine #om engineering works #pure oil #cold press oil technology #oil mill business #oil mill factory

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betrayedbycinnamon · 2 months ago

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Flash Fiction Friday!

@flashfictionfridayofficial

“This is New York,” Bucky reminded himself. Lights and sirens are part of the fucking landscape. It doesn’t mean anything that they’re going in the same direction as me. Or that we’re really close to home.

Doesn’t mean anything.

He couldn’t stop himself from walking a little quicker though. Clint had still been sleeping when he left, was probably still sleeping now. Those screaming lights and sirens that had taken the corner leading to their brownstone at speed couldn’t have anything to do with him.

His pace picked up again. It wasn’t long before he was jogging. The fruit hanging dangling in a bag hung on wrist twisted and bounced against his hip as he ran. He couldn’t force him to care that they were probably getting bruised.

Not when he saw that all of the lights and sirens had stopped right outside of the steps to their building. His heart leapt into his throat as he took in the ambulance and fire truck. A police car joined the gaggle and he suddenly couldn’t breathe.

He squeezed past the bodies milling about and dashed up the stairs, going lightheaded with the lack of oxygen, panic gripping at him every step of the way. If they tried to stop him, call out questions, he didn’t hear it over the buzzing in his ears.

He was too busy chasing the firehose up the stairs where it led him straight to his apartment, where the door was hanging wide open.

“Clint!” The name burst from him, loud and jarring and sound rushed back in as he crossed the threshold and spotted Clint looking annoyed. He also had a pinched look to his face that said he was in pain but trying not to show it.

“I’m fine, I don’t need— Oh. Hey Buck.” And now he looked a little embarrassed, but Bucky could breathe again.

Bucky stared around their apartment and took in the rest of the scene. The acrid stench of smoke was cloying and thick in the air and all the windows were open. Clint was holding his bandage wrapped hand and forearm awkwardly in the air.

That he was trying to get out of a trip involving anything medical was incredibly reassuring and Bucky sagged with relief as he asked, “What happened?”

“Well. Looks like you might be doing that kitchen remodel sooner than originally planned,” Clint offered cautiously.

“Mr. Barton, you need to have those burns treated. Ignored, the burns can scar, and given the location you’re at risk of damaging your dexterity.” Clint looked mulish.

“Okay, but I don’t need an ambulance.”

“I’ll make sure to get him in,” Bucky told the medic and then helped Clint deal with explaining what had happened to the police officer, the neighbors that started poking their heads through the door and signing the against medical advice forms and eventually cleared everyone out of the building.

He took stock of the incredible disaster of their kitchen. The counter was scorched, fire extinguisher foam lay thick over the stovetop. Apparently Clint had managed to put the flames out with their personal extinguisher but not before setting off the alarm and burning himself in the process.

“Explain to me again, what exactly happened?”

“Well, I woke up and you were gone and I got it in my head that it’d be a nice surprise if I made you breakfast.”

“Oh boy.”

“Yeah, well you see how that turned out. Maybe I was still a little groggy when I started. Um, I put on the wrong burner and didn’t notice the edge of the towel was touching it, and I thought it was off anyway. But, uh. That caught fire.”

And Clint’s response to the flames had been to snatch up the towel and chuck it in the sink. He’d been mostly unscathed then, but while he was distracted running cool water over where the flaming towel had gotten his forearm he’d forgotten about the other pan he’d been using.

This one he’d turned the correct burner on for, too high, with the intention of turning it down once it got to temp. He had just covered the bottom in oil when the towel had caught fire and forgot to adjust the setting.

It hadn’t been long before the oil had popped and spattered across the narrow walkway onto his back, because of course he was cooking shirtless, and he’d jerked around to see heavy smoke pouring from the pan.

He had snatched the pan to shift it to a cold burner, but in his rush he had tripped and sent the oil spilling everywhere. When it covered the still burning hot empty burner it had ignited.

The details were hazy after that, Clint had tried using a different towel to whip the flames out, which had only made it worse, until eventually he’d remembered there was an extinguisher under the sink.

Of course, by then the damage was pretty well done. Clint was looking apprehensive while Bucky took a closer look at the damage. It was a good thing that Clint owned the apartment, because any landlord probably would have balked at the cost that was going to be required to fix things back up.

“Well. At least you didn’t wait to do this after we fixed it up.” Clint visibly sagged, pained expression on his face and Bucky gathered him in a for a hug.

“I appreciate you wanting to make me breakfast babe, but maybe next time wait until you’re more caffeinated.”

“I can do that.” Bucky pressed a kiss to Clint’s jawline, then pulled away.

“Come on, let’s go get those checked out. Make sure it’s not too bad.” Clint groaned but headed to their bedroom to get dressed. “I’ll even buy you a fancy coffee on the way.”

#winterhawk #ivvic writes #lights and sirens #flash fiction friday

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reasonsforhope · 10 months ago

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"As countries around the world begin to either propose or enforce zero-deforestation regulations, companies are coming under growing pressure to prove that their products are free of deforestation. But this is often a far from straightforward process.

Take palm oil, for instance. Its journey from plantations, most likely in Indonesia or Malaysia, to store shelves in the form of shampoo, cookies or a plethora of other goods, is a long and convoluted one. In fact, the cooking oil or cosmetics we use might contain palm oil processed in several different mills, which in turn may have bought the raw palm fruit from several of the many thousands of plantations. For companies that use palm oil in their products, tracing and tracking its origins through these obscure supply chains is a tough task. Often it requires going all the way back to the plot level and checking for deforestation. However, these plots are scattered over vast areas across potentially millions of locations, with data being in various states of digitization and completeness...

Palmoil.io, a web-based monitoring platform that Bottrill launched, is attempting to help palm oil companies get around this hurdle. Its PlotCheck tool allows companies to upload plot boundaries and check for deforestation without any of the data being stored in their system. In the absence of an extensive global map of oil palm plots, the tool was developed to enable companies to prove compliance with regulations without having to publicly disclose detailed data on their plots. PlotCheck now spans 13 countries including Indonesia and Malaysia, and aims to include more in the coming months.

Palm oil production is a major driver of deforestation in Indonesia and Malaysia, although deforestation rates linked to it have declined in recent years. While efforts to trace illegally sourced palm oil have ramped up in recent years, tracing it back to the source continues to be a challenge owing to the complex supply chains involved.

Recent regulatory proposals have, however, made it imperative for companies to find a way to prove that their products are free of deforestation. Last June, the European Union passed legislation that prohibits companies from sourcing products, including palm oil, from land deforested after 2020. A similar law putting the onus on businesses to prove that their commodities weren’t produced on deforested land is also under discussion in the U.K. In the U.S., the U.S. Forest Bill aims to work toward a similar goal, while states like New York are also discussing legislation to discourage products produced on deforested land from being circulated in the markets there...

