#some folks have money but don’t have anything close by / can’t get it delivered

[iwatcheditbegin]

The way some folk still will openly shame disabled or poor people for not being “ ethical” with what they buy.

[theblogs2024]

Product sales Management - GTD For Your Product sales Pipeline

Getting Points Done (GTD), typically the powerful efficiency principle from David Allen, is normally applied to our task checklist and our electronic mail inbox, but almost never to more complicated operations like our revenue pipeline. However, the particular principles are the same plus the effects could be unbelievable. Sales is an Art... Not Genuinely Sales as being an artwork form is typically the leading myth in addition to barrier to constant sales performance. Revenue is a method that is done. Granted some much better than other. Only like an Olympic athlete--the technique is definitely consistent, some just get better at it.

Unfortunately, with regard to our sales agencies somewhere along typically the way we have typically the impression there had been a variety of better ways in order to swim the 100M freestyle. Rubbish! Sales is about making effectively making speak to, delivering value, and even collecting money. Almost all of those you can't control. I include said it ahead of, but it really boils straight down to this: In case the product sucks--you don't need sales. When the market sucks--you don't need sales. Therefore, lets figure of which out as quick as possible by contacting more folks more proficiently using GTD. Collection Get all of an individual stuff in a single place. That means your entire contacts, leads, people. Whatever you desire to call them--you need them together. When you start off calling you don't wish to be hunting intended for names, telephone numbers, or who they are. Dial--Hang-up--Dial. This signifies you have to have a databases, spreadsheet, or contact management software that allows you to proficiently move from one contact to the next. I advise contact software together with a robust prospect management database. This is certainly going to let you scale and help make a lot involving notes. Hopefully an individual are building a rolodex for the age groups. Processing You have to have a system. Calling quickly and frequently is definitely great, but you will need to understand what regarding each contact using the results of the call. GTD has a nice five choice process. Choose a sales lead management process just while simple: Trash this Close that Shift it (hand that up or down) Schedule it Foster it There is definitely nothing else. Arranging When you coordinate your sales canal manage it just as as GTD. Installation the right also and ensure your control system gets the particular right contacts straight into the right also. Here are typically the buckets I employ: Attempted Approached Pitch Closed Withdrawn Scheduled Bogus The great issue about creating buckets in your contact management software is usually you can make usage of it to automate your own contact flow, prospect prioritization, and any lead nurturing promotions you have. Manual or automated--organizing straight into predefined buckets can make sales happen quicker. Reviewing No strategy is perfect. Review that. See what will be working and exactly what is not. This really is again where a good lead managing database comes throughout handy. Take a look at your current reports is to do many quick analysis. Don't get overwhelmed simply by the minutae--eyeball your own reports for oddities. I like to be able to look for the things i call--"slowing and heaping" in my reports. What processes seem to be to be happening slow or less usually than expected? Consider something totally new to speed them up. In which are leads adding up? Try a thing to process them out of typically the log jam. Undertaking Want to know the quantity one cause associated with most poor revenue performance? Ssssssh, come close for typically the secret... NOT UNDERTAKING ANYTHING! That's appropriate. Just doing anything even without some sort of contact database, or a system, or a new process, or business will yield more than standing close to organizing sheets of paper, checking your pencils, or perhaps labeling your directories. To know more details visit here: todo app

[obae-me]

Maid!Brothers

Here you go folks, some maid brothers as a treat. I know these are also probably just what they did for the butler event but...maids. SFW for these ones, although with enough convincing, I might be pressed to make NSFW ones. Enjoy!

Congratulations! For better or for worse, and for the next few days, the demons that reside in the House of Lamentation are now your maids. Is this due to a curse? Another one of Diavolo’s somewhat sadistic schemes? A dare gone too far? Perhaps you’ve used your pact powers for good evil? Who knows at this point? And to be fair, who cares how it started when you have seven demons greet you at the door every morning? 

Lucifer

He was very much not pleased at first. At all. But not for the reasons you’d expect. All of his time spent serving you completely is going to disrupt his enormous piles of work. However, Diavolo has given him a few days leave to...explore this new...career. Now that he’s in this situation with no way out for the foreseeable future, he has no choice but to be the best maid the likes of which you or the Devildom has never seen before. He must go the full mile for the sake of his pride. No one will be making fun of him once he perfectly fulfills his role, and just because he’s wearing a dress and an apron doesn’t mean he’s not still completely bone-chillingly intimidating. In fact, now that he has more free time and his eyes on you nearly everywhere you go, this new form of his is almost scarier. 

He wears a traditional outfit; Victorian. One with the long unruffled skirt and sleeves. You hardly see him in white, so the stark pureness of his apron and headband are almost off-putting, but it grows on you quickly. The buttons on his collar and cuffs are a bright royal blue. He’s insistent on still wearing his gloves, which somehow only add more flair to his uniform. You never assumed he’d be caught wearing something like this, and yet he’s so confident in it, you could mistakenly assume he’s done this before. 

His main chore is making sure the other maids (his brothers) are fulfilling their duties. He’s written up a beautiful schedule complete with shift changes and chore swaps so no one can complain too much. If he hadn’t done this, nothing would get finished, and all of his brothers would end up flocking to you instead. Of course, with him being in charge of this, no one can prevent him from making sure he gets to stick by your side more than the others by a considerable margin. 

Everything he does is absolutely flawless. Your room has never been cleaner or more organized, although now you have a difficult time finding any of your things. Your pens are gathered up by...ink density? And your clothes by material? Now you’re resorted to ask for his assistance. He knows exactly what you like, and how you prefer it prepared. And once, you’d even begin to sneeze and he’d already prepared a handkerchief for you. 

Of course...this new caretaking biz of his has unlocked a new side of him, or at least a side he’s never had the time or energy to show. He’s unbelievably, heart-wrenchingly, mind-numbingly...fussy. Constantly straightening your clothes, fixing your hair, asking you every five minutes if there’s anything he can do. You’re unsure if he feels you’re incapable of doing anything right by yourself, or if he just has such an overwhelming urge to take care of you that he can’t even let you put your own shoes on.

“Master, I can’t help but notice you’ve not completed your assignments for today. I’ve already prepared your desk, let me escort you to your room.” 

“Master, I know Super Crunchy Devil-Sweet Cookies are your favorite, but they are not good for you. Here, I’ve already prepared a perfectly healthy snack. I know you’ll love it.”

“Master, it is five minutes till your bed-time. I am fully aware you are an adult...yes...nonetheless, I have your bed prepared and will not leave till you are safely in a slumber. I will tuck you in, you must get good sleep after all.” 

“Master, let me make sure your bathwater is a safe temperature.” 

“Master, let me cut your food for you.” 

As the days dredge on, he gets more desperate. It’s been a while since you’ve done something on your own. Lucifer is almost always there. You enjoy it to a degree, but it’s a tad...how do we say...suffocating, knowing your every action is under his watchful gaze. At this moment in time, you’re still unaware if this is how he naturally is, or, without endless work to hold him back, if he’s spiraling out of control. Either way, as much as you appreciate him taking complete care of you, you’ll be happy when the old Lucifer is back.

However, as much as he pushes you, you enjoy the moments with him. You find more fondness for him with every soft brush of his gloves, with all the things he keeps hidden in his pockets only to brandish them whenever you need them. 

At one point, you’d both been so drained from the day’s activities, you both went for a stroll in the garden to clear your heads. Yawning, you took a seat on the soft grass, your back leaned up against the trunk of a tree. As you listened to the wind rustle the leaves, Lucifer looked down at you with a small frown. Then, sighing, he joined you, tucking the fabric of his skirt against his legs as he sat. How long had it been since he had simply sat outside for some air? Too long. You both embraced the silence for a moment. No more chattering maids, no more assignments, just the sound of gentle breaths against the breeze. You tilted your head back, watching from the corner of your eye as Lucifer brushed a stray leaf off his apron.

“I’ve exhausted you,” he proclaimed in a soft voice. 

You couldn’t quite tell him he hadn’t…”I’m just tired in general.” 

He huffs, knowing he was right but not pushing you any further. “Here…” You feel his gloved hand cup the back of your head. The heart in your chest squeezes, but you allow him to guide your body in a lying position, head in his lap. You can’t find the breath to say anything, so you simply adjust into a comfortable position, bringing one of your hands close to your face to gently grasp the apron fabric. 

You don’t remember falling asleep, so you don’t recall Lucifer’s arm wrapping around your waist, his sigh of relief when you get some rest, and his eventual slumber when he too lets the peace of your company lull him to sleep. 

Maybe him being a maid wasn’t so terrible after all.

Mammon 

He was also not happy. So unhappy in fact, he’d refused to have anything to do with this. How is he supposed to make money off this whole deal? Where’s the fun? The thrill? No, no, no, he was absolutely not going to participate. He expected some sort of begging or coercion, but actually each of his brothers were alright in knowing each of them would have more time with you with Mammon out of the way. Well, out of everything, he was not having that. Right after his outburst, he was all too happy to be onboard. He proclaimed he was going to be the best, the cutest, the most amazing maid ever. Naturally. So, all of his brothers might as well go home and leave it to him. The Great Mammon would take it from here. One, they were already home. Two, no, none of them were leaving. As a maid, he’ll most likely end up messing up a lot of things, but you’ve never seen him try harder in his life for something that wasn’t attached with a price tag. And that honestly made it worth it. 

He wears a uniform with short sleeves and a mid-rise skirt that stops right at his knees. It sort of reminds you of a diner outfit more than a maid uniform, with two separate pockets sewn into the apron. The apron itself doesn’t go over the chest and around the neck, instead, it simply ties around the waist. The bow wrapped in his hair and his knee-high socks are a pleasing gold color, one that matches the sunglasses he still wears despite it not fitting the rest of his look. 

His main chore is errand boy. He’s running from here and there to get you and his brothers what they need to carry out their chores. He’s always busy buying groceries, delivering things to your room, dropping off supplies for the other maids to use. Not only is he the fastest so this is more efficient, but it does a pretty good job of wearing him out at the end of the day. 

He always has had the capacity to be cute, but somehow with this new occupation of his, he’s become increasingly adorable. And it’s during this time where you realize how much he cares and pays attention to you. He may be considered a terrible maid, but you appreciate his efforts and the gifts he bought for you, even if he had spent the money for food on it. And where Lucifer strives to keep you safe, Mammon strives to keep you entertained, even if it means going against his older brother’s carefully laid plans.

“Master! While I was out grocery shopping I saw your favorite snacks and snagged them for ya! If you eat them now, I’ll take the trash away so Lucifer never knows, eh?” 

“Here is your dinner, Master. I’m sorry it’s so late, Satan was making it all wrong! Tch, What kind of maid forgets that you prefer it prepared soft and without any Super Spicy Devil’s Sauce? I had him remake the whole thing for ya.” 

“Welcome home, Master! I’ve finished all my errands for today! So...can I...spend the rest of the day serving you personally?” 

“Hey! Master! Lucifer is busy helping Asmo with the laundry, how about we sneak away? You deserve to have a little bit of fun, eh?” 

“Master? Oi, Master?...I can’t sleep...can I get something for you? Anything?...No, I didn’t say nothin’, go back to bed.” 

Despite the fact that he’s been working non-stop for a change, he’s not that different from the normal Mammon except...maybe not as tsundere. And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy the beam of joy in his face when he got to welcome you home. He’d make sure if you had another tasteless healthy dinner that there would be a steaming cup of ramen on your nightstand. He’d always keep a little gift in the confines of his apron pockets to give to you anytime he saw you. He’d no longer try to hide his affection, only now he’d excuse it away under the maid excuse. You’d miss it. 

You’d especially miss the thrill of having him squirrel you away, the shared giggles between the two of you as Lucifer and his other brothers would run all throughout the house, all in a tizzy, looking for where you’d run off to. Mammon and you both were aware they’d find you in time, so you’d never take the moments for granted. 

With one of those moments, he helped you up to the roof through the window. Absolutely dangerous? Probably, but he never once let you go. As he grasped your hand, helping you get steady footing amongst the shingles, the voice of frantic maids calling your title could be heard below. You lifted your head to look in Mammon’s eyes before the two of you started laughing. 

“How long ya wanna bet?” The glint in his eyes shone brightly against the Devildom moon, the cheeky tug of his lips manifesting into a smirk. 

“This time around?” A breathy scoff escaped your lungs, interrupted by the booming voice of Lucifer calling out Mammon’s name. You didn’t have long. “Ten minutes, tops.” 

“Ten?” His eyebrows raised, and he gave a little tisk. “I say seven. If I win, I get to keep this little trinket in my pocket.” He pat his hand over the proclaimed pocket, your curiosity sparking. “If you win, I give it to you.” You both heard a door slam open, and so Mammon quickly grasped the sides of your shoulders to pull you both away from the edge. But it had been too late. Lucifer was on the roof before you two before you could even blink, dragging you both inside the house from the back of your collars. 

You had figured Mammon won, since technically it was closest to his guess, however, later that night you found a strange little gift beside your bed. He’d won yet still given you his prize...

Levi 

Secretly excited. A little embarrassed, but pleased about the fact that he basically gets to cosplay? Without anyone making fun of him? It’s a little dream of his, and he holds maids in high regard so he gets a short confidence boost. In fact, for the first time in a while, his brothers look to him for advice. He knows all about maids after all, so he knows how to act, what to do, and what to say. No longer is anyone teasing him for being knowledgeable about this topic. As a maid, his Moe points went up by 35, his Dandere points went up by 10, but your overall love for him goes up drastically. 

You know he has to wear the most kawaii maid uniform you’ve ever seen. It goes mid-thigh, the skirt poofy from multiple ruffled layers. There’s an orange bow across the chest, some lining the skirt, and one large one in the back. It’s very Lolita, little lacy details scattered everywhere, even his headband. The only thing keeping his legs from being bare are the thigh-high stockings pulled over his feet. He was very embarrassed at first. He stayed in his room for who knows how long until he was sure everyone else was dressed up too. They tried teasing him, but the stars in your eyes and the exclamation of how cute he looked forced everyone else’s mouth shut. Now his siblings are the envious ones.

Levi doesn’t really have one main chore, but his focus naturally centered around anything water related. Watering the several plants in the house, washing dishes, scrubbing tubs, mopping the floors etc. He takes on more than anyone expected him to, but he doesn’t mind having a longer list. Not only is it simply a maid’s duty which he’s proud to uphold, but he sees them as objectives. Plus he doesn’t mind keeping busy, he’d go crazy without something to do. 

Surprisingly enough, Levi is almost neck and neck with Lucifer as best Maid. He gets things done quickly and efficiently. Levi’s determination has helped the House of Lamentation stay squeaky clean, and his shy stuttery nature somehow enhances this role of his. If it’s his unhinged personality or simply an act, you’ll never know. He can hardly look you in the eye, keeping his head bowed, and whether it goes against Lucifer’s wishes or not, he’s all too ready to help get you whatever you desire, as a good maid should. 

“W-welcome home, Master. No, please don’t step there! The...the floor is still wet, please forgive me. H-here, let me help guide you to the stairs.” 

“Let--let me pull your chair out for you, Master. There we go...is that good? Did--did I do okay?” 

“I can’t believe Lucifer denied you what you wished for?! That’s not what a maid is supposed to do! They’re supposed to do everything! They should do what their master asks with a grin and a bow! I can be ten times the maid he is!...So...tell me what it is you want, Master, and I--I will do everything I can to fulfill it for you…”

“I-I know I’m not as good as the other maids, but please, Master, let me do something for you!” 

Nothing makes him happier than seeing the smile on your face when he does something right. Only, he makes you a little worried. He’s been pushing himself really hard for this. Suddenly changing his lifestyle all at once must be difficult for him. How has he not gone crazy without playing any of his games? 

So you indulge him when you have the chance, ordering him to play a game with you or recommend a new show. Then the excited Levi comes back into view, some of the stress melting away as he describes the shows he knows you will love the best. You do like Maid Levi, but you miss his little rants about broken plot, his cries over character death. The otaku that you’d come to know he had hidden himself away these last few days. You’d be happy for him when it was all over. 

Until then, you’d let him take care of you. Even if you didn’t need or want anything, you’d go send him off to do something, watching him swell with happiness. Whenever he’d return, you’d make him bow, taking the time to rub his head and assure him he was doing a swell job. 

“Why don’t you get some rest, Levi? You’ve done a lot for me today.” 

“I can’t!--I mean, I’m alright, Master. It’s my duty to always be attentive!” He attempted a little curtsey, but you could notice his legs slightly tremble. 

“Levi…” Once again, you brushed your hand over the top of his head, a finger curling around one of his strands. “You’ve done the most out of everyone here, and even Lucifer is exhausted. I order you to get some rest.” 

“But--” 

“You would deny a direct order from your Master?” You raised an eyebrow, but kept the soft smile against your lips. He stiffened, but then slowly shook his head. “Good. While you’re at it, I order you to eat a good meal, take a shower, and get at least 8 hours of sleep, understood?” 

All he could do was stammer, shifting the weight of his body from one foot to the other. How long had it been since he’d taken decent care of himself? Much too long, probably. You’d felt strange at first dishing out orders left and right, but you didn’t hesitate with these, holding your ground until Levi lowered his head and obeyed. 

At least you still had a few more days left with this power. Maybe you’d make him say something nice about himself tomorrow. 

Satan

His annoyance was outweighed by the intriguing curiosity. He’d read about maids in some of his history books, but never had the opportunity to see one much less become one. So, he decided to give it a shot as a learning experience. After all, it was only for a few days, and unlike some of his brothers, he could handle nearly anything for a few days. Besides, he saw this as another opportunity to annoy Lucifer at any turn as well as one-up him by being the better servant. 

He wears a cat maid outfit, he really didn’t see another option. The fake cat ears atop his head match his hair color perfectly, as well as the fake tail tied around his waist, sticking out of the skirt. There’s a small kitty shaped hole in the middle of his chest and a green paw print pattern in the corner of his apron. A shiny golden bell attached to a green ribbon adorns his neck. He wasn’t embarrassed putting it on, but once he saw the look on your face when you first caught the sight of him, for once he nearly hid away. He could hardly breathe once you started playing with the bell strapped to his throat. 

His main chore is cooking. He knows his way around the kitchen well enough and always knows the proper cookbook if he needs to look up something new. Plus, he always tries to go the extra mile, adding little designs to the food he makes for you. Of course, they’re all cat themed. Not only does he find this a great creative outlet, but he relishes the look of excitement on your face when he lifts the lid to the tray. He loves it even more when you upset Lucifer by setting aside your work for him. 

His rather bold and assertive nature slowly melted away with time as a maid. Shy Satan is a rare character indeed, and it has you wondering if this is some sort of act he’s putting on for your amusement. He has been secretly taking lessons from Levi after all. Wherever this new side of him came from, you did your best to enjoy it while you could. 

“Here is your lunch, Master...I...do you really want me to say it?...Ahem, I--I’m sure you’ll find it cooked to purr-fection…”

“You called for me, Master? Really? You--I--fine...Nya~...can...I go back to work now?” 

“I’m not one to question you, Master, but...Is petting my head while I read to you truly necessary?...Alright then...Just don’t tell anyone else about it, please.”

“Master, do you know anything about the strange red light that’s been distracting me from my duties? You know nothing, huh? Hmm…”

“Meow-ster, Paw-lease, I beg of you, no more cat puns.” 

Out of everyone so far, you’ll be the most upset when Satan goes back to his normal lifestyle. He would always be off, doing whatever he wanted, requesting your presence at the strangest and almost most inconvenient of times. As a maid, you always knew where he was, and now he would receive affection on your terms, not his. Although, you can tell it’s driving him a little stir crazy, his head snapping to around with the slightest of noises. 

So, you thought leaving him to his own devices for a day and not teasing him would be good for him. So, that day, when he brought you breakfast, you thanked him and nodded, beaming at the whiskers on your pancakes, but then sent him away. He curiously tilted his head, but left you in peace. Lunch came, and you did the same, but this time he frowned. You even went as far as to tell him not to worry about dinner, thinking he needed more of a break, but that’s when he spoke his feelings. 

“Have I upset you in some way today, Master?” He turned his head slightly away from you, but kept your gaze. 

“Of course not, I just thought you deserved a break from my joking today. I’m sure it’s not fun, being stuck inside most of the day, having me as your master.” You gave him a grin of assurance, but he only seemed more upset. 

“Do you think I would put as much effort into my service as I do if I didn’t think you were a worthy Master?” He took a small step towards you. “I’m here because I want to be here, so don’t push me away.” He brushed his forehead against your shoulder, blushing but smiling brightly as you rubbed the top of his head. 

He could stay like this for a while longer, you didn’t mind. 

Asmo

Possibly the most excited of the bunch. Typically, he’s never a fan to take care of someone other than himself, but he did count you as an exception. He would look absolutely adorable for the next few days? And so would his brothers?! It had taken centuries of pointless begging to try to get them to dress up, but they never did, but somehow you always managed what he could not. He was a little clueless at first on how to take care of someone else, but then he figured he would treat you like he did himself, which resulted in the most caring and loving Asmo you’d seen so far. 

Did he already have an outfit in mind? Most definitely. Honestly, he attempted to wear nothing but an apron, but that plan was quickly quashed by his siblings. However, he still found a way to rock the maid outfit in his own way. It was a French style uniform, the top squeezing him like a corset. The skirt was so short, it just reached the top of his thighs. Instead of socks, he opted for fishnet tights and a pair of high heel shoes. How he would get anything done in that, you would never know, but he managed despite all odds. 

His main chore consisted of mostly laundry. Washing all the sheets, clothes, and curtains in the house, which would take up a surprising amount of his time. He’d make your bed and fold your clothes, preparing an amazing outfit for you to wear the next day. Other than that, he always made sure you and everything else around him looked amazing. 

Not much changed at first, he seemed like normal Asmo, complimenting his looks, standing in strange poses as he went about his daily chores. Then, slowly, he talked about you more, paying more and more attention to you till the unthinkable happened, he neglected himself to make sure you were taken care of. 

“Oh, Master! Look at what I’m doing! Wouldn’t you say I’m absolutely ravishing as a maid?” 

“Master! I picked out an adorable outfit for you to wear tomorrow, it’ll almost be like we’re matching!”

“Master, please, I know Lucifer said this needs to be done, but look at your eyes. Come with me, we must treat you at once.”

“I’m not sure, Master, I think in this case, Lucifer is right. A healthy Master is a beautiful Master! Although, I think you’re breathtaking already. I couldn’t serve just anyone you know!”

“Shut up, Mammon, I don’t care what my hair looks like right now! Where did the Master run off to?! It’s been hours since they drank any water! Their lack of self care is going to be the death of me…”

Asmo ends up being another one for team health. He does your skin care in the morning and at night before you go to bed. Somehow, he always knows when you run out of water, right by your side to refill your cup/bottle before going back to his chores. Asmo makes a great maid, and you’d be lying if you said you wouldn’t be sad to see him go back to normal. 

Somehow, he had the magical potential to make coming out of your comfort zone as comfortable as could be. Would he still do the same when this was over? Well, you guessed you had to enjoy it in the moment while it lasted, while he could put you on a pedestal without shoving other people beneath it. 

“Which one for tomorrow, Master?” He held up two articles of clothing, both of which were way different than you would normally think to wear. 

You frowned, rubbing the fabric of one of the options between your fingers. “For me? I don’t think either of those...work with me. Is there something else?” 

“Not work with you? Oh but, Master, anything can work for you. For example, This one,” He took the top and held it against your chest as he gestured to the mirror, “makes your eyes look amazing. And this one makes anyone look amazing, trust me.” 

You took a deep breath in, after all, you’d only really be wearing it at home. “Okay, um...this one. Let’s be bold.” He squealed, setting the right outfit aside for the next day, mumbling something to himself about the most beautiful master in the Devildom...whatever that meant. 

He always found a way to make you shine, and being a maid didn’t change that. 

Beel

He was rather indifferent to the predicament. Everyone was fine? No injuries or foreboding death? He could still eat? No problem there then. It would disrupt his workout schedule more than he preferred, but he found creative ways to use his chores like an at-home gym session. Plus, any excuse to get to hang around you more or do something for you is something he can get behind. Unlike his other brothers, he’s not seeing this as a competition. He’s going to do what he can to the best and fullest of his abilities, just like he always does. For this reason, he’s always been a sort of foundation to depend on, and you’re glad his new position won’t change anything with him. 

His uniform...was an issue at first. Either his sleeves and shoulders would rip or the buttons would pop off the chest, so it took a while until something could be form fitting but remain intact. It had gotten to the point where they opted out of sleeves altogether, they were just such a hassle. But other than that, Beel is surprisingly comfortable in a skirt. There’s no issues with the fabric needing to stretch and bend around his thighs. He could do squats for days without any tears! He does find it hard not to eat the red bows and ribbons on his outfit...they just look like pasta in the right lighting. 

Like Levi, he has a lot of scattered cleaning to keep him busy. He mows the lawn, wipes down every window, and handles the vacuuming. It's a sight to behold watching him work. At one point, he got so focused, he picked up an entire couch with just one arm as he cleaned underneath. Do you slyly hide things under couches now to have him get it? That’s a secret only you know the answer to. 

He’s very good with his tasks, but he struggles with, as Levi calls it, “Moe”. He does his best, and while he might not get the highest points in this category, just him trying is absolutely enough. He desperately wants to succeed, even if being cute is entirely new to him. 

“Here, Master, I found this flower while I was working in the garden...do you want it?” 

“Master, I...Satan has banned me from the kitchen...do you have any snacks left? I promise I’ll make up for it.”

“Master, please! Do not come in here while I am cleaning! What if something hurts you? Here, let me escort you to safety.” 

“No….I won’t accept your dinner...you--you have to eat, Master. I know it’s not your favorite, but it’s good for you.”

“Hey! Where are you trying to go while no one’s looking? It’s not safe going alone, so I will come with you. Wherever you go, Master, I will be there with you…” 

He and Lucifer make a great overprotective gang. Beel hardly ever goes against his older brother’s wishes, and in this case, he agrees that your health and safety come above all else. And only now is he worried about every little corner of the house. Boxes? Dangerous. Hot food? Dangerous. How could he live with himself if you burnt your mouth? But not to worry, he is there to make sure you are completely safe. 

On one hand, you thoroughly appreciate his consideration, but on the other, you almost miss independence. Although, everything Beel does is with a little smile and those puppy-dog eyes you never have the strength to shoo away. 

And actually, his concern did come in handy on a few occasions. There was the time where the cleaning chemicals ended up being dangerous for humans, the time a stack of boxes nearly fell on top of you, but the one you remember most, the time the lawn mower snagged on a pebble and shot it out. With incredible speed, he had tackled you to the ground. You were about to question him until the sound of breaking glass could be heard behind you. 

“That was far too close,” Beel sighed, still covering you with his body. 