PlotCheck, which is now in its beta testing phase, allows users to input the plot data in the form of a shape file. Companies can get this data from palm oil producers. The plot data is then checked and analyzed with the aid of publicly available deforestation data, such as RADD (Radar for Detecting Deforestation) alerts that are based on data from the Sentinel-1 satellite network and from NASA’s Landsat satellites. The tool also uses data available on annual tree cover loss and greenhouse gas emission from plantations.

Following the analysis, the tool displays an interactive online map that indicates where deforestation has occurred within the plot boundaries. It also shows details on historical deforestation in the plot as well as data on nearby mills. If deforestation is detected, users have the option of requesting the team to cross-check the data and determine if it was indeed caused by oil palm cultivation, and not logging for artisanal mining or growing other crops. “You could then follow up with your supplier and say there is a potential red flag,” Bottrill said.

As he waits to receive feedback from users, Bottrill said he’s trying to determine how to better integrate PlotCheck into the workflow of companies that might use the tool. “How can we take this information, verify it quickly and turn it into a due diligence statement?” he said. “The output is going to be a statement, which companies can submit to authorities to prove that their shipment is deforestation-free.” ...

Will PlotCheck work seamlessly? That’s something Bottrill said he’s cautiously optimistic about. He said he’s aware of the potential challenges with regard to data security and privacy. However, he said, given how zero-deforestation legislation like that in the EU are unprecedented in their scope, companies will need to sit up and take action to monitor deforestation linked to their products.

“My perspective is we should use the great information produced by universities, research institutes, watchdog groups and other entities. Plus, open-source code allows us to do things quickly and pretty inexpensively,” he said. “So I am positive that it can be done.”"

-via Mongabay, January 26, 2024

Note: I know it's not "stop having palm oil plantations." (A plan I'm in support of...monocrop plantations are always bad, and if palm oil production continues, it would be much better to produce it using sustainable agroforestry techniques.)

However, this is seriously a potentially huge step/tool. Since the EU's deforestation regulations passed, along with other whole-supply-chain regulations, people have been really worried about how the heck we're going to enforce them. This is the sort of tool we need/need the industry to have to have a chance of genuinely making those regulations actually work. Which, if it does work, it could be huge.

It's also a great model for how to build supply chain monitoring for other supply chain regulations, like the EU's recent ban on companies destroying unsold clothes.

#deforestation #palm oil #indonesia #malaysia #agriculture #european union #united states #save the forest #open source #technology #mapping #forestry #satellite #good news #hope #climate solutions #environment

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scotianostra · 5 months ago

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On 10th July 1802 Robert Chambers, the Scottish naturalist and publisher, was born.

I wonder how many of you out there have owned a Chambers dictionary? We always had one in our household growing up, mainly for checking words while playing scrabble.

Two brothers, Robert and William Chambers founded the company that published the book also played a major part in the growth of 19th century writing and publishing in Scotland and the development of the city of Edinburgh.

William and Robert Chambers were part of a relatively prosperous Borders mill owning family with deep roots in Tweeddale. William the elder was born in 1800 and his brother Robert on this day, two years later.

Their father lost his business in 1814 and the family upped sticks and moved to Edinburgh. Life in the capital began in a tenement flat in Nicholson Street. It was a “second rate street home to other families with limited means.” They remained there for less than a year before moving to an even poorer area of the city.

William took up a job as an apprentice in a booksellers, his early jobs being cleaning and lighting the fire, preparing the oil lamps and running errands, but it put him in god stead for his oncoming years. He took lodgings in The West Port, his brother later joining him, but was jobless, William helped support his sibling, he then suggested Robert, using the last few books from his father’s house in Peebles open a small bookshop in Leith, the family business was born. Within a short time William also opened a bookshop close to his brother.

A small printing press was acquired and together the brothers turned to publishing. They printed, bound and published a range of books including 750 copies of the Songs of Robert Burns, a best-seller in 19th century Edinburgh.

It was perhaps inevitable that both would turn to writing and together they wrote and published the Kaleidoscope a fortnightly periodical. Half a century later William reflected on the struggle to produce the journal. “The mechanical execution of the literary serial sorely tested the powers of my little press which received sundry claspings of iron to strengthen it for the unexpected duty.” Although the Kaleidoscope didn’t last long, life was getting better. It was, “a small trial of one’s wings.”

Thanks to a commission from Walter Scott William and Robert moved home again as their business continued to develop. By 1832 the first edition of the Chambers Edinburgh Journal was published. It was an immediate and unprecedented success with 30,000 copies sold in Scotland and a further 20,000 in England. As well as publishing pieces by Walter Scott between 1879 and 1895, the magazine published 3 short stories and 1 article written by Arthur Conan Doyle. Initially Robert was only a contributor but after the 14th issue he became joint editor and W and R Chambers was founded.

I really should only be covering Robert in this post, but I have to tell you a bit about William, who rose to become Lord Provost of Edinburgh, in that position he helped save the life of a stray dog that was going to be rounded up and destroyed as he never had a license. Hearing of the poor dog William himself paid for the license, a collar for the dog and feeding bowl that can still be seen in The Museum of Edinburgh. Without this act of kindness we might not know the extraordinary tale of Greyfriars Bobby!

Anyways, back to we brother Robert. In 1844 Robert published, anonymously, the Vestiges of the Natural History of Creation, 15 years before Darwin’s Origin of the Species. It received very mixed reviews. One said that, “there was a fair chance of poisoning the fountains of science and sapping the foundations of religion.” Another took an opposing view by saying the book was like a, “breath of fresh air to workmen in a crowded factory.”

William and Robert Chambers achieved much in their lives but perhaps their greatest satisfaction came from the purchase of their Scottish Borders home 40 years after their father had been forced to give it up.

#scotland #scottish #history #publisher #Geologist #historian #writer

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whoredmode · 2 years ago

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A DUBIOUSLY ACCURATE HISTORY OF STILWATER (& STEELPORT)

So if it’s not obvious by the obnoxiously long post I’ve made talking about the musical history of Stilwater, I’m fascinated by the worldbuilding of Saints Row. And in my quest of learning more about the setting of the series, I’ve pieced together my own headcanons on the general history of the city…and its cousin, Steelport. I’ve spent the last several days going over canonical histories of both cities, primarily Stilwater as it was my original goal, and put together my own ideas of how I think the cities developed prior to the start of the games in 2006. Some of this is based on actual canon evidence, other stuff is just my own conclusions.