His weight of pure muscle started to weigh heavy on your lungs. “B-Beel…” He quickly got up, helping you to your feet. He straightened the new wrinkles in your clothes, frowning as he cupped your face, squishing your cheeks as he checked you over for wounds. “Beel..I’m okay.” 

He let you go as you grabbed his wrists, his brows furrowed deep in worry. “See, Master, I told you it’s dangerous. We should go right to your room.” 

“You also said the same thing about my soup, Beel…but...thank you...you always know right when to get me out of trouble.” 

With that, he widely beamed. “Of course, Master. That’s my main goal. I will do anything to make sure you are safe...”

Of course, none of that changes whether Beel is a maid or not. Protection is what he does best, that and eating. Although, as a maid, you never have to worry about him stealing your food...so you at least for a bit longer, your snacks are safe. 

Belphie 

He wasn’t the biggest of fans about the notion of being a maid. It just...sounded like so much work. Endless amounts of chores and menial labor? No thank you. Other than picking up after himself and the occasional chore rotation, cleaning for him was saved for mostly punishments passed out by Lucifer. So, being a maid sounded like torture. However, three things finally convinced him to come around to the idea. One, he always enjoyed ruffling Lucifer’s feathers whenever he could, and this had a lot of potential. Two, Beel was going along with it, and usually he followed his twin wherever he went. And three, you told him it was fine that he didn’t want to do it, which suddenly persuaded him to go along. He never said that he didn’t want to, but now that you mentioned it, he was going to do the opposite. 

His uniform is extra poofy and soft. The sleeves are round, the skirt almost sticks out more than Levi’s, and his legs are covered in fleece-lined leggings. His apron and headband are covered in a cow print pattern, and a purple choker necklace decorates his neck. You attempted to coax his tail free to tie a small cowbell around the end of it, but he didn’t entertain the idea. Too noisy.

He’s mostly assigned to dust and straighten cushions and pillows. However, the idea was a bit flawed seeing as how he’d usually end up falling asleep on aforementioned pillows, only to have to have them be messed up right after he fixed them. Although, to be perfectly honest, he’d end up falling asleep no matter what chore he’d been assigned. Just seeing him work though is a feat in itself.

Belphie as a maid hardly changes a thing personality wise, he still tries to pry you away from your responsibilities, tempting you to join him in his slothful ways. So, alongside Mammon and Levi, he focuses on making you happy first and foremost, only, he hopes your wishes coincide along his own. 

“Hey, Master, you look tired, how about you come take a nap? I did just fluff up your pillows for you, don’t they look cozy?” 

“What does it matter what Lucifer suggested? You’re the Master, do whatever you want. He won’t be able to stop you.” 

“I...zzz...no don’t eat that...Beel...Huh!? No I wasn’t sleeping, Master, I was just testing this cushion’s comfort levels. It passes.” 

“Okay, I usually say it as a joke, but you’ve been up way too late, Master. Here, it’s a nice cup of hot chocolate I made for you, it should make you sleepy. Once you’re done, we’re going straight to sleep. Yes, I said we.” 

He might not have changed all too much, but he does seem a bit happier, not as nonchalant about everything, plus he does get an absolute kick out of seeing Lucifer work alongside his siblings like everyone else. Although, the nighttime is when he thrives. While everyone else is asleep, he makes nightly rounds, ensuring everyone gets good rest, even Lucifer as much as Belphie acts like he can’t stand him. 

During the night, if you can’t sleep or end up waking during odd hours, he enjoys being the only maid around. He can have you to himself, and it’s hard to deny a Master who looks as cute as you do when you’re sleepy. 

“Another restless night?” He snuck into your room without a sound. He always seemed to know when you were awake. 

“Yeah...just my brain won’t shut up I guess.” You groaned, your body trying to remind you that you were exhausted, your muscles aching as you moved. 

“That won’t do at all. As much as I would enjoy you being up with me, my Master needs good rest.” He shook his head, and held out a single finger as he told you to wait before speeding away. When he returned, he threw a few more pillows onto your bed and unfurled a different blanket. Albeit a little forcefully, he shoved you back down onto the bed, pulling the new blanket over your shoulders. It surrounded you with fuzzy warmth, your eyes already heavy. The pillows smelled like sugar and lavender. “A little bit of help from Asmo and a nice dryer.” He settled down on his knees near your bedside, telling you stories about the stars until you fell into a restful sleep. 

He might not be the best at his tasks, but he always served you in his own little ways.

[morgana-ren]

Just Business

Summary: You’re a loan shark looking to expand your enterprise to the League of Villains. Lucky for you, Dabi might just be willing to hear you out. As long as you can prove your loyalty to him, that is. 

Rating: E for not everyone. Explicit. Do I release anything else?

Baby’s first Dabi fic. Just testing the waters, folks. I know nothing about this man. Literally nothing.

Money lending is such a nasty business. 

Some poor sap shuffles in nervously shifting his fingers and recites some rehearsed script about why he needs the cash and how he’s good for it, and then you throw him a wad and pretend to make up some important deadline. He thanks you profusely and thumbs through the cash as he leaves, and you’ve still got your heels kicked up on your desk as you tell a goon to keep an eye on him. 

Sometimes their reaction to your ‘charity’ varies, but one thing always stays the same. They can never pay it back. 

Some run. Some try to hide. Some bolt the second the cash hits their fists, boarding the first train out of town. Some genuinely try to do the right thing. The result is the same. 

You track them down. Your boot, their neck. They cry, you extort. 

It’s not about the money. It never is. Wealth is fine and good but no amount of monetary fortune can amount to having another thread in the network web you’re building. You’ll let them off the hook and they’ll spy for you, lie for you, even put their neck on the line because they have no other choice. Info is worth infinitely more than a petty loan, and what you invest in their short sighted schemes is repaid tenfold. 

You knew something was up with the shifty little prick the second he walked in the door. He asked for an exorbitant amount and could never meet your eyes when he told you just what he planned to do with it. It sounded too rehearsed, even for your usual clientele. Almost like someone told him what to say and just how to say it. 

In this business, you learn to call a spade a spade, but even as he sat on his knees with his gaze shifted away from you and practically screaming tells, you felt there was something deeper. A truth buried deep within his lies. Something interesting. Something you wanted to know. 

You give the poor bastard the money. 

Sending a runner to watch his schedule confirms your beliefs. He walks into a dilapidated abandoned building not long after leaving the meeting with your thick wad of cash in hand and leaves with only a few bills, though he looks relieved for his trouble. You have his face, his name, a dossier on his entire life. He’s far too unguarded for someone into something so nefarious. Someone sent this little gnat into your domain and didn’t expect you to follow the thread. They were mistaken. Whoever this man works for, he’s the only lead into something deeper. 

Your little flies swarm the building only to find it empty. No trace of who you had been dealing with, no clues to lead you to the heart of your curiosity. Only dust splayed across concrete and a fire with the ashes still warm. 

All your contacts and all your pull only give you one lead: the League of Villains. 

A down-on-their-luck outfit of outcasts and outlaws. Their leader had been making some big moves with a large financier some months ago, but things turned disastrous and no one had heard a peep since. It doesn’t surprise you to hear they’re rebuilding, but what intrigues you is that they’re making such risky pulls to do it. Borrowing money they clearly cannot pay back from a loan shark with a reputation of ruthlessness. 

It should make you mad, being ripped off and deceived like that. 

It doesn’t. 

If anything, it tickles you. You didn’t even have to put out any feelers and they had loitered into your web. You’d had your eyes on them for some time, curious about their leader and their members. They could prove a worthy investment, if given the chance. You never had an in with them since they never needed your services, but it seems that they hand delivered one in desperation.

It becomes a matter of baiting and trapping. 

You wait and you listen. The debt date approaches and it’s only a matter of time. It doesn’t surprise you when the same man wanders back into your office and hands you a thick stack of bills, more than twice what you had offered him. You most definitely are surprised to find him returning but you accept his offering with a smile, running your finger along the bills to keep up appearances. 

“It seems you find yourself quite wealthy! You simply must tell me how you’ve made such a grand turn around!”

He swallows hard at your compliment, raising a hand to the back of his head and scratching nervously. “Luck, Ma’am. Nothing more. I find myself in fortune and simply wish to repay your great kindness.” 

“Of course.” You smile at him, allowing him to take his leave. Now the real game begins. 

Your little spies follow him as he weaves through the streets into the industrial part of town. He ducks into another decrepit building, closing the door firmly behind him. He emerges a few moments later only to tuck a receipt of payment and a few more bills into his shirt. The pace he has is slower now, more relaxed. He believes he’s free, shaken clean of your webbing and can breathe without fear now. 

How wrong he is. 

The look of terror on his face as you block his exit from the alley almost makes you feel sorry for him. He immediately becomes defensive, backing up several feet despite the absence of your body guards. He’s not afraid of you. He’s afraid of who is watching. 

“What are you doing here? I paid you!” 

“You have.” You acknowledge, bowing your head. “I’m not here for money. I simply ask for information. That’s not so terrible, is it? This doesn’t have to be unpleasant.”

“I don’t know anything!” 

“But of course you do!” You draw closer and he trips over his own feet, falling flat to the alley floor. “That money wasn’t for you, was it? You have no prospects, no family or land or investments of your own. Only a crippling gambling debt, yes? Paying debt doesn’t accumulate currency, so clearly you must have had some grand scheme. I’m very interested in your process.” 

You bend down, venom gathering behind your fangs as you stroke his petrified face with a cool finger. “From one brilliant mind to another. I’ll keep it a secret. I promise.”

“I- Well-” He looks around anxiously, stumbling over words but so close to breaking. It won’t take much on your part to get him to crack. 

Or it wouldn’t have, anyway. 

A bolt of vibrant blue flame speeds toward you from around a corner almost quicker than you can process and it’s only barely that you manage to dodge it by shoving yourself clumsily backward. The unbelievable heat from the blast doesn’t escape you, and you cover your face as the alleyway erupts in fire, engulfing your only lead in flames and incinerating him before you could make a move to save him and whatever it is he had to say. The smell of charred flesh is overwhelming and despite the obvious threat, you can’t help but smile. 

A tall figure walks fearlessly through the inferno, hands in his pockets and seeming almost bored as he kicks over the ashen figure that was human only seconds ago. “I knew we shouldn’t have trusted this idiot.” 

You stay silent, face shielded from the encompassing heat by your palm as he approaches. Inky black hair and a pale body covered in muldering skin, maroon scars stapled together with metal and sheer force of will. His threadbare coat billows around his feet as he trudges down the alleyway toward you. His eyes are a striking shade of blue, focused on you with an empty expression. 

The ends of your hair have singed and your face itches, but it’s nothing compared to the accomplishment you feel. You had a feeling that toying with some strings might bring the cat out to play. 

“So you’re one of the League.” 

You stand up, brushing the dirt off your knees and stabilizing yourself on the wall despite the overwhelming heat. 

“Sure. You’re that babe that lent us the money, right? That was nice of you.” He stops just short of you, arms withdrawing from his pockets and igniting with indigo flame. “Now why don’t you scram? You got your money, what happens from here isn’t your business.”

“Oh, it’s not all business.” You coyly tell him, running him once over with your eyes. “Sometimes it’s just pleasure. Are there other fine, strapping young lads like you in the League or am I just one lucky girl?”

“That depends.” He scoffs, puffing air out of his stapled cheeks. “Do you get any better at prying for information or is this the best you can do?” 

“Oh!” A dramatic gesture and you cross your hands over your heart, already coating your hands in sticky, silken thread. “You wound me!” 

“I’ll wound you a hell of a lot worse if you don’t get out of here.” His fist clenches, and a burst of ever increasing heat emanates from the fire engulfing his hand. “Last I checked, fire still kills spiders.” 

“You’d burn down your own home to kill a single little spider? I’m flattered.” 

Before he can retort, you kick one of your feet out behind you, jumping toward him and latching your legs around his midsection. Your hands are quick to wrap around his own as he tumbles to the ground, burning through the layers of webbing drooling from your fingers. The viscous cobweb coats his palms and successfully extinguishes his flames, if only for a moment. It won’t be long, but hopefully it will give you the time you need. You slather the mixture onto the ground next to his head, immobilizing his arms and trapping him beneath you. 

He looks panicked for a moment, trying desperately to activate his quirk, but it can’t get the air his fire needs to breathe through your gossamer web. You keep steady on his bucking hips, as chuckling he tries to pry his hands free of your thick, durable weave. Once he realizes it’s not going to happen and you haven’t killed him yet, he seems to relax, if only slightly. 

“So, it’s not just a nickname.” He muses, teal eyes focused on your fangs through your grinning lips. “You know, I kill spiders when they’re in my house.” 

You throw him a faux pout, grabbing his jaw with your middle finger and thumb and holding him steady as you inspect the staples that line his jaw. “You’re so cruel. I’m just trying to protect my web. You can’t truly blame me, can you? You’d do the same.” 

His hips thrash again and this time you don’t hold back the little moan it coaxes from you, His pupils dilate and for a brief second he seems frozen. At least before a smarmy smirk tugs at his upper lip. “You got your money, doll. I’m starting to think this isn’t business after all.”

“Maybe it’s not.” You lean down, running your tongue across the textured expanse of his neck and stifling a giggle when he stiffens. “Maybe I see potential in your little group and I want in.” 

“That’s nice of you.” He juts his face toward you only for you to pull back. “But it’s really not up to me.” 

You withdraw your hand from his jaw and run it down his chest instead, fingertips slowly stimulating the rough, scarred skin beneath his neck. “Then who is it up to?” 

“That would be the boss.” He grins, one hand breaking free of your web and immediately finding purchase in your hair. You go to grab his wrist but he tuts you, threatening you with a familiar warmth on your scalp. Long, skinny fingers coil around your roots and yank your head back, and eventually his other hand breaks free, coming up to grip at your waist. “And he’s going to want nothing to do with you.” 

He pulls you down closer to him, the moist heat from his breath collecting on the side of your neck as he keeps you steady on top of him. You can feel him hardening between your legs and you can’t help but wiggle your hips to bolster the sensation. 

“What do I need to do, then?” 

“I’d be willing to put in a good word for you,” The hand on your waist slides down to grip your ass, clenching the fatty skin and slowly moving you back and forth atop his hips. “If you’re okay with working for it.” 

“You’d be so generous, yeah?” You gyrate your lower body against him, feeling the head of his cock poking your clit through his rough jeans. 

“You’d be surprised what I’ll do if you make it worth it.”

“I guess I have no choice then.” Your tongue runs over the point of your fangs, swallowing back all the venom you’d had so ready. Sometimes it’s easier to catch flies with honey than vinegar, and you had the sweetest honey of all right between your thighs. 

“Say the word and I’ll let you walk away, babe.” His fingers loosen their hold on your body but don’t relinquish entirely. “But if you don’t, I’m going to need you to prove your loyalty.”

You push his body down with your chest until the back of his head meets the gravel, allowing him to keep his hold on you. “I���m very loyal.” 

Your tits squish against his pecs and he sneaks a less than inconspicuous peak at them, cock throbbing against your apex. “Prove it.”

You don’t need any further prompting. He almost protests as you shake his hand free and scoot back farther down his legs, at least until he realizes what you’re doing. Your deft fingers work at the buttons of his jeans, yanking them down to his thighs before resituating yourself and working on your own buttons, pulling at them painfully slowly. Once you’ve both exposed yourself to the open air, you can’t help but look at his cock, thick and bobbing against his stomach. It’s one of the only parts of him that isn’t scarred and latched with metal, but the weeping tip looks so inviting. Every bone in your body wants to take him in your mouth and make him see God through sheer force of tongue, but you’ve got a job to do and there’s no time for play. Not this time anyway. 

You sit up on your knees until he’s aligned with your hole, sinking down just enough to tease him with your tightness. He groans, trying to pull you down further, but you’re not having it. You arch your back, keeping your knees steady and allowing only the very tip of his cock to enter you. 

“Fuck- hurry it up, would you?” 

You grab his hands and push them down by his head again, sinking down on him as slow as you possibly can. His eyes roll back in his head, and he hisses all manner of curses as you situate him nice and snug between your suffocating walls. The head of his cock prods at your cervix as you sit on top of him but the fullness stuffed between your thighs forces a breathy moan from you. 

He gives you no time to adjust to his girth, pumping his hips up into you as you’re still catching your breath. “Shit! You’re pretty fuckin tight, babe!” A shiver rolls down his back as his hands move to your hips and try to force you harder up and down against him

“So impatient.” You croon, licking up his neck again before sinking your fangs deep into the rough tissue. 

“Fuck!” 

He’s almost ready to shove you off of him before you start rolling your hips, letting his cock burrow deep into your silken cunt again and again, running your tongue along the column of his throat and nipping softly to gain his trust. You’re not trying to poison him, not now. Your job right now is to gift him pleasure, and so you will. 

“Risky-” He huffs in your ear, one hand smacking down hard enough on your ass that you yelp. “Toying with me like that. I can guess what those fangs can do.” 

“If only you knew everything.” You sigh, letting his hands go in favor of pulling back, your palms finding his knees behind you as your back arches and puts your tits on display for him. 

He can’t resist. The only thing separating him from your chest is a flimsy shirt which he quickly disposes of, heating his fingers enough that the fabric begins to shred before he swiftly pulls it apart. He quickly takes advantage of the fact that your milky tits are within reaching distance, latching on to a nipple and sucking almost painfully. 

A high pitched keen escapes your throat as he puffs and hollows his cheeks, slobbering on your chest with one hand on the crook of your shoulder to keep you anchored close. His cock pummels your insides, pelvis stimulating your clit as you ride him. You’re clinging to control but you can feel it slipping with every sloppy lick of his tongue and every brutal thrust of his hips. His heaving becomes more and more erratic, moist breath practically burning your chest on the odd second he pulls away to watch your face. Your eyes close and you lose yourself in the euphoria of his cock, letting him hit you deep and hard just where you need it. Eventually, he releases your nipple from his mouth and you figure you’re both about to cum. 

That comes to a screeching halt when he slows his pistoning, grabbing your waist with both hands and keeping you from riding him either. 

“What the hell!” You whine, trying and failing to chase your rapidly disappearing orgasm. 

“Dabi.” He hisses, bringing a hand up and kneading your breast with fingers that are too hot to handle, squeezing your nipple and sending another jolt of hot pleasure between your legs. 

“What?” 

Your teeth are clenching, active frustration boiling in your gut. You were so close. Somehow he knows, but he knocks you off of him, watching with mirthful eyes as you land on your butt beside him. Instead of mocking you, he sits up and quickly pulls off his coat, throwing to the ground behind him and spreading it around haphazardly. Before you have time to question, he lurches forward, grabbing you by the throat and throwing you down onto the fabric beneath him. 

“I wanna hear you say it.” He says, maneuvering your legs open and placing his thick cock back at your drooling cunt. “When you cum on my dick, I wanna hear you say my name.” 

He refuses to move until you acknowledge him, so you do. 

“P-please? Dabi?” 

“Good girl” He purrs, plunging inside you again so fast you hardly have time to recover. The hand around your neck heats and you scream, at least until a pair of charred lips forces themselves against your open ones. He pounds into you with renewed energy, slamming with a force that jerks your head back with every thrust. The hand that isn’t firmly clasped around your throat finds its way between your legs and rubs in tight, calculated circles. His slick tongue worms into your throat, licking the front of your teeth.

“You’re cute-” he huffs into your open mouth. “I might keep you around. You’re more useful to me as a whore than a loan shark. Is that what you want, doll? To take my loads in your warm little holes? I’ll take real good care of you.”

You want to tell him no. You have a business, a mission. But as he drills deeper inside you, you’re so close to saying whatever he wants so long as he doesn’t stop. The electric warmth between your thighs is rapidly building, coiling up and ready to burst and you’ll say whatever he wants as long as he keeps fucking you. 

Some part of him must sense this, because he pulls away from your throat, weaving his fingers up through the crown of your head again and pulling you up to face him. His eyes are glazed, sweat dripping down his temple and he huffs breath through his nostrils that’s practically steam at this point. 

“Beg me to cum.” 

“Please-” 

His fingers work against your clit but just enough to keep the pleasure from fading. You need it faster. You need it harder.

“More!” 

He hums and licks up your lips, slipping his tongue between your teeth again for a brief second. “What’s the magic word?” 

The fingers on your pussy heat slightly as he applies more pressure, watching you through heavily lidded eyes as you writhe and squirm. 

“D-Dabi!” 

“Such a good girl. Say ‘Dabi please let me cum!”

It’s degrading and filthy but fuck you want it. Plus, remember, this is just business. Right?

“Dabi! P-Please let me cum on your cock! Please! I-I need-!” 

He bites down on your bottom lip before the words can leave your swollen tongue. Your body wiggles restlessly as you wait for him to give you what he promised. 

“Good girls get rewards.” 

His hips pull back and shove almost impossibly deep inside, forcing a loud cry from you before he slams mouth down onto yours. His fingers work overtime on your engorged clit, utilizing the wetness seeping from your hole as his cock thrusts in and out. His tongue worms past your lips again and explores every inch he can reach, chuckling as you moan shamelessly into his mouth. 

Though he starts off with a precise rhythm, it quickly becomes erratic as he chases his own pleasure while delivering yours. The hand at your apex is working overtime and the one in your hair is warm enough that you’d likely be a bit worried if you had the mental capacity. He uses both of them to maneuver you to his precise liking, fucking into you like you’re a pliable little doll built solely for his pleasure. 

He’s mumbling incoherently, breathing hot and heavy against your cheek. Your needy moans and whimpers only drive him to move faster and harder as your own hips work double time to meet his powerful pulsating. If you weren’t the one making the noises, you never would have believed it was you. 

“Fuck- shit! Gunna cum nice and deep in your pretty little cunt! Gunna make sure you’re dripping for days-“ He cuts off partway through to let out a heafy groan as you clench your muscles tighter to milk him. “God, so fucking tight-“

Your orgasm is approaching quickly, pain from his bony hips digging into the fleshy fat of your thighs barely a whisper compared to the white hot pressure building at the base of your spine. You can feel his cock twitch against your cervix with every punch against it and you know he’s close too. 

You dig your nails in, fingers clamped against his shoulders and using his movements to build your own momentum. The cacophony of moans between you two becomes louder and more unhinged, him whispering depraved fantasies in your ear that only drive you further to completion. Your head falls back down to the ground as you lose the ability to keep it up any longer, cord finally snapping and unraveling as he throws you over the edge. 

You practically scream as he continues fucking you through your orgasm, legs constricting ever tighter around his narrow hips as you push yourself up harder to chase every ounce of sensation he has to offer you. Stars dance behind your shut eyes and your entire body buzzes with prickling bliss that radiates from your core. You can’t feel the pain in your knees from the asphalt before he flipped you or the localized ache from him ripping at your hair; only the overwhelming, pulsing euphoria as he continues to hit that sweet, spongy spot deep inside you as you ride out your peak. 

His animalistic grunts turn even more primal as your walls flutter around his thick cock, clenching and pulsing around him until he can’t hold back the tide of cresting pleasure anymore. Hot cum floods your insides, so warm you swear it nearly burns you. He continues pumping as it begins to leak from inside you, obscene squelching echoing from the point of entry. He turns his head, finding the crook of your neck and biting down hard enough you cry out, marking you one last time as he continues to stroke himself with your cunt until every last drop has been drained. 

His cock throbs for a moment before slowly softening inside you as he tries to see straight. You’ve yet to open your eyes, only twitching in overstimulation as he withdraws his hand from between your slippery thighs. He allows you to catch your breath for a moment before lightly pushing himself up off of you, careful not to hurt you. 

You slowly regain the ability to move your body and rollout from underneath him, wobbling legs dropping you back onto the cement instead of allowing you to stand when you try. It’s a struggle to pull up your pants since your legs have decided they no longer want to work, but somehow you manage to get them pulled up and buttoned, Dabi’s cum seeping from between your thighs and staining onto the fabric. Dabi himself hoists himself to his feet, using the wall as support. He’s trying desperately to seem unaffected but you don’t miss the falter of his legs like a newborn fawn when he first rises to his feet. 

“Thanks doll, that was fun.” He somehow manages to bend over and grab his coat from the floor, snaking his arms through the armholes and readjusting it over his chest. “I think I’ll be in touch.”

You raise your head, cocking an eyebrow at him. “You think?”

“I dunno.” He shrugs, beginning his walk back down the alleyway where he came from. He turns to look at you one last time, sly grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “I might need some more convincing.” 

[thiswasinevitableid]

for the mermay fills: indruck, 25, any rating

Here you go! I went with SFW for this one.

The thing no one tells you about journeys of self-discovery is that they’re really fucking boring.

Duck’s been on this highway for days, and another highway for the days before that. He wanted to see the desert in the spring, but it’s involved fewer super-blooms and more butterflies dying on his windshield than he hoped.

Now he’s on some two lane strip of barely paved road in the vast expanse between Las Vegas and Reno. Green catches his eye to his left; a ribbon of well-watered trees shines in the distance. Closer to the road are dueling picket signs shoved into the ground, some demanding the preservation of the tiny pocket of wetlands and others proclaiming this the site of the Hungry Man Casino expansion. The signs continue all the way to the tiny town of Kepler, where he pulls into a gas station in front of Tarkesian’s General Store.

After filling the tank and chatting with the owner and his incongruous New York accent, Duck decides to stop in Kepler for the night. The road north is mostly open range, and he’s already had one near miss with a cow on a pitch black stretch of asphalt. The lone place to rest is the Reconciliation Motel Court and Casino. He gets his key, pulls up to the chipped door, and flops onto the burnt orange bedspread for a nap.

He doesn’t wake up until eight at night, wondering what the hell is wrong with the other guests that they’re all playing music loud enough for him to hear. He counts at least six separate voices, their overlap meaning the lyrics turn to gibberish. It’s still hot and stuffy in the room, and maybe outside will be quiet. He pulls on his swim trunks and rash guard; a peek out the window at the pool shows it’s empty and that, plus the general sparseness of the parking lot, makes him confident enough that he won’t bump into anyone and try to make up some lie about being shy or mormon or whatever the hell else would explain a dude keeping a top on to swim.

But, just his luck, when he latches the pool gate shut, he discovers he’s not alone. A man with silver hair floats in the pool, eyes closed. When Duck sets a towel on the chair, his eyes fly open and he dives under the water, giving Duck twin shocks: glowing red eyes and a long, jet black tail.

“What the fuck?” He says aloud in case someone else is watching and can explain why there’s a fucking mermaid in the pool.

The merman resurfaces, blinking at him, “How in the world did you get in here?”

“Uhhhh…” Duck points to the gate.

“You...you see the pool? Do you see the motel as well?”

Duck turns, wondering if this is some kind of prank, “yeah?”

“Apologies” the merman swims to the edge of the pool nearest him, “it was such an unlikely future I am having a hard time processing it.”

“You’re havin a hard time”

“Oh, oh of course, this is all very confusing to you. Here, have a seat.” He gestures to one of the pool chairs. Not knowing what else to do, Duck sits.