CANON TIMELINE

1783

Knight Plaza is founded, predating the founding of Stilwater itself

1787

Pennsylvania becomes a state

Unspecified year in the 1800s

Stilwater founded

1827

Steelport founded

1837

Michigan becomes a state

1940

Stilwater builds a new sewer system

Post-1940: An earthquake strikes Stilwater

1947

Sunset Park is built in Steelport

1970s

Vice Kings VS Los Carnales. Assumedly mid-to-late 70s into early 80s

1977: Stilwater is voted the most family-friendly city

MAPPING THINGS OUT

So it’s never exactly stated where Stilwater and Steelport are located comparatively. We know they’re in the Rust Belt, and Stilwater is expressly stated to be in Michigan. I’m inclined to say the cities are fairly close to each other (Stilwater in Michigan while Steelport is probably closer to Pennsylvania), probably several hours by car, if only because of similarities in industry, aesthetics, and even a few moments in-game. It can be fairly easily implied that the cities are within several hours driving distance of each other (my guesstimate is 7-8 hours away by car); especially given that in the beginning of SRTT they are able to land in Steelport so quickly despite assumedly not even being in the plane for more than an hour before they blow it up.

TIMING THINGS OUT

The Stilwater Church is a gothic style church, assumedly a product of the gothic revival in the mid-1800s. Given that Steelport was founded in 1827, I’d say Stilwater was founded around this time as well, potentially ~1830. It was an unused territory for several years and did not get further development until after Michigan’s statehood was granted in 1837.

I believe, given the architecture of Old Stilwater and the architecture of older buildings in Steelport, that both cities had a huge economic boom starting in the 1920s and had a period of growth and expansion. I’d say things were looking up for Stilwater going into the 1940s and 50s, but the earthquake sent the city into a really bad place economically. Worth noting that Steelport did not seem to be affected by the earthquake or tremors, which allowed it to continue to prosper while Stilwater tried to pick up its broken pieces.

Let’s go back a little into the 1800s, after Stilwater’s founding. I believe some time in the late 1830s/early 1840s, private railways were laid nearby to Stilwater, but the area itself would not get connected to the mainland of Michigan by rails until around the 1850s. Initially it was being used as a place for manufacturing, but wealthy people with railroad money saw the potential for a resort area. We’ll get into that in a moment.

Stilwater clearly had some manufacturing business as evidenced by the factories and boatyards, but I don’t think it ever reached the level of industry as Steelport did. Steelport also had the advantage of being founded a few years earlier. We know canonically that Stilwater has a steel factory and an oil refinery. I believe the steel factory is a minimill specifically, given its small size and the junkyard nearby; this means it uses scrap metal in its steel production. I’d date the mill around the 1890s but with several updates through the years until it was ultimately shut down. The oil refinery was probably built around the 1950s or 60s given its look, though it still appears to be somewhat operational? You can still see plumes coming out of the towers.

I know the Carnales own it, but I don't think they're necessarily refining oil or even using it as a cover for something; I think they’re getting profits from it and protecting it. From what I can tell the oil refinery may be the only factory still in actual operation, as the steel mill is just being used for the Carnales’ arms dealing.

So where does that leave Old Stilwater’s actual primary industry? If it’s not steel factories like Steelport, and the oil refinery didn’t come into being until around the mid-20th century, what did the city do? All throughout Stilwater there’s old, decommissioned railway tracks.

Parts of them were obviously meant for more general transportation of products, as evidenced by the tracks near the factories, but others follow the slightly newer, raised tracks of the transit system. This implies that at one point, Stilwater had a need for moving people into and out of the city. Given that the tracks also led to a nice hotel at one point (the hotel underground in SR2), there was clearly a market for people getting around to some sort of entertainment and/or hospitality.

Which leads me to my theory/headcanon/whatever that Stilwater, starting in the late 1800s and into the early 20th century, had a nice trolley park and was known mostly for its entertainment. This became its primary source of revenue.

For starters, all throughout SR2, there is talk about returning Stilwater to former glory, and tourism is obviously its most booming industry at that point in the series, so this seems to imply that it was known for tourism at one point. Stilwater itself has such a heavy emphasis on pleasure in the first two games, so it feels as if that’s always been a part of itself. Even just the fact that a record label was able to start and flourish there says that there is an entertainment scene in Stilwater and it’s a core part of its identity. Not to mention it being voted a family-friendly city in the late 70s, a point where it looked as if it might’ve started to recover from its post-earthquake troubles, further implies that there was a family-friendly image it kinda had. I think the idea of it being a trolley park in the late 1800s and into the 1900s makes a lot of sense. Stilwater itself is quite picturesque, and trolley parks began because of the rise in popularity of picnics. Families and friends went out to the nice waterside area of Stilwater, and suddenly there’s a need for more direct lines into and out of the area; next thing you know there’s new entertainment being constructed so more and more people want to come in. This all follows a pretty clear line in terms of what’s in Stilwater.

Trolley parks went out of fashion with the rise of amusement parks in the 1920s, and though Stilwater doesn’t have an amusement park, I believe Stilwater went in the direction of building venues for things like cabaret, bars, and brothels. It ended up leaning more heavily on adult entertainment, which makes sense given how it looks at the start of the series. Stilwater became synonymous with pleasure, even if it was starting to shy away from the more all-ages entertainment it had in the 19th century.

So by the 1930s, 40s, and 50s, Stilwater was an extremely popular destination. It had great entertainment, beautiful hotels, and easy access to sex, drugs, and alcohol. All of this caught the attention of the Carnales, probably around the late 40s, and by the 1950s they began to have a hand in many of the institutions of Stilwater.

One thing that caught my attention was a radio ad in SR1 in which Hughes says that his parents moved to Stilwater 50 years ago (so around 1956) and that, at the time, Stilwater was still a lively place. If we’re to assume the earthquake was the beginning of the end of Stilwater, we can easily guess that the earthquake either happened later that same year, or a year afterwards. With that in mind, around 1956-57, a huge earthquake hits Stilwater, razing most of the city. The place is in shambles, both physically and economically. That said, the Carnales are still expecting things like payments for their business, but now many people are unable to comply, having lost their means of income. In turn, the Carnales became a much larger, even more intimidating presence in Stilwater all throughout the rest of the 50s and 60s.

Presumably at some point in the 1960s, a cult begins to form. People were seeking guidance and safety in the wake of such a huge natural disaster, and thus Philosotology began to take form. It stays relatively in the background for most of its life, but throughout the 60s, 70s, and 80s more and more people join, especially those in places of power. I won’t get too into the development of Philosotology, as this is about the more general history of Stilwater, but I would be remiss to not mention it. The point being, by the 80s and 90s, they’re running things from behind the scenes, to the point they’re just a staple of Stilwater come modern day.