“Now, have you heard singing while you have been here?”

“Yep. Thought it was the other guests.”

The merman shakes his head, “They are sirens. As am I. We are the descendants of sirens who lived here in the days when there was far more water in this area. As the water dwindled, we made our home in that river and wetlands” he points towards the south end of town, “and then the founders of this fine establishment decided to catch us and use us to lure people to their rundown casino. Since you are about to ask, a siren song shows you what you want; turns out many people want the promise of easy money, food, or sex. But you...somehow you do not seem to respond to it.”

Duck shrugs, “Guess not.”

“I wonder...hmm, perhaps you do not want anything?”

“Don’t think that’s it. Been drivin up and down the country lookin for somethin I want but can’t name.”

The merman rests his arms on the concrete, “You must tell me everything about your travels.”

“I mean, uh, they ain’t all that excitin-”

“I have been stuck in this pool for three years.”

“Okay yeah, more excitin than that. Also, what the fuck?”

“There are ones like it in almost all the lower level rooms. I get stuck out here because I will not sing, but due to having future sight I am too valuable to do away with.”

“This ain’t gettin less fucked up.”

The merman laughs, “Perhaps that is why you don’t fall prey to our song; you are just very honest.”

“That a nice way of sayin I can’t lie for shit?”

“I suppose so.” He grins, sharp teeth glinting in the yellow streetlights, “regardless, I am glad you are not susceptible. I haven’t spoken to anyone aside from the owners in months. They even keep me from my own kind.” His tone is breezy, but Duck sees the flash of pain in his eyes.

“What’s your name?”

“Indrid. Yours?”

“Can’t you see it comin?” He teases.

“Yes, but I want to hear you say it. I get ahead of others often enough as it is.”

“Duck. It’s a nickname.”

Indrid flips his tail once, “Care to join me for an evening swim, Duck.”

“You ain’t gonna eat me or anythin, right?”

“I only taste humans when offered” His tail undulates hypnotically as he pushes into deeper water. Then he pauses, “that was meant as flirtation and not as a threat.”

Duck slides into the water, smiling when he meets Indrid’s nervous gaze “Yeah, I got that.”

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

“See, you can tell it’s a saguaro because--fuck” the camera slips from Duck’s hand, only for Indrid’s to shoot out and catch it before it hits the water.

“Thanks, ‘Drid, startin’ to wonder what I’d do without you.”

The mer, cheek resting on the warm concrete, shifts sideways so he can bump Duck’s knee with his forehead, “The feeling is mutual.”

For the last two weeks Duck’s stayed at the motel, watching his fellow occupants walk zombie-like through doors or stagger from them in a daze when their money runs out and the owners kick them to the curb to make way for new targets. Following Indrid’s instructions, he delivers messages between the trapped sirens, the kind they dare not sing aloud, brings them things they’re missing, like favorite foods or things to do, when he can manage it.

He’s also careful to spend time in town, away from any lingering influence of the siren songs. Leo Tarkesian gives him a job in the store, and he strikes up a friendship with a woman going by the name of Mama, who comes in once a week with beautiful wood carvings for Leo to set out for sale. It turns out her family used to own the motel before Reconciliation swooped in and stole it in what Mama insists was an illegal move.

“Worst part is, they crowed about creatin jobs, bringin’ in more tourists. But they won’t let no one outside their inner circle work there, and folks who stop never leave and visit the rest of town. Now they’re gunnin for the state park. But they ain’t gonna get away with it this time.”

More than anything, Duck spends his time with Indrid. The siren tells him stories about life in the wetlands and river, Duck tells him about his travels, about his home, talks with him until the stars come out, would stay until they go away again except the mer tells him he needs his sleep.

Indrid is a very encouraging conversation partner, disdain and aloofness only appearing when he has to speak to the owners of the motel. He’s also very affectionate, resting his head in Duck’s lap or winding his tail around him whenever he stands in the water. Which is why, when he asks Duck if he’s made up his mind about what to do come fall, his fingers are stroking the humans back and his tail is lazily petting his legs.

“I dunno. I could go back and finish my degree, become a ranger and all that. But what if I’m only doin that because I feel like it’s what I’m supposed to do?”

Indrid brushes Duck’s hair from his forehead, “When you think of the future where you meet that goal, how do you feel.”

“Happy. Content. Like, like there’s a thing I can do to keep the world healthy and whole. Sometimes I feel like I’m supposed to be out there savin the world, solvin every problem, makin everythin better. And that’s too damn much. But when I think about havin some forest or park or somethin where part of my job is to care for it, help it grow...yeah, think I could do that.” He smiles at the image of his future self those words conjure.

Indrid smiles at the current him, brushes their noses together, “It seems to me that you have your answer.”

Duck loops his arms around Indrid’s waist, “Then again, could just stay here, look after you and the other sirens forever.”

Chlorine stings his eyes as Indrid zips backwards, looking as if he’s been slapped.

“‘Drid? What’s wrong?”

“You cannot stay here any longer.”

“What do you mean? I wanna stay. I wanna be with you.”

“No! Don’t you see? This is how the song gets you. It is making you think that your greatest wish is to stay in this crumbling motel, looking after a siren who has seen better days.”

“Hold the fuck on” Duck tries to swim to him, only for Indrid to swim further out of reach, “‘Drid, it’s real fuckin insultin to tell a fella that the only reason he feels how he feels is because of a magic song. Maybe I am startin to feel the effects, but I know that when I think about you, no matter how near or far to this fuckin pool I am, I wanna be with you. I’ve fallen in love before, I can recognize the feelin from a mile away. And it’s what I’m feelin now.” He crosses his arms, daring Indrid to argue.

The siren swims to him, cups his face in cool hands, “It’s what I feel too. Why do you think I cannot ask you to stay? I am a prisoner here, Duck. If you remain for my sake, you will be one as well. I cannot do that to you. I know the agony of being cut off from the world you love, and you have so much love yet to give it I cannot, will not, rob you of the chance to do so.”

“I…” Duck he mirrors Indrid’s touch, runs his thumbs along his cheeks.

“Please” Indrid kisses him once, softly, “please, if you love me, don’t stay here and make me watch you decay.”

Duck pulls Indrid as close as he can, kisses him until his lips ache and the siren is pliant and purring in his arms.

“I’ll go. I fuckin hate the idea of leavin you here, but I’ll go.”

“Thank you.”

“There’s just one thing you gotta let me do first. Will you let me introduce you to another human? She’s got almost as much cause to hate Reconciliation as you do, and I got a hunch you two might be able to help each other out.”

Indrid cocks his head, then nods, “Of course, my love. Just tell her to wear earplugs and bring something to write on.”

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

The cottonwoods rustle in the summer breeze as Indrid floats lazily down the river on his back. A family is picnicking outside the visitor center, but only the youngest member of it sees him. She waves. He raises his tail in reply, smiling when she spills her drink in delight.

Most sirens give the heavily trafficked parts of the park a wide berth, still wary of interactions with humans. Indrid doesn’t blame them; Reconciliation was chased out ten years ago, but their memory lingers like smog. He himself stays clear of unfamiliar groups of humans whenever possible.

But today, the futures show him the park is welcoming a new ranger. And so he swims back and forth, hoping the recent arrival will see him. Hoping he remembers.

“I’m sorry sir, but swimmin ain’t allowed in this chunk of the river.” A teasing drawl drifts over his shoulder.

He spins in what he hopes is an elegant way, accidentally splashing the figure on the bank behind him.

“Of course.” He grins, swimming over and resting his arms on the bank and batting his eyelashes as the ranger crouches down to meet him, “how very rude of me. I am terribly sorry.”

Duck’s smile is brimming with years of stored up affection, the lines on his face hinting at stories Indrid cannot wait to hear, “S’okay. For my favorite roadside siren, I’m happy to make an exception.”

[outerbonks]

complicated - jj maybank

Thanks for all the love on my last post, I really appreciate it ♡ let me know what you think of this one and if you think I should make more parts :)

Summary: You're a kook and JJ doesn't like you at all. That's what he wants everyone to believe anyway.

Word count: +2K

Warning (s): swearing, drinking

Masterlist ♡

Music pumped through the boneyard as you danced around with your friends, being a kook, you tried to avoid being on the pogue side of the island as much as possible, but keggers in the boneyard were impossible to pass up.

For the past fifteen minutes you'd been lost in the music, dancing and singing, admittedly buzzed from all of the cheap beer you'd drank throughout the night.

"Y/n! You came!" A voice called from behind you and you whipped around to see your friend Kie smiling brightly at you.

Giving her a big hug and returning her smile you nodded, "Yeah, great party!"

Kie was a sweetheart, you'd met her in school after her falling out with Sarah Cameron in the ninth grade, she was a breath of fresh air compared to some of the other snobs that attended the private high school and you both got along like a house on fire.

There was one issue with hanging out with her outside of school though. That issue was that her friends hated you- well, not all of them, only one of them actually, but he really really really didn't like you.

JJ Maybank has been a dick to you ever since he first met you. You don't remember doing anything to have pissed the hotheaded boy off but you never let his hostility fly.

Whenever he had something to quip at you, you had something just as snarky to throw back in his face. He didn't know anything about you yet felt the need to run his mouth about you as if he knew all of your deepest darkest secrets, when in reality the boy probably didn't even know your middle name.

At the beginning of your little rivalry with JJ, you had tried to be the bigger person and show him that you weren't like the other kooks. Of course he was having none of it.

So when Kie grabbed your hand and exclaimed, "Come sit with me and my friends!" Your stomach dropped and even in your tipsy state you knew that it wasn't a good idea.

"I dunno, Kie. I don't wanna fight with anyone tonight…" You trailed off with a pout, you'd had a shitty week at work and tonight was supposed to allow you to unwind and not be stressed out by a boy who hated you for reasons you didn't even know.

"Look, I'll handle JJ if he says anything okay? Just please come on, John B said he missed you." Kie pleaded with you, a triumphant 'yes' exiting her mouth when you sighed in defeat and began walking with her in the direction of her friends.

When you got to the boys who were all sat on logs, John B perked up, the tall boy immediately standing up to greet you with a hug.

"I haven't seen you in forever! Why haven't you been hanging out?" John B asked you with a concerned face, holding you at arms length.

"We've been super swamped at work, lots of new people coming in for the summer so I picked up a few extra shifts to help out." You explained to him but turned your face in the direction where the scoff had just come from.

"As if you need any more money than you already get from mommy and daddy." JJ grumbled sarcastically, looking to get a rise out of you.

You meant what you said to Kie earlier about not wanting to get in a fight, you were too tired.

"It's volunteer work, actually." You muttered bitterly before taking a seat between Kie and John B.

Most of your weekends and now weekdays since school ended for summer were spent volunteering at the old folks home on figure eight. It wasn't too stressful, you get paired up with an old person and you keep them company for the day, play board games and do things for them. It doesn't sound so bad, is exactly what you were thinking when you applied for it, but the hours were long and the nurses that worked there were assholes.

You'd dealt with enough snarky douche bags this week, you didn't want to have to deal with the blond boy too. You'd be using energy you just didn't have.

Luckily the conversation moved on quickly and you were all laughing at something Pope said.

"Do you want another beer?" John B asked you, standing up.

"No thanks. I think I've had enough." You giggled up at him and he nodded his head in agreement with a smile before heading to the keg.

Once he left, JJ wasted no time in stealing his seat and plopping down beside you.

You let out an irritated sigh but didn't say anything, you knew what was about to happen.

"Want a hit?" He asked, showing you the joint he'd rolled. You couldn't help but look at him in confusion, him offering you anything other than a snide remark was uncharacteristic.

"I guess." You responded unsurely, only to get a click of his tongue in return, "Damn sucks you don't have a joint then."

In all fairness you should've seen it coming. Rolling your eyes you turned your face away from him as he lit up the weed.

While you were ignoring JJ and enjoying a conversation with Pope and Kie you were interrupted by a Touron who tapped you on the shoulder.

"Hey." You couldn't lie, the boy standing in front of you with a shy smile on his face was gorgeous.

You smiled brightly, looking up at him from your spot, "Hi there."

JJ watched with narrow eyes as the guy rubbed the back of his neck nervously, "I was wondering if maybe you'd want to dance with me for a bit?"

Before you could even respond, JJ threw an arm around your shoulder casually and looked at the poor boy dead in the eyes, "No. She doesn't."

It was your turn to narrow your eyes as the boy scurried away.

"What the fuck?" You seethed at JJ, knocking his hand off your shoulder and turning to face him.

The boy in question shrugged his shoulders innocently, "Didn't think you wanted to dance."

"How the hell would you know what I want? You don't even know me." The words were laced in venom and it was clear that you'd finally had enough, not allowing the blue eyed boy to get a word in as you exploded.

"I get it, ok? You hate me and that's fine. But don't for a second pretend to know what I'm about because you don't know shit about me." Your jaw was clenched and you delivered your words through gritted teeth, poking his chest roughly as you spoke.

JJ scoffed out a laugh, grabbing your wrist to stop your relentless poking, "I know exactly what you're about, princess."

Looking at him with pursed lips you snatched your wrist from his grasp and crossed your arms over chest, "Tell me." The demand came out stone cold and JJ's face was covered in confusion, "What?"

"Tell me what I'm about." The boy stared at you in bewilderment before cocking his head to the side and nodding, "Alright."

JJ cleared his throat before he started rattling off reasons as to why he hated you, "You're just like every other kook on this island, a spoiled brat who gets everything handed to you."

Shaking your head at his answer you leaned closer to him with a glare that made a chill run up his spine.

"No no no. We all know what a kook is JJ, no I want you to tell me what I'm about. C'mon, what's my biggest fear?" You pushed at his chest again, enjoying how he swallowed thickly and stayed quiet.

"What age was I when it all started going wrong? Why can't I wear dresses to parties? Huh?" The boy kept quiet, he didn't have an answer to any of your questions and the point you were making started to dawn on him.

"Come on! Since you know everything about what I'm about you must know the answers." 

JJ let out an aggravated huff and threw his hands up in defeat, "Well I don't, alright?" He shouted defensively.

Giving him a fake smile and nodding you stood up, towering over him now.

"Right. Because you don't fucking know me. So stop acting like you do when you've never even bothered to get to know me." You spat at him before storming away.

Kie and Pope watched with dissatisfied looks on their faces, "Man, you suck do you know that?" Kie sighed out as she watched you get smaller and smaller.

"Also you do know Y/n is like the sweetest person on the planet right?" John B chimed in, returning from the keg.

"Why do you hate her?" Pope asked, tilting his head in confusion, JJ not liking you had just been something they all accepted and never questioned.

JJ shrugged, chugging his drink and tossing the cup to the side, "She's a kook." 

Kie scoffed this time, "Yeah and? Everyone else loves her. I don't get why you always have to make her feel bad, she tried really hard to get along with you." 

JJ's feeling towards you were complicated, the rudeness between the two of you had admittedly started off as just banter and when he realized he'd been enjoying the back and forth a little too much he needed to regain his distance. No way in hell could he fall for a kook princess, even if you were one of the nicest people he'd ever met.

He's never felt bad about the remarks he threw you or arguments he caused because you always gave as good as you got. It pissed him off because it only made him admire you more. He didn't notice it was taking a lasting effect on you until your little outburst.

To top things off, Kie, Pope and John B were always gushing about how much fun you were to hang out with and how they wanted to hang out with you more often, truth be told he'd love to see you hanging around more but his pride just would not allow him to get close to you.

"Look, if it would make you all chill out I will go and I will propose a truce so you can all go back to macking on Y/n in peace." The boy offered and was met with a chorus of thank yous from his friends.

He had to jog up the beach until he eventually found you sitting on the sand, close to the shore line with a bottle of water, attempting to sober up before you went home.

"Hey, princess." JJ said, voice flat as he sat down beside you on the cold sand.

You glanced at him briefly and sighed, "I'm not up for a round two."

The boy shook his head, staring out at the ocean thoughtfully, "That's not why I'm here."

Furrowing your brows you turned your face toward his, "Then why are you here?"

He ran his fingers through his hair then met your eyes, "I'm sorry that I'm an asshole."

He never usually apologized, but then again, you never usually snapped either so you were both full of surprises tonight.

"I'm not sorry for snapping at you. You deserved it." You replied softly, returning your gaze to the water in front of you.

JJ let out an airy laugh, nodding in agreement. 

"I don't hate you by the way." He confessed quietly.

"Then why are you so mean all the time?" You asked in return.

Instead of answering your question he posed a new one to you, "Do you wanna know what I'm about?"

You nodded, determined to get to the bottom of the boy beside you.

"I'm about keeping people at a distance. I do that by being an asshole. I'm about caring too much about my reputation to let myself be nice to you." To let myself fall for you. He wanted to say, but he couldn't put all of his cards on the table like that.

Nodding in understanding you let out a weak, "Pogues vs kooks… right." You knew for a fact that if you were considered one of the pogues JJ would've never had an issue with you.

"Right." The boy confirmed with yet another nod of his head. 

A silence settled over you both before JJ stood up, dusting himself off, "Come hang out with us this weekend. The others want you to be there."

Giving him a weak smile and a nod you watched as he walked away. That boy would never fail to confuse you.

You just hoped that now that he told you he didn't hate you, that maybe he'd start acting like it.

Part 2

[rockofeye]

It’s Kouzen Season: More about Kouzen Zaka and His Family

As I wrote recently, the month of May is a special time for Kouzen and his family. Kouzen’s fet/feast day is May 1 and May 2, but fetes for Kouzen are held all through the month of May in Haiti and the Dyaspora.

In English, ‘kouzen’ translates to cousin and is a title that we address Kouzen as. He comes with a lot of different names: Azaka Mede, Azaka/Zaka Si, Azaka/Zaka La, Zaka Krib, Zaka Toné, Kouzen Mòn, and many others. He also is very, very close with his wife Kouzin, and there are a whole variety of children in fanmi Kouzen as well.

Kouzen is most well known as the minister of agriculture and work, and this is reflected in how we address him sometimes as Minis/Minister. He is vital to life in Haiti, as it is him that makes the crops grow and ensures there is enough food for the lakou to survive, as well as oversees business and money. It’s often said that even Haitians who don’t serve the lwa always give for Kouzen, because he determines success or failure and can answer hunger.

In some ways, he is also the living memory of Haiti; he carries the weight and knowledge of subsistence farming and how to survive with very little. He is a master medsin fèy (literally ‘leaf medicine’, refers to a practioner of bush medicine), and is often called upon to treat illness especially for folks who can’t afford a Western doctor or even a medsin fèy in the community. He is the reminder of where many Haitians come from and what Haiti used to be: a more rural island where farming and agriculture ruled over most other businesses. It’s not a coincidence that his month of May is also Haitian Heritage Month.

He is often referred to as a lwa travay/work lwa for his indefatigable work ethic. Kouzen knows what it is to be hungry and to suffer, so he is working all the time to make sure he never has to suffer again and that his family and those that he loves don’t suffer either. His fetes are often utilized as means to determine how the next year will go; if Kouzen comes happy and enjoys himself and eats, it will probably be a good year with normal challenges. If he comes angry or upset and refuses his food and the special marketplaces made for him, that’s potentially a forewarning that there are difficulties ahead and a lot of work goes into appeasing Kouzen to change the flow of luck.

Kouzen is also intimately involved in things like immigration. He can help (or harm!) an immigration process, and can be a huge ally in getting those papers moving. 

He is always very concerned about being taken advantage of. He comes as a poor peasant, and so folks often underestimate him or try to rip him off when he loans money or offers a good deal. He is incredibly sensitive to this and is paranoid that someone will steal from him. It’s not unusual for him to arrive at his fet and unpack his makout to make sure everything that was there last time he came is still there. He’ll count crumbs. Anything missing will need to be accounted for.

A well-known story from communities I am close to tells of a time when someone did a maryaj lwa in a temple and had brought things from their own table at home to place on the table built for the ceremony. When packing up at the end of the night, someone mistakenly packed the bottle of Kouzen’s liquor that belonged to the temple in the makout of the Kouzen the person married. It went unnoticed until that temple’s fet Kouzen rolled around.

Kouzen arrived and found that his bottle was not in his bag. He asked for it and when it could not be found, sat down on the floor and cried. He refused to let anything else happen until his bottle was located. Some fast thinking and a lot of luck had the person who did the maryaj at the fet and they had a eureka moment and drove home quickly. She lived locally (thank everything) and soon returned to the fet with the bottle. Kouzen had to be consoled and many promises and assurances made because even though the bottle had been returned and it was a genuine error and not a theft, he was so upset that his things had been taken.

He is an expert deal maker that negotiates for his best interests. Something common at most fet Kouzens is that a marketplace will be set up for him. It’s usually a large layout of fruits, vegetables, and maybe some special items for him to look over and offer up for sale. He is very, very shrewd and downright stingy. I’ve seen him refuse to select what he is willing to sell until someone presents him with money, and then he will pick what he thinks is a fair exchange. One evening, I watched someone give him a $20 bill, and he looked for a moment, selected a banan/plantain, and snapped it in half. He gave one half to the person who had paid him $20. 

He’ll often walk around holding his chapo/hat and asking for money. Most folks will come prepared with a little cash in their pocket, but pity the person who brings their wallet. Someone had the misfortune of coming to Kouzen’s fet with a significant amount of their rent money in their wallet. Kouzen asked him for money, and when he took out his wallet and opened it, Kouzen reached in and took all the cash. He refused to give it back, and so that person made a nice gift (willing or otherwise) of several hundred dollars.

It’s often said that Kouzen is the one who works and it’s his wife Kouzin who manages the money. Kouzen may want to account for every dollar, but it is Kouzin who keeps track of where it all goes. 

Folks always make him out to be greedy, full stop, and he certainly can be, but as Kouzen has known suffering he can also be very generous. I’ve watched him give money to people who were in great need and clearly say that he only needs to be remembered each week and that they don’t need to pay him back. I’ve seen him loan money to people in dire circumstances (but that money better be paid back on the terms he negotiated). 

One of the most poignant moments I’ve seen with Kouzen came at his fet when someone who had sacrificed a lot to be there came to talk with him and brought him a little money. They had been struggling with finding work for a little while, and so it was a really hard trip as they did not live locally. Kouzen refused their money and told them to keep it, because he knew they needed it. Some folks thought that was extremely negative coming from Kouzen, but it was a gift. He followed up by giving them a specific lamp recipe to find work, and less than a month later that person had a job.

With all of these very important things on his shoulders and in his makout, you’d think Kouzen would come as something other than a peasant...but he doesn’t. I think that’s really important because it reinforces how close Kouzen and all the lwa are to us; even the ones who are literal royalty.

For me, in addition to all of the above, I also experience Kouzen as a source of a lot of creativity and creative drive. My relationship has developed in such a way that he oversees a lot of my art and art practice. He doesn’t care so much what kind of art or if it even turns out good, but more that I do it and keep my hands moving because that’s good for me. He has definitely been the push to put some paint on paper or beads on fabric when I really don’t want to or don’t have any internal motivation. I will feel him eyeing me and I’ll drag myself to my studio space and do something. Or, if I’m really too busy to make art or there’s some other barrier to me actually sitting down, he’ll push me to resolve it so I have space to get my hands dirty.

In terms of what someone could do for Kouzen without getting into trouble or having him be upset is to do charity in his name. If you can, donate money to a cause that supports providing for folks who are hungry, that supports agriculture that supports self sufficiency in developing countries, or even that aids folks who are homeless or unhoused. If you can donate your time and labor, even better! Kouzen values labor and hard work, and there are plenty of places that need help these days: packing food at food pantries, distributing and delivering meals, volunteering to serve meals in homeless shelters, even volunteering to help vaccine efforts would be looked on favorably by him, as it assures further survival.

I caution folks against preparing food for Kouzen without guidance; even looking at his food in the wrong way or thinking it’s delicious can make him upset and jealous, and he’ll refuse it or spoil it. There’s specific ways to even taste his food for seasoning to make sure it will taste good...don’t risk it!

I hope this is helpful; please let me know if there are questions.

[kitkat1003]

On the issue of Mortality

AO3 Link

MK chose to be mortal, to be vulnerable, for the time being, and Monkey King is fine with that.

On the surface, at least.  Now he has a successor, one that he likes, and he’s vulnerable????

Yeah, he’s never going to sleep easy again.

(Or, 11 chapters through season 1 about Monkey King, and anxiety his successor gives him.  Who knew being a dad teacher would be so hard?)

Chapter 1: Picking a successor

(Or “Look, I’m gonna come clean.  Um...I’ve been kinda watching you”)

When Sun Wukong—the Monkey King—decides he needs a successor, it isn’t an easy decision.  For one, he refuses to admit why.  Because that would mean confronting it all and he doesn’t want to.  

He needs a successor because he wants one.  Who doesn’t want to retire?  It’s not like he’s spent hundreds of thousands of years in technical retirement, waiting for the Demon Bull King to return.  No, he’s been...super busy.  Yeah.  Turning Flower Fruit Mountain into a paradise has totally taken him…forever, and, like, he’s got lots of stuff to do.  He watches TV, once humans get electricity figured out.  Gets a computer too, once those things start popping up.  He gets a lawyer or two, yknow, keeping up with the times.

He’s...super busy.  He definitely deserves a retirement.

So all that’s left is find a successor.  Easy, right?

Well....

He actually starts looking when he hears whispers that the Demon Bull family is starting to get close to figuring out how to lift his staff.  So about a hundred years before Demon Bull King actually escapes.

He finds a few kids he thinks might work, but nothing happens, anyway, so there’s no point in interrupting their boring normal lives for nothing.  Besides, he doesn’t really see any of them with the spark of...something that he wants in his successor in any of them

He watches them grow.  Child to teen to adult, he watches, and then he leaves before they get too old because he doesn’t want to see the headstones.

He doesn’t understand why they have to be human.  Why they have to be mortal.  Why they have to be able to die.

Why he has to watch them die.

Years and years pass.  He gets lax, when looking for a successor.  Lax when it comes to keeping an eye on the Demon Bull family.

He does, on occasion, watch the town where his staff is.  It’s a pretty populace place, always buzzing with some sort of activity, which is both fun and boring.

One night, he watches a kid—no older than 13, he thinks, since he’s gotten used to watching humans grow and can gauge it pretty well—sprint down the street in the rain, wearing nothing but a ratty old hoodie, a shirt, shorts, torn up shoes, and a headband so dirty that even he can’t discern the original color.

There are three other figures chasing him, and he ducks into an alley as they sprint past.  Monkey King watches as the kid settles down, sitting in the alley, and pulling something out from beneath his hoodie.

A puppy.

“Hey there, little guy,” the kid’s voice is soft, and he scritches the tiny pup behind the ears.  “Sorry I couldn’t get your siblings, but they’d already been thrown in the lake—” the look on the kid’s face is nothing short of heartbreaking. 

Monkey King has plans for the group of thugs he saw earlier, if that’s what they were doing. Humans. 