As we move through the 20th century, the progression of the canon story takes form. In the 70s, Julius Little and Benjamin King—sick of the Carnales presence in Stilwater—decide to take back the city. So throughout the 70s, the Vice Kings and the Carnales fight, with the Vice Kings ultimately coming out on top. In the late 70s and early 80s, it seems as if Stilwater might return to former glory, as the birth of Kingdom Come Records helped revitalize the arts and music scene of the city.

However, the economy of Stilwater does not recover. Generations of Stilwaterians have been hurt by decades of poverty, of negligence by those in power, and it is not the thriving coastal city it was in the early-to-mid 20th century. Obviously, these factors (and many more) contribute to how the events of the first game begin.

A QUICK TANGENT ABOUT STEELPORT

So where does Steelport fit into all of this? I mentioned it at the start, so surely I must have something to say.

Steelport was founded in 1827 in Pennsylvania. It was an industrial city, full of steel factories, and it stayed that way for many years. The city steadily grew over several decades, and around the turn of the century, a large number of people from Europe moved to Steelport for work. And it was around this time that the organized crime syndicates of Europe were beginning to take hold in Steelport.

Fast forward to the 1970s. Phillipe Loren, a high-ranking member of the Syndicate in Belgium, had ties to several of the gangs that were now in Steelport, so he goes to the city himself to see if it’s worth a US expansion. Seemingly pleased, Loren uses his status to begin doing more work with the gangs in Steelport. By the late 80s, Loren had become head of the Syndicate.

It was also around this time in the 70s that I believe Steelport began to essentially fill the hole that was left after Stilwater was destroyed by the earthquake. There was a need for places like hotels, brothels, and casinos in this area of the Rust Belt—and Steelport, being flush with cash, was able to fill that demand. In Steelport’s later years, it became more of an icon of sin and pleasure, perhaps even more than Stilwater was. It was bigger and flashier. But despite its hedonistic charm, Steelport was not exactly heading in a great direction by the 90s.

Similarly to Stilwater, it fell on hard times economically, with many areas falling into disrepair. Many of these areas are still like this even into the modern day as poverty is still a very large issue within Steelport, though as usual is not a topic of concern for those in charge. Thus, the Syndicate very easily continues to spread its control. By the 2000s, Loren and the Syndicate are running the city.

Getting a little ahead of my timeline, but worth talking about real quick: in 2011, Loren gets into contact with Maero about arms deals and potential expansion into Stilwater. At this point, Loren was already in bed with Ultor so to speak, but this was his first contact with one of the other gangs. Obviously this deal is hurt by the Saints, but that will only come back to bite them in a few years.

CONCLUSION

I wanted to write some grand conclusion about all this, but to be honest my eyes are starting to glaze over from hours of running around in the first two games, reading documents on my computer, and scribbling four pages of written notes. I read some official Michigan documents on the history of the railway system in the state. I’ve never even been. What am I going to do with this knowledge now.

Stilwater is interesting and was worth a deep dive into the potential history of the area. I used to be the teaching assistant for a class on worldbuilding in college, so this type of shit is just super fascinating to me. And Stilwater has so many bits of scattered information that I really wanted to try to piece everything together in a mostly coherent way. It’s just a setting I really love for some personal reasons, and I just thought I’d give writing its history a shot. Perhaps in some ways like a love letter to the fictional city, or maybe just as a way to fill my long weekend. Who knows.

#saints row #all this work......i’m gonna go get a drink and close my eyes for a minute lmfao #hope y'all enjoy tho! and of course like i said at the start this is all just my headcanons #so if you have your own ideas i think that's great and i'd love to hear them #please don't feel as if this is me saying this as indisputable fact bc it's not #the great thing about worldbuilding is that you can interpret things so many different ways

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the-east-art · 6 months ago

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Fantail Pigeons and Mourning Doves - Part 4 (END)

There are five pigeons bobbing their heads back and forth, prowling the lot for forgotten chips. Pigeons are generally considered a nuisance. Back at the seminary Uncle Boaz would actively harass them away from the feeders they left out for the birds. They don’t contribute birdsong and they’re ugly. That’s what Uncle Boaz would say, at least. Mel liked pigeons plumage, the way that they glimmered iridescendantly in light, like oil. You would almost think that pigeons had adapted to live at the gas station pumps with that kind of matching coloring.

At the hospital there had been a public use phone, and Mel had used that to call Fatima and explain what had happened. His urgency to get Wren to a hospital had been overshadowed by his horror at the idea of leaving the bloody mess for his coworker to find. Wren hadn’t seemed to care about waiting for Mel to quickly clean up, sitting in Mels’, head leaned back and focusing on his breathing.

A car came up to pump 3 and the five pigeons skittered to the other end of the lot, away from small children that may come out of the car and give chase, but close enough to watch the cars’ family like it was a spectator sport, hoping for a scrap. The car rolled down the windows, the designated responsible adult got to work filling the tank, and the cavalry descended upon the store.

Fatima had been understanding and passed on the information to his three other coworkers. According to Fatima - who from what little Mel had gleamed has dabbled in any job you can think of - blood is a biohazard that needs to be cleaned up to a specific degree, which she would double check when she arrive at the store. An hour early to her shift. Mel desperately for once wished he had formed any kind of a connection with his coworkers, something that could justify how nicely she was treating him. It was… kind. And it made his heart feel heavy.

Three children burst into the store, followed by an adult. She tells them they each have 2 missions: one being to use the bathroom, the other to select a snack. They take the instructions very seriously, bouncing on their feet with excitement. The woman begins to mill around the store, looking with mild interest at the shelves and waiting for the children to finish their business, purse and wallet handy.

Mel had to drive back to the gas station with Wren. The hour distance from town, for the first time, feeling something like a curse. If there had been a way for Mel to drive both their cars down originally, he would have. Wren was too tired to fill the air with small talk, and Mel didn’t have the emotional capacity for it. He spent an hour wondering if the doctors had unstitched his amateur stitches and the idea that what he had put so much effort and concentration into sewing those little lines into another man only for them to be unpicked… it made him feel a funny sort of way. An emotion that was not easy to unspool. In the nothingness of 3am, Mel didn’t care to put the effort into untangling the snaggle. When Mel asked if the doctors had cleared Wren to drive, he had just waved the idea off with one of his hands. That had been that.