“But hey, managed to save you, huh?  I’ll bring you to a shelter in the morning.  Someone will take you home and you’ll get loved to death.” Monkey King rolls his eyes at the saccharine display, but he wonders.

There isn’t a lot of crime in this city, with its advancements.  What’s a kid doing outside this late at night?

“I’d take you home with me, but mine’s more of a hovel than a place to live.  You can still see it, though!  C’mon,” the kid gets up, stumbling a little, and Monkey King notices that he’s favoring one leg, that the elbow of one of the sleeve’s of his hoodie is wet.

He follows.

The kid’s house is literally a shack made of a metal sheet wedged between an alley wall.  There’s a ‘bench’ that’s a slab of rock placed on top of more rocks, where a well loved sketchbook sits.

The kid sits on the bench, setting the puppy down beside him as he flips open his sketchbook.

“I’m gonna draw you, so I don’t forget, kay?” He pats the pup on the head, and then, using the smallest, most worn down pencil Monkey King has ever seen, he slowly carves out the puppy’s features, getting the soft tones of fur.  He keeps squinting, but Monkey King thinks that’s because all he has is the light of the lamppost for his vision.

This kid...is pretty darn good.

Monkey King watches for way longer than he would like to admit, and then watches as the kid pulls out a very worn blanket-substitute, curling around the puppy beneath it.

He frowns, but isn’t sure what to do about it.

So he leaves, and makes sure those thugs learn a thing or two about treating animals with respect.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

This kid just keeps popping up in Monkey King’s peripherals.

He likes to people watch, and the kid will just appear from nowhere.  He’ll be running down the street, hanging out with this girl who looks about 3 economic classes above him. They’ll go to the arcade and play for hours, and she’ll pay for practically everything.

He decides he likes her, if she’s nice enough to do that for the kid.  Plus, he feels a familiar energy coming off of her, something he trusts.

They typically end their day at a noodle shop.  Pigsy’s?  The kid always pays there, with coins of various sizes.  The girl, when the kid isn’t looking, will slip the cook some more money.  They get steaming hot bowls of ramen, harass the cook, and eventually get half chased out, laughing all the while.

“You know you can stay with me, right?” The girl says, one day, when Monkey King is people watching (read: eavesdropping on their conversation.  It’s like his new favorite TV show, at this point).  Kid rolls his eyes.

“Mei, c’mon, your relationship with your folks is as strained as mine!  I wouldn’t want you to end up like me.  Besides, I’m fine!” he insists with the grin Monkey King has grown accustomed to seeing on Kid’s face.  

The information Monkey King gains from those two sentences is certainly something, and he ponders on Mei, the girl who spends her days as far away from home as possible.

Mei frowns.

“You still won’t show me where you’re staying.  Or explain why your clothes are all torn up!” She pokes him in the chest, and the Kid shrugs.

“Cause you wouldn’t like either of those things!  I can take care of myself!  Promise.” He rocks back and forth on his feet, all smiles.

Mei fixes him with a glare, before she sighs, relenting. “Fine.  But, if you won’t take my hospitality, you get my undying loyalty and free stuff!” She whips out a brand new red winter coat.  

Kid takes it slowly.

“It’s getting colder out!” She explains.  “And red just isn’t my color, you know?”

Kid slowly pulls the jacket against his chest, like he doesn’t know what to do with it, and then he smiles.  This one is smaller.  Less performative.  Monkey King didn’t realize that he’d been watching the kid to be able to tell the difference, but it’s not too hard to see.  Kid uses big smiles like a cloak, to hide what’s underneath.  The smaller ones-those are like the slivers of sunlight shooting out from an eclipse.  Wukong finds he prefers the smaller ones.

Kid wraps his arm around Mei’s shoulders.

“Thanks, Mei.”

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The days get colder, and Kid is still in that shack.  Monkey King finds out that Kid doesn’t steal for money.  Instead, he does little odd jobs for short change, and then looks for coins people have dropped.  Apparently, the city’s wealth has made people more loose with their change.

Mei drags him to warm places as often as she can, but apparently this time of year she has a lot of responsibilities, or “social events,” as she calls them, so she can’t be around as much.

Kid doesn’t seem to mind, shivering through the nights, curling himself as tight as possible with that jacket and shitty blanket, and Monkey King doesn’t know why he even cares, but...

He’s not cruel.  It isn’t pleasant to watch a kid suffer.

And then, Kid gets sick.  Like, delirious, fever sick, and he’s not getting better.

And Monkey King has told himself, a million times, that he would let Kid figure his own life out, but he ends up picking Kid up anyway, depositing him at the ever familiar noodle shop.

The cook drags the boy inside, and Monkey King doesn’t see Kid on the streets after that.

Good.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Kid starts working at the noodle shop, apparently, and he lives above the shop.  Slowly, he accrues random objects.  Sketchbooks, games, figurines, Monkey King comics?  He watches the show near religiously, and Monkey King is both flattered and weirded out.

A super fan, huh?  Okay then.

And when he isn’t working, or watching “Monkey King: The Animated Series,” or reading Monkey King comics, he’s begging the resident bookworm, Tang, for stories, which he then sketches out.

Monkey King actually goes through the sketchbook once, when Kid’s asleep.  Yup, Kid’s really, really good at this.  Monkey King actually thinks about stealing a drawing, but that would be both very obvious and also stupid.

So he lets it go.  He ought to look for his successor, anyway.  He hears the Demon Bull family is getting close.

He leaves Kid to his life and moves on to his own.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He can’t find a successor.  Somehow.  It’s like every person in this city (and it would have to be in this city, because you need to be close to the staff in some regard if you want to have a connection with it.  Being born near it, living near it-makes it easy for the energy, the chi, to find you) doesn’t want anything to do with hero business.  The kids he considers are too small, the adults too...boring.

And he’s getting pretty frustrated here, because he thinks he might just have to fight the Demon Bull King all over again, which, ugh.

And then, it clicks.

He’s watching Kid drive around town, delivering orders, and somehow the kid steers towards the construction site.  Toward the staff.

Of course.

God, it was literally staring him in the face.  He feels kind of dumb, now that it hits him, but whatever.  Not like anyone’s around to tease him about it.

He watches Kid waltz towards danger, music in his headphones too loud to notice the literal demon family, until Kid opens his eyes and sees the whole demon army there, and hoo boy, is this comical.

Monkey King wonders if they’ll succeed this time, in lifting his staff.  They certainly seem confident.  He’s kind of curious, kind of bored.  The whole ‘take our rightful place as rulers of this world’ schtick is super annoying, and Red Son’s voice is grating.

The light show is pretty nice, though, and then.

Then.

Demon Bull King’s a lot smaller than he remembers, but his voice is the same, as is his attitude.  Monkey King can feel Kid shaking and takes a quick sweep of the area.  Seems his successor is right above Red Son.

He smirks to himself, not that anyone can see considering he’s a bird right now.  

This is going to be hilarious.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When Kid touches the staff, Monkey King isn’t prepared for the feeling he gets.

It’s like he’s been the single Sun in an endless galaxy, surrounded by darkness, when suddenly another star appears from nowhere, throwing him into orbit with it.  The galaxy shifts, the light doubles, the darkness recedes.

Monkey King’s own center, his sun, feels red hot, warm, and tempered by years of life, with a spark of yellow and white in its center.  Kid’s is bright, brilliant golden yellow, more white than any color, bursting with energy.

That energy gets put to work pretty quickly, as the Kid fumbles his way out of the demon’s den, and Monkey King soars after him, watching the escape with a smile.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He doesn’t properly meet Kid until he gets shot all the way to Flower Fruit mountain.  After Kid escapes Red Son, he panickedly tells his friends what’s going on and tries to get there on his own.

Well, all the way is a bit much.  Maybe Monkey King had to catch Kid and fly him there, because Kid was looking half dead and Monkey King was a little worried, but that’s beside the point.  He leaves Kid on the shore, and follows him when Kid gets up.

He isn’t expecting the frustration, when he can’t be found, but he supposes that’s his cue.

Getting stepped on is unpleasant.  Guess Kid doesn’t like bugs.

God, the look on Kid’s face, when it hits him that Monkey King’s been watching him!  If he could frame a memory, that would be it.  Hoo, boy, is that going to be replaying in his head for a while.  Kid seems more bewildered than anything else, and the idea of being Monkey King’s successor doesn’t sit well with him.

Which, Monkey King doesn’t get that.  Who wouldn’t want to be taught by him?

But maybe he overestimates the kid’s spunk, his confidence, because waving off his worries doesn’t spur him on; rather, it seems to deflate him.

Ugh.  Why is being a teacher difficult?  It’s not like his teacher had a hard time with him, right?

Distantly, he thinks he can hear his master shouting at him.  He hops off his cloud, says just the right thing to get Kid pumped up, and watches him race off.

He considers just sitting back and not watching, but then, that wouldn’t be any fun, would it?

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He isn’t actually sure what having a successor means, really.  How much their powers, their lives, would mirror his own.  A part of him was terrified by the prospect—could he even be known as anything special, if he was no longer one of a kind?

But there’s also something quite exciting about this.  The idea that your life is being rewritten, the story unfinished and yet also repeating itself.  The Demon Bull King is on the loose, with his army and family, trying to take over the world.

And only one person can stop him.  The Monkey King.

Kid’s powers are volatile.  He can feel them flare up from time to time, wildly flickering out of control.  A lack of self confidence, that might be causing it.  A part of him is annoyed by that, a part of him is relieved.  Far better to have to teach someone to believe in themselves than teach them humility.  He’s pretty sure he hasn’t learned that latter lesson all the way yet.

Kid vanishes into the Demon Bull King’s chest, where the staff lies, and for a moment, the new sun vanishes.  Monkey King feels the cold rush of space in its absence, and feels panic, even though he’s only known this warmth for a few hours.

But then, it bursts back into existence, as a familiar stone drops from the Demon Bull King’s chest, cracking open, and, well, it’s history being written the same way over and over again, isn’t it?

Kid has a flair for silliness, childish maneuvers.  He likes to have fun, and that’s the best part of the powers they share.  To be invincible, to have fun while saving the day. 

It’s a repeat, until, well, it isn’t.

The blow Kid takes makes Monkey King wince.  The body becoming invulnerable takes time.  It doesn’t just immediately show up.  Every second, Kid’s body is absorbing and meshing with the powers thrust upon it, but that doesn’t mean getting hit a mile by a guy twenty times your size doesn’t still hurt, at this point.

But Monkey King knows this is what has to happen.  Because heroes aren’t heroes if they never feel pain, never get hit.

Heroes, he thinks, as Kid tears himself from the wall he’s embedded in, as Kid stands, eyes ablaze, are heroes when they get hit and they get back up.

And Kid sure as hell does.

“I’m the Monkey Kid!” He shouts, like a battle cry, like a challenge, and Monkey King smirks.  Monkey Kid, huh?  It suits him.  And then, Kid slams the staff on the ground, and the world shifts.

A part of him is kind of jealous.  How come he never got a mech?!  Has that been a thing this entire time?  Another part is in awe of this Kid’s creativity, ability, at such a young age.

And seeing DBK get trounced again certainly keeps the jealous part of him quiet.

Kid’s got a nice group of friends.  Reminds him of his journey days, him and a rag tag group of idiots going around wreaking havoc and learning moral lessons at the end of it.  He’s glad Kid isn’t alone or on the streets anymore.  A strong foundation leads to a stronger ability to grow.

Well, he’d better get some sort of training regimen ready.  Or, at least, start thinking of some things to do to train this kid.  He’s sure at some point Kid is going to bug him for a lesson or two.

Somehow, the thought doesn’t bother him as much as he thinks it should.

[96thdayofrage]

As much of White America scrambled to not be the bad guy, the holiday commemorating the last vestiges of legalized slavery came right on time. At the height of protest season, here was an opportunity that seemed primed to absolve America of a piece of its slavery-addled past by embracing the true and final date of full emancipation. News stories gave remedial history lessons in advance of the June 19 celebration, and makeshift festivals sprung up despite having to make numerous pandemic concessions. And then there were the T-shirts.

A year later, not much has changed about the state of Black America. More people are aware of modern activist lingo, so we’re having the same old arguments with more up-to-date language, but the needle hasn’t moved much on any given condition. In fact, the backlash against more education on Black history has largely fallen into two categories for much of White America: doubling down on its erasure, or commodifying it. Magically, the lead-up to the 2021 edition of Juneteenth seems to have done both in equal measure.

The erasure of Juneteenth has been the campaign of choice until last year. You could live almost anywhere in Texas outside of Galveston (where the holiday was born, in 1865) and have never heard of it. Thanks to the spike in activism and White guilt last year, the ignorance platform took a big hit. But since this is America, commodification stepped in like a champ. Businesses have taken the opportunity that Juneteenth affords to present themselves as progressive on race issues, though most don’t just make it a proper day-off kind of holiday. Retail-minded entities have taken the commodification to heart and silk-screened the day onto cotton tops. All commodification isn’t about money, and so festivals all over the country in various states of organization are back on deck, fueled by people seeking to extinguish post-quarantine fatigue and kick off a proper Black-folks summer.

Depending on how and why one celebrates Juneteenth determines how far they lean into the observation over party aspect. For a holiday whose commemorations range from stoic reverence to being called the Black Fourth of July (complete with the requisite fireworks and cookout spreads), there’s a pretty wide spectrum of practice. Many Juneteenth celebrations are less about the end of slavery and more about what has happened to Black people, period, making such affairs just miniature Black History Months.