The children emerge out of the bathrooms and begin to circle the store noisily, arguing over the pros and cons of seemingly every single snack within the store. Mel tries to watch their interactions, appreciate the ways that the smallest child displays its’ frustrations with larger gestures than the older sibling. Children are easier to read, not learning subtlety yet. Yet, as Mel looked on at the scene before him, it morphed. The light from the windows dimmed, the people disappeared, and in the theatre that was his brain, Mel saw Wren staggering across the store. In his minds eye the few drops of blood that had slipped through his compressed hand were exaggerated, staining the cheap tile floor a permanent red in large streaks.

Mel rings the small family up as a new car parks. As two more set up next to pumps. As pigeons bob their heads. The day flows slowly through the cracks, dripping from day to night to Mel driving home in darkness alone with the his head playing games that Wren is in the passenger seat.

oOo

When Wren reappears, dusty green car easing into the lot and parking gingerly into a space, Mel digs resolves to ignore him. To treat him just like any customer. Wren doesn’t even give him a chance.

“Melchior!” He enters the store like a hurricane, eyes bright and face illuminated with enthusiasm. It’s almost like he’s purposefully trying to shatter the previous image of himself that repeatedly walks through the store like a ghost - tense and quiet. This time, Wren walks in so full of life that it fills the room around him like Uncle Haniels’ cologne.

Mel grips his detached anger tightly with both hands, somewhat literally as they dig into surplus of fabric that make up his jacket sleeves. There are three other people in the store right now. Two at pumps, four cars parked. It’s busy, not exactly the time to chat.

“Wren.” Mel nods at the man and watches half of the muscles in Wrens’ smiling face go slack for half a second. In that fraction of a moment Wren must rally himself, and the expression appears with a reinforced gusto.

“How are you doing? Are you okay?” Wren looks Mel up and down, like Mel was the one that had to get sewed up my an amateur two weeks ago. Mel chews on his lips and on the thought in tandem - two weeks ago. 15 days, technically.

“I’m fine.” He clips out. Wren laughs and adjusts him ballcap.

“Your voice says otherwise.” Oh haha, Wren can read tone and facial expressions and body language easily. Mel doesn’t even know what Wren gleans from his answer, because Mel doesn’t know if its true or not. One of Wrens hands - calloused and scarred - rubs at his face, and he seems to sober up from the enthusiasm a bit. The muscles in his face relax a little more, but do not sag down into neutrality. “Look, Melchior, I needed to take a bit. To heal. I really shouldn’t have driven home in the first place. I’m sorry it took me so long to come back.”

The words shock Mel. He mentally rewinds the tape and plays it again. Have you ever heard something said out loud, and then realized once the words are gone there is no proof that what you heard had actually existed? Sounds don’t leave evidence in the air. Mel wonders if Wren said anything at all, for a moment. It seems more likely, somehow, that he had projected this entire interaction (a lie to himself, his projections were always such a thin layer over reality that they could never be mistaken as real) than that Wren was just… being honest with him.

“I…” Mel swishes the words around his mouth. The lonely ‘I’ could vanish into nothingness in the air, never having existed, if Wren wasn’t looking at him so intently. Behind Wren, a customer is shifting around nervously, holding two family bags of chips and a six pack of beers. “I think we can talk later.”

Wrens’ face crashes, and adrenaline pumps through Mels’ veins unbidden. Shit shit shit. He pounds his fist into his leg three time to accentuate each thought. He said something wrong. This is not the reaction he had anticipated to his words. But was it the words that were wrong, or the tone?

“Sorry, yeah, you’re at work. I, uh, I’m sure I’ve already put your job enough at risk huh?” Wren scratches the back of his head, and his face shifts into a new expression. He starts to make a motion to leave, and something in Mels’ head clicks into place.

“I get off my shift at 5.” Mel clarifies. “Come back then.” Wrens’ face clears up, bursts back into the expression he makes the most often, the once Mel actually knows. A smile.

“I’ll be here.”

oOo

There isn’t really anywhere for them to go, not when the empty desert stretches for miles in either direction. The gas station is a waypoint, not a destination. So Wren and Mel sit down on the bench in front of the window. Mel counts cars.

“I’ve been thinking.” Wren is, of course, the one to break the silence. Mel feels like an intrepid explorer in uncharted territory, except the uncharted territory is the concept of hanging out with a person that isn’t family when he isn’t actively at work. Mel tilts his head sideways and looks at Wren, waits for Wren to decide what he’s going to say, he thinks that somethigns Wren just starts sentences without planning where he’s going with them. “20 stitches. Did you space them out just so you could get an even number?”

Mels’ face is heating up traitorously.

“It- I- The number-” Wren lets out a boisterous laugh and leans back on the bench comfortably. It soothes Mels’ embarrassment, despite the fact that had it been Zeph doing that it would have riled him up more.

“The hospital kept them in, thank god. Imagine if they had done an awkward number, like 37.” He leans his head back and complains to the sky and the gas stations tin roof. “That would not have helped my moral healing up.”

Mel almost lets out a small laugh at that. Almost. It gets caught halfway in his throat, like it doesn’t know what to do with the sound. Wren laughs too.

“I really appreciate what you did for me, back there. I’m really sorry, I wasn’t thinking when I got here. I just needed somewhere safe and well lit to take care of myself. Not a lot of options, clear out here.” Wren sighs and adjusts how he’s sitting. Now that they’re outside, the sun shining and reflecting off the window, Mels’ jacket is stifling. He shrugs it off and places it in his lap, where he can knead his fingers into the fabric.

“Do you actually do handyman stuff?” Mels’ been wondering for a while now. Another bark of laughter - Wren seems to be made up of smiles and laughs and the twinkle that lights up in his eyes - the color of freshly tilled earth.

“My, uh, hobby doesn’t pay, so yeah, I do. And yeah, it really does take me all over the area.”

“Are you going to tell me your hobby?” Wren clicks his tongue at the question, purses his lips.

“I kind of want to, which is weird. I usually don’t give a shit, but I mean, you definitely helped me out of a shitty situation there. But you’re really better off not knowing.”

A decade ago Mel stands flush against a wall, not daring to breath, and listens to a conversation between a handful of his aunts and uncles. Discussing Melchior. He recalls hearing Uncle Boaz insist that ‘His mother told us to never reveal the truth to the boy’ and Aunt Esther following it with ‘Melchior is better off not knowing.’

Mel is turning the words over in his mind, thinking. Wren must find some kind of meaning or message in his silence a he pushes himself to talk more.

“The stuff I deal with… I mean it’s not good stuff. It’s pretty freaky, sometimes. Obviously it gets me hurt.” Wren pats his knee. “Don’t want other people getting hurt.” He rises to his feet, fumbling a bit with something in his pocket. How Wren can still be wearing his signature jacket, Mel doesn’t know. Must be sweating like a pig under the layers. “I have some work down east, for a bit. Probably be stuck on that side of the mountains for a few weeks, but I - well -” He pulls his fist out of his pocket and holds it out to Mel, wrist bent slightly. Mel obediently cups his palms under the fist, understanding the gesture. When Wren opens his fist a grumbled piece of paper falls into Mels’ open hands. “My number, just in case you wanna keep in touch. Or something like that.”

oOo

Mel buys a phone. He doesn’t have a lot of fluid money - the paychecks he gets are pretty much just enough to cover the cost of rent, gas, and the cheapest food he can find. In the back of his head he knows that the income of two people would make this all easier, but back then running had seemed like the only choice. Mel thinks that the phone is very fancy - the front face of it has a square screen, below which are the standard buttons for a phone much like the landline at the Seminary. It had a hidden keyboard that could be slid out, which was easier and faster to type with.

It was difficult to describe it accurately through text, and three weeks later when Wren returned to the stations side of the mountains and swung by he had taken one look at it and laughed for a solid minute.

“I think my grandpa has that exact phone.” Wrens’ knuckles are red and raw. He holds the phone in his hand like it is an ancient artifact, marveling at the ‘shk’ and tactile feel of the keyboard. It’s Mel’s favorite part - while he’s at work he finds himself opening and closing the keyboard as he stares out the window and counts the cars.

Wren leaves Mel large blocks of texts at a time. He talks through the problems with the house he’s currenlty working on - Mel never really understands exactly what Wren is talking about when he does that but enjoys reading it nevertheless. Wren talks about types of electrical currents and types of water heaters. Other times Wren discusses the most inane topics - what’s the best kind of apple, why he hates Douglas Pear trees, the pros and cons of Hawaiian pizza. Wren isn’t rude when Mel doesn’t seems to know what he’s talking about, just seems excited to share. Leaves new paragraphs about apple textures and about invasive plant species.

Wren must know there’s something wrong with Mel. About the way he doesn’t know anything about pop culture or commonalities of the world. If he wonders, he never asks, and it’s a relief.

Mel is a lamppost, figuratively, stuck in one place. He is a cactus out on the desert, unmoving. Wren takes jobs all over the state and neighboring ones, and once or twice even beyond that, but he always seems to end up passing through Mels’ ‘neck of the woods’ and staying for a day. Chatting at the register becomes talking on the bench outside becomes Wren meeting up with Mel in town on one of his days off and exposing him to the world of a pizza buffet. The next time they text Mel is able to give his own informed opinion on Hawaiian pizza.

He isn’t sure why Wren puts in the effort to constantly return here.

A darker part of Mel, hidden inside of himself, starts to develop a theory.

Perhaps the answer is something that Mel would be better off not knowing.

“You got a new jacket.” Mel remarks as Wren takes a seat on the booth opposite of him. The town Mel stays in is small, and yet every time Wren drops by he seems to have found a new cafe or restaurant for them to try.

“Winter isn’t the time for that threadbare thing.” Wrens’ eyes rove around Mels’ figure. “I see you’re still floating the church boy look.” Mel looks down at himself. A short sleeve shirt buttoned up to the collar - he may need to start pulling out the long sleeves soon - tucked into a pair of slacks, worn with his scuffed loafers. The oversized red jacket. Mel shrugs in response and fiddles with the little jelly packets that sit complementary at the table. Whoever was here previously mixed up the piles so Mel lays them out on the table and sorts them. Wren looks at the jellies and wrinkles his nose.

“Apple jelly? I don’t know if I’ve ever heard of that. Isn’t grape kind of the standard?” Wren invents a topic to gnaw on, like a dog with a bone.

“Grape jelly is new to me.” Mel says, stacking the four different options into piles. Strawberry, Apple, Grape, and Raspberry. 4, 6, 2, and 3. His brain begins to consider possible patterns. Wren doesn’t seem surprised by the insight.

“It’s kind of the archetypical jelly. Peanut butter and grape jelly sandwiches are what I ate for pretty much every lunch elementary school.” Wren comments. “My sister would get fancy with her lunches at shit - my parents never packed us lunches - but I’d do the bare minimum.” Mel hums in acknowledgement at the anecdote and Wren watches at Mel starts to make a pyramid of the jellies, apples on the bottom row. “What kind of jelly did you usually have back where you grew up.”

‘Back where you grew up’ was the very versatile phrase that Wren used to encapsulate all of Mels’ backstory. He obviously knew that Mel didn’t have the typical Americana suburbia middle class upbringing, and rather than pry into the details, he asked questions about jelly.

“We didn’t have jelly.” Mel said. “We had jam.”

“There’s a difference?” Wren asks. Mels’ head titls to the side and looks at Wren. He wonders if Wren genuinely didn’t know - he;s fairly certain that sometimes Wren would fake ignorance for the sake of letting Mel talk more. Whether this was a common behavior for people outside the Seminary or just a Wren thing, Mel has yet to determine.

“Jelly doesn’t have the…” Mel frowned, trying to find the right words. “Jelly is smooth and uniform.” That felt a bit better. “Jam has the viscera of the fruit.” Wren wrinkled his nose at Mels’ word choice. “The seeds and skin and pulp.”

“Viscera makes it sound way nastier.”

“Apples were usually dehydrated, and grapes were made into juices and wines. Usually our jams were made out of our peaches. They get extremely soft when ripe and therefore are well suited for jam making. Berries too, but there’s a larger required haul of berries for jam. Our ratio of peach jam to berry jam always highly favored peach.”

“You know, I don’t know if I’ve ever heard of peach jam. Is it any good?”

The waitress returns with waters and takes their orders as the conversations continues to spill out easily between them. Wrens’ topic today is about his sister - she lives up in Oregon where the rains are plenty. She does the same job that Wren does up there, handiwork across the east coast and even over into Montana. Occasionally there’ll be a job up in Idaho that’s just far enough and close enough for both of them to meet and tackle it. Mel does not ask if the job is fixing pipes or Wrens’ hobby that leaves him with bruises and black eyes.

Wren picks at the cranberry chicken sandwich and looks out the window. The parking lot has 9 cars currently parked. Someone is rolling up the drive through line. Wrens’ commentary rolls over him, a background as Wren sees himself outside. There are no pigeons here, instead three starlings hop around the lot.

“Something outside?” Wren is angling his head out the window too, now, trying to figure out what has Mels’ attention. Mel flushes.

“No.” A pause. “Starlings. And some cars.” Wren nods and does not pry. It takes Wren longer to eat that Mel, because he runs his mouth so much and has to remember to take pauses between his thoughts to snag a bite or two. Mel used to do this kind of thing, with some of his siblings, at the Seminary. Eat and listen, be in good company and good food. Then Raguel and Zephaniah and Astrophel and all the lot turned 12 and left him behind. Started to be trained and do research in the portion of the library that Mel wasn’t allowed in, have conversations that would halt whenever they realized Mel was in earshot.

Mel got used to sitting alone, looking out the window, watching, or otherwise gazing up at the stained glass.

Wren talked about his sisters’ current girlfriend. Mel smiles and turns his gaze back inside to watch the movements of Wrens’ facial muscles as he recounts a story, hands moving animatedly.

oOo

“How was the shift?” Crickets somewhere in the desert called out as if to give their opinions to the question. The night has cold nip to it, and it colors Wrens’ cheeks and ears red.

“The same.” Mel shoves his hands into his pockets, surveys the lot. The only cars are the expected three, all parked. He still lacked the words to describe that his shifts were not boring - though they seldom created the elaborate stories that Wren would share from his own work.

“Usually I find the venues.” Wren commented. 3 am. The gas station as always had become what was left of the entire world. Wren smiled at Mel, and Mel sucked in a deep breath of the cold air, allowing it to fill his lungs. It felt sharp.

“Follow me.” With confident steps Mel crossed the parking lot, Wren falling into rhythm beside him.

“It’s within walking distance?” Mel nodded. “I’ll be honest, I almost thought your ‘favorite spot’ was going to be letting me stand behind the counter.” Wren smiled as he said the words as they passed the stations pumps, and Mel let out a small puff of air, the lightest version of a laugh.

“I think it was a safe assumption. I’m not really known for exploring.” Mel admitted. The pair approached the edge of the parking lot, the edge of the ring of light, the edge of the world. Mel hesitated for a moment, as he always did. And then took a step into the darkness of primordial space.

In the safety of the dark, of things not yet created or born, Mel felt an recklessness begin to burn in his chest. Impulsively Mel grabbed Wrens’ hand and began to run.

They crossed the lonely two lanes of middle-of-nowhere highway to the plot of land that sat opposite the gas station. It was empty - dirt and squat shrubs - and Mel ran the disappointingly small distance it took for his lungs to begin to object to the movement and then stopped all at once. Wren did not let go of his hand even as the Mel jerked to a standstill. He tilted his head up to the sky. There was no moon tonight, and the blood pumping through his body and his head made the view even more dizzying and dazzling.

“Oh.” Wrens’ voice, singing through the darkness.

“Yeah.” Mel, breathless.

They stood there for a moment, several moments, out where time had no meaning where the world did not exist yet in the dark of the night, and looked at the stars. Out here, far enough away from any proper towns, a distance from the lights of the gas station, they were beautiful diamond scattered across navy velvet. Candles pitched into the air. Lightning bugs held in a perfect formation.

For eight solid breaths, each one marked by a puff of condensation from Mel’s mouth, the two of them just stand there and look up in awe. At breath nine Wren leaves for the parking lot, and at breath 15 he returns with two camping chairs.

“I got the job here before I got my apartment.” Mel could sit out here for hours, looking at the stars, and not say a word. But he doesn’t want to. “I stole his car and drove until I realized that there was nothing I could do without some source of income. So I stopped here and begged for a job.”

“Ran away from your family.” A statement from Wren, steady and unjudgemental.

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“You don’t have to tell me, Melchior.” Wren always uses his full name. Mel never corrects him. Wren never demands more than Mel is willing to give. In the darkness of the unreal world that is night beyond the gas station lot, Mel wants to give it all.

“I grew up away from civilization. A farm - they called it the Seminary - in the middle of nowhere. Somewhere out east. I had…” Mel lets out a puff of air, and looks at the stars. “...a couple dozen siblings. And more aunts and uncles. Sometimes if one of my siblings got old enough and I wasn’t close enough to them, they’d kinda become more like an aunt or uncle.”

“That’s…” Wren cleared his throat. “...a big family.” Wren has talked at length about his family - just him and his sister, really. Their parents lived up in Canada somewhere, moved when they got old enough.

“My dad was never in the picture, and my mom died when I was a baby. Living at the Seminary we were off the grid, and when you got old enough, you were trained.” Mel left a gap of air, for Wren to ask:

“Trained for what?”

“I never found out. I was kept out of the loop. Did the chores and some of the text translations.”

“I know this is your family, Melchior, but that,” Wren took off his hat and pushed at his hair for a moment. “...I mean maybe it isn’t my place but this sounds like a cult.”

“I’ve started to think it was.” Mel traced patterns in the stars with his eyes.

Quiet settles between them for a moment. Curiosity wafts off Wren, and Mel can feel his eyes returning time and time again to his face.

“If you were there for your entire life, and you weren’t allowed to leave, why are you here?” Wren finally asks, when can’t stand it any longer and gives in. Mel knew he would.

“Somthing happened, I’m not sure what. I remember,” Mel closes his eyes and the images flash behind his eyelids. “...I remember gunshots. And screams, and blood. My brother, Raguel, came for me, grabbed me by my wrist, and took me away. Got me out of there.” He takes a deep, steadying breath. “Through anything that stood in our way.”

“Anything?”

Mel mulls the words over in his mouth, trying to decide if he is really going to say this. Really going to expose this out into the world. The world that is just him and Wren. It feels like confessional, under the blanket of stars. It feels like something he needs to say, before what he think is coming happens.

“I watched Raguel kill. Zephaniah. One of my other brothers. Took a knife and stabbed him, slit his throat. The knife was already bloody when he grabbed me, so I, he must have. You know. And the only one I saw was Zeph. But he got me out - took one of the only cars the Seminary had and got me out of there. Whatever was going down, I was probably a sitting duck.”

“He took us to a motel and told me about his plans to keep me safe. That he was gonna get a job, protect me. Tell me the truth. But I was a afraid of him. Every time I looked at Raguel I thought of how quickly he had killed Zeph, how easily.” Mels’ voice is shaking, as if saying this is physically exhausting. It feels like it is. He can’t stop the words that come out now, like he’s expelling a poison from his body. Mel wants someone to know this before it ends. “I stole his car and I ran away. Until I ended up here.”

“Melchior…” Mel didn’t need to look, didn’t need to decipher any of that from facial expressions and body language.

Pity.

oOo

The end of Mels’ world, the crashing in of the darkness beyond the gas station, comes in mid November. Almost exactly a year after the night he ran away. Mel had felt it approaching him for month, like a persistence hunter. He thinks that he had known it’s approach since that first time he had talked to Wren. This was poetic, symmetrical. Mel was glad it was almost exactly a year.

His apartment is a mess, objects tossed around. Not that he had that many possessions in the first place. It’s a little insulting that it happens when he was previously sleeping, just wearing his boxers. An unnatural chill fills the air, and it makes his breath visible like it had been a month ago when he had talked to Wren under the stars. A supernatural force pushes him up against the wall, and he can feel the bruises forming on his arms.

The vague image of a human appears in the middle of the room, empty eyes and a decaying skull and the copper scent of blood. If Mel squints he can see Zephs’ jawline, maybe.

“Fuck off!” The door to the apartment is kicked open and Wren emerges into the room. He wields a firepit stoker and swings it through the ghost without hesitation. The image scatters, and Mel drops to the floor as the force against him disappears. Wren is at his side before he can even slump against the wall. His hands are where the specters had been, slightly misaligned from it’s handprints.

“Melchior, Mel, are you okay?” He doesn’t quite register the question, looks at the place where the ghost had been.

“I knew it.” The words are vindicating to say. “You hunt monsters.” Wren freezes.

“I, this is,” Wren is taught for a moment, and then his shoulders slump. “Yeah.”

“You’re hunting me.” Mel follows up. Wrens’ facial muscles move drastically at his assertion.

“No I’m - Melchior I’m sorry. I thought I took care of this ghost but it hopped from me to you when I swung by last week. That’s all.”

“You know about me.” Mel insists. Wren isn’t understanding that it’s okay, what Mel knows.

“Is this about… about your family?” Mel shakes his head so violently it might fall off his shoulders. It might in a second anyway.

“No I’m - Wren it’s okay I know I’m not human. I’m wrong.” He explains, looking eagerly at Wren. He knows he knows he knows. “That’s why - I’m not right. I don’t think things right. Why they kept me separate. Maybe even why Raguel killed Zeph.” Mel tilts his head up. “You hunt monsters, you must have known from the start. That’s why you keep hanging out with me, so that you can figure out what I am and kill me. I’m ready.” Maybe the eye contact is scaring him off. Mel closes his eyes.

All Wren has is the poker, but he must know how to use it. Hopefully he can make it fast. Maybe he has some concealed weapons. Those could help. They were protecting him, at the Seminary. And out here he is so tired of trying so hard to be human.

The poker clatters to the floor.

Mel opens his eyes just in time to see Wren raise both of his hands, cradling Mel’s face.

“Mel…” He shakes his head and his voice hitches. When Wren looks back at Mel there are tears in his eyes. “...Yeah Mel, I hunt monsters, but you aren’t one. You had a shitty upbringing, and you’re - hell I mean I doubt it was a thing where you grew up but you’re probably autistic or have ocd or something - but you’re human Mel.” Wren sighs and runs a hand through Mels’ hair. Fuck. When was the last time someone did that? Raguel, when Mel had been pretending to sleep, before he stole the car.

“I hang out with you because I like you, Mel.”

“I’m not…” Mel slumps forward, rests his forehead against Wrens’ shoulder. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Wren murmurs into Mels’ curly hair. “I’m sure.”

Mel sits like that for a while, to the rising and falling of Wrens’ chest. He feels more than hears when the breath hitches, preparing to speak.

“I gotta - that ghost is going to come back if I don’t take care of it.” Wren shits and Mel leans back against the wall. Wren scans Mels’ face, seems to find something there. “Come on.” He rises to his feet, and a gentle hand on Mels’ arm assists him in following suit. “You can tag along. I think we need to talk.”

oOo

Even the desert gets it snow, even if it waits to come until early January. The gas station has a new kind of quiet so soon after the holidays. Late December was marked with a flurry of travelers, but now that the fesitivies have passed everyone seems content to stay home for the foreseeable weeks. The people that stop by the gas station are mostly truck drivers.

And Wren.

Mel feels strange to be standing in the new year. He had thought - no - he had known that he would die before January. That the thing that he had felt breathing down his neck his entire life, this dread that had swallowed him, would finally reach him before then. And it did. Only to appear and reveal that it was just himself. Just Mel.

Wren talks him through a lot of it - survivors guilt, abuse, ptsd, anxiety. A laundry list of reasons why he probably had felt that way. In February he’s going to help Mel find a therapist.

Ghost are real. And werewolves and witches and everything that goes bump in the night. Mel can’t find it in himself to be surprised. It just makes sense. It must have been what the Seminary had trained to do, and were sent out take care of. Kept it a secret from Mel, because of his dying mothers request. Learning monsters are real is easy to take in stride, realizing that he isn’t one is something Mel is still trying to figure out how to deal with.

Wrens’ green car putters up the station and parks. 2 cars parked - 3, Mel adjusts his count as a beat up red truck slides into view, turning off the highway to the station and ignoring the pumps.

Barely even looking, Wren snags a pack of gum and slams it on the counter, paired with a five dollar bill.

“Play me my favorite song?” He beseeches, and with a smile Mel rings it up, letting the register fly open and call out it’s hedgehog chime. Mel still has to remind himself to lower his head, to lot look up at some unreachable thing constantly, but it’s getting easier.

“How was the hunt?” Mel asks, absentmindedly flapping the oversized sleeves of his sweatshirt back and forth.

“Pffft, a bitch.” Wren says, hands already moving in a flurry. “You ever try to find an unmarked grave in the snow?”

“I had to help break the ice on the irrigation canals a couple winters.”

“Fucking miserable.” Wren agrees. “But luckily I had some help on this one.” He breaks eye contact with Mel when he says that, and Mel tilts his head to the side. Odd, unlike Wren.

“It’s a long way for your sister to come.” Mel states. Wren nods and pushes his hand around on his stubble.

“They, uh, he, well-”

“Mel.”

The door chimes in tune with the sound of a new voice - of a familiar voice - and Mel looks past Wren to the door of the gas station. The voice is easy to identify, but the figure that stands before him takes longer to match with the image in his head.

Raguel looks different. His hair has been grown out from the Seminarys’ standard cut into the beginning of dreads, and he wears a sweater instead of the button ups, and glasses, and he has a bit of a beard growing. Cargo pants and thick hiking boots and he’s filled out more and its Raguel.

“I’m gonna go fill up my tank.” And Wren leaves the two of them, facing each other without any words to say.

Raguel sighs, something sad and something soft, and smiles. He’s already crying.

“Mel.” He repeats, and opens his arms wide. Mel runs out from behind the counter into the arms of the brother he ran away from.

“Are you mad?” Mel asks voice hoarse, and Raguel kisses the top of his head.

“I’m just happy you’re okay.” Raguel holds his out and scans him up and down, smiles. Raguel never used to smile like that at the Seminary. “I was wondering where my jacket went.” Mel coughs out a wet laugh.

It’s the middle of winter, but it feels like the new cycle of life is already beginning.

#fantail pigeons and mourning doves #the east writes #short story #short stories

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