I asked a friend of mine, Valerie Boyer, a crowned former Miss Juneteenth raised in Galveston, what she thought should happen at a Juneteenth celebration. “I believe that the Emancipation Proclamation should formally be read to begin Juneteenth,” she replied. As an event organizer, this made sense to me, but as someone who used to do workshops breaking down how Lincoln’s order didn’t actually free all of the slaves, I had reservations. She assured me there was a lot of spiritual meat and affirmation in an intentional reading of the document in a context that only Juneteenth can provide.

“When it gets to that ‘whereby henceforth both now shall be and forever remain free,’ folks get weepy. And some folks holler, and some folks just cry, and some folks just don’t know what to do with themselves,” she continued. “I argue that that was my first experience with what we would call today ‘ancestral generation.’ You’re just very clear that you are not there alone.” She also stated that there should be dancing, singing, and food, which means we might be related, and impressed the importance of moments of both joy and stillness throughout.

One of the reasons many of the problems in America persist is that most people don’t have a good grasp on the scale of America itself. When you can’t see the size of the problem, you can’t comprehend the ramifications of allowing that problem to fester. Rather than contend with the legacy of slavery, America has opted for poor navigation. The legend of Juneteenth suggests that America was so vast that news took years to get across it, which is a patently ridiculous notion. As my former Miss Juneteenth friend likes to say, Black folks have always had a rumor mill. News travels fast, whether you like it or not.

In 1860, the Pony Express started delivering mail between Missouri and California. In the year-plus that followed, you could send word between the two states in as little as 10 days. That was two years before the execution of the Emancipation Proclamation. Bottom line: It doesn’t take two years to send an executive order from one end of the country to the halfway mark. There was a lot of collusion at play that prevented word from getting to Galveston in 1865, a denial of change, and thus an erasure of justice.

That is the reality of Juneteenth that we come close to addressing but fall back on the freedom part when the conversation gets too real. The end of slavery could not make it halfway across America’s body for two years, not because the message was slow, but because the message was stopped. We do not have Juneteenth because America doesn’t know how to deliver mail. We have it because parts of America thought if they ground their heels into the dirt, they could stop change. What happened on January 6, 2021, at the U.S. Capitol isn’t a new strategy. It has a lot of precedent, and Juneteenth is evidence of it.

As of this writing, the Senate has passed a bill declaring Juneteenth a federal holiday. It still has to pass through the House before we can start singing the Schoolhouse Rock song about bills. But let’s be clear: There’s a reason why that measure is sailing through Congress and the anti-lynching and reparation bills are stalled out. The Juneteenth bill is the one White folks can (falsely) claim they got right with the least amount of historical baggage. Juneteenth ends slavery. The others just make White people look bad.

There’s a standing criticism from a segment of activist circles that questions the point of Juneteenth. In pointing out the many ways in which liberty still doesn’t fully apply to Black life, such critics suggest that we still aren’t free at all. While I wouldn’t make a strong case against such observations, I’ve never allowed myself to be so militant that I couldn’t recognize a win when I saw one. I may celebrate only for a day or a news cycle or a breath, but to never be able to hold up the resilience of your ancestors is to disrespect them. I may be a pessimist, but I am never dishonorable. We are free with an asterisk. Considering what we’ve come through, that’s worth at least a day off. Ultimately, I care less about what people do to Juneteenth so long as the people and places that know what it’s really about — and those who have bonded with the power and implications of that history — are celebrating it, and unapologetically so.

It’s impossible to keep anything pure in America, even our pains. Of course your job is going to blow it even if they try to celebrate it right. Of course White America will hold up its federalization as evidence that the country is less racist. And yes, someone is going to make a commemorative plate out of it. The selling of Juneteenth is a horse already out of the barn, because commerce is often the balm America uses to soothe its conscience. The question isn’t ever about what the wrong people do with our history and celebrations, but what the right people do with them.

[lu-undy]

Un-alone, Chapter 7

Here it is!

“Hello…? Yeah, Dad, we’re here. Yeah, everything’s fine. No, no, we’re at Uncle Phil’s… Mum? Yeah, she’s alright. She’s talking to him right now so I thought I might just call and tell you we’re here, for you not to worry too much… Yeah, I can put her on the phone, hold on… Mum? Dad wants you on the phone!”

“Tell him I’m coming!” Caroline looked at her brother. “Hold on Phil, Mike’s going to worry otherwise.” 

“Go ahead, Carrie.”

The sixty-odd year old woman rose from the sofa and went to the telephone, leaving her brother on his sofa. 

"Thanks, Micky, go with your Uncle, I'll be a minute." She gently tapped her son's arm and the tall man nodded.

He went to his uncle and sat on the armchair next to the sofa. The Aussie put his hat and his aviators on the coffee table.

"So, Micky, how're you? How was the flight and all? Oh by the way, here… Your mum's poured you a cup of tea while you were on the phone…”

“Oh, thanks…” Mundy took the cup that his uncle was handing him and nodded in thanks. Micky was the nickname that his family used with him. “Flight’s been bloody long. America’s so far from home and New Mexico’s not on the East coast either so, eh... I slept for most of it but Mum was a bit restless.”

“Ah, I’m not surprised. I know your Mum, she’s always been active and energetic like that.” Phil chuckled. “But all went well on your way here?”

“Yeah, not too bad.” Mundy took a sip of his tea. “Had to drive to the airport for a few hours first. Dropped the van to be delivered here soon hopefully, and then we took the plane with Mum.”

“I see. And what're you doin' now? Still hunting?" Philip drank his tea and offered some biscuits to his nephew.

"Ah, thanks. And uh, yeah, same old." Mundy smiled. "I still hunt."

"Dad still angry about it?" 

"Not really angry. He's more than used to it by now. But he'd rather I just helped in the farm, for sure." 

"Ah, can't blame him. Guns are dangerous, eh."

They nodded and both took a sip of their tea. 

"You make tea exactly like Mum." Mundy chuckled.

"Bah, y'know your mum, she didn't let me do it! She made that herself… Gosh, Caroline! I told her, you took the car for hours and then the plane for hours, you must be dead tired. But y'know how you can't reason with your mum, eh?"

"Yeah, I do…" Mundy smiled.

"So what's new back home?"

"Bah, not much… Mum and Dad are still lookin' after the chickens and geese. I help in between contracts. But you, Uncle Phil? You got injured? Mum told me it was at work…?" 

Philip nodded. 

"Yeah, y'know, bein' a policeman here ain't always easy."

"What happened?"

"Got beaten up by a group of thugs."

"Mum said something about gunshots." 

"Yeah, it was two gangs goin' at each other. Young folks, really. Such a shame to see kids like this these days. But yeah, there were a few gunshots and one caught my leg."

"Oh wow…" Mundy nodded. "When did that happen?" 

"About a few weeks ago now…? Yeah, a couple of weeks ago." 

"And you still walk with a cane and a limp, eh?" Mundy asked, nodding at the cane resting against the side of the couch. 

"Yeah…" Philip frowned and scratched his bushy moustache. "Goin' through therapy, but y'know, I ain't young anymore so it'll take a long time before it'll go back to normal."

"That what the doctors said?" 

"Yeah." Philip nodded. "They said I might even retire before it's complete history." 

"Oh, bugger… Can you work again at least or…?" 

"Well, I'll only do desk stuff but no field work." Philip seemed saddened by it. 

"Ah, I'm sorry, Uncle Phil…" Mundy scratched his short, brown hair.

"Bah, I was due to retire in a few months, so it doesn't change much. Just means I can take it easy a few months in advance." 

"But you really liked your job, right?" Mundy asked. 

"Oh yeah, as much as you yours." 

They smiled and nodded at each other. Caroline came back and sat next to her brother on the sofa. 

"Alright, Mike's alright. I told him about the van." She said, looking at her son, Mundy. 

"What's wrong with it?" Philip asked. 

"They said it's gonna arrive in a week or so." Caroline answered. "They’re having delays for some reason."

"You're welcome to use my car whenever you need, eh." Philip offered. “You didn’t need to get Mike’s van over the ocean.”

"Oh, thanks, Phil'. It'll come in handy, I'm sure. And it’s Micky’s van now." She chuckled and was interrupted by Philip's dog coming to lay on Mundy's lap. 

"Marty, get off of Micky's lap, you big boy…!" 

Marty was a German shepherd. He was Philip's life companion for the past decade now. 

"He's fine, Uncle Phil, let him do… Yeah, good boy…!" Mundy was spoiling the dog with pets and scratches. The canine went to fetch a toy and brought it to the Aussie. 

"You can take him to the backyard and play there with him if you want, Micky." 

"Oh, for sure, c'mon, let's go, big boy…!" Mundy collected his hat and aviators from the coffee table before he exited the living-room through the French window, closely followed by the dog. 

That left Caroline and Philip chatting together. 

"Micky's told me Mike still doesn't like his huntin', eh?" Philip asked and his sister nodded. 

“To be honest, we never agreed to it or liked the idea. It’s dangerous. I mean, you’re livin’ proof that carryin’ a gun can get you at the wrong end of another one.”

“Yeah, but he’s not huntin’ people, is he? They're just beasts.”

“Beasts that could rip your leg off better than that bullet you took, Phil’.” Caroline sipped on her tea. “Nah, we’ve tried to get him interested in anything else. We got him to play in a pub.”

“Play?” Phil repeated.

“The sax. He’s quite decent.” Caroline explained and pushed her pink glasses back up her nose. 

“But?” Phil anticipated.

“But he likes to do it on the side… He really likes huntin’ and he’s the best at it. He’s now got a reputation. Sometimes, he says he has work, takes the van and drives off for days. We don’t know where he goes, what he does, but he comes back with heaps of money…!”

“You don’t think he’s doin’ anything dodgy, is he?” Phil asked, his policeman instincts kicking in.

“I don’t know. We’ve asked him countless times and he always says that it’s the price for capturing rare game but…” Caroline shook her head. “I can’t help but think there’s more to it. Once, the police came along with some men who didn’t look like regular police. They took him away to have a chat. In the end, he told us he landed a contract that paid generously, and oh boy it did! We redid part of the house with that money…! But what the job was exactly, he couldn’t tell us. He said the police asked him to be quiet about it.”

“Well if it’s the police askin’ and he’s free, that means he helped them, he wasn’t against them, so I wouldn’t worry.”

“I can’t help it…” Caroline raised her eyes and saw Mundy play with the dog through the French window.

"Hey, Carrie, the boy's a grown up man now. And if the police comes for him to work, that means he's real good… How old is he now?"

"Almost forty."

"And still livin' with you and Mike?" 

"Nah, yeah…" 

"He doesn't wanna go?" Phil asked. 

"I don't know. We never really discussed it."

“D’you think he does the huntin' work only for the money? If he earns a lot of it, he might just continue it for the cash.” Phil asked.

“Yeah, nah.” Caroline shook her head. “It's not for the money. He takes a lot of work for free…"

"For free? Hell…" Phil chuckled. "And what about, y'know, findin' a good woman and all?" 

"Oh God, if only I knew what was goin' on with him…" Caroline shook her head. "He never brings anyone home and he never talks about these things. Even with his dad. He's never, y'know, just checked a sheila out or let his eyes linger. It's like he doesn't feel a thing for them."

"I can ask. Maybe he can't talk to y'all about it but is happy to open up to someone else?"

"Maybe."

There was a pause. 

"He doesn't seem too unhappy about it all, eh?" Phil nodded to Mundy who was playing fetch with Marty. 

"Nah, he doesn't but… We'd love to see him bring someone home, y'know. I wonder if he does have someone but just hides it."

"Why would he do that?" 

"I don't know. Last time he talked about a pretty sheila, he was back in primary school. Since then, it's been different." 

"Hm." Phil finished his tea. "And what about Mike? How's he? You left him alone to come and see me?"

Caroline shook her head.

"Yeah, nah, he’s got his brother over and it’s rugby season. I just have to call them to stay away from havin’ barbies everyday.” She chuckled. 

“Oh I’m sure he’ll be reasonable.” Phil joined her chuckles. 

“Yeah, as long as I call him enough…!”

“I’m happy you could visit, Carrie.”

Brother and sister exchanged smiles. 

“It’s been a while since we last saw each other. Micky was much younger. He’s a man and a half now. And not bad-lookin’ at all!” Phil added.

“Yeah, he’s a fine bloke. And you need someone to help with that leg of yours… You should have called and told me right when it happened! Why wait a few weeks?”

“Yeah, like I’d stop middle of the shootin’ to go to the nearest phone, call in Oz’ and tell you about it…!” Phil joked and chuckled.

“You know that’s not what I meant, Phil..!”

“I know, I know, just jokin’. But I just didn’t want to scare y’all. You’re far from me and if I’d called you and said ‘oh hey, Carrie, I just got shot but everythin’s fine’, you'd have jumped in the first plane with your old age and your even older Mike to come and see me…!”

“Oi, you’re older than me and Mike’s your age!” She answered with a laugh. “Besides, here I am anyway with Micky.”

“Yeah, thanks for visitin’, really. I’m sure you’ll help a lot.”

“Of course I will…!”

“But yeah, you convinced Micky to come and Mike to stay?” Phil asked, his tone coming back to being a bit more serious.

“To be honest…” Caroline cast a glance over to Mundy. He was busy and far in the backyard, beyond the French window. In a word, he was out of earshot. “We had to kind of push him.”

“Push him to do what?”

“To come with me.” Caroline explained. 

“He wanted to stay with his Dad?”

“Yeah, nah, he just… He didn’t wanna stay with his Dad per se, but he likes to stick to the van. He practically lives there, you know, when he disappears off.”

“Ah, I see.” Phil nodded. “But don’t worry, Carrie. I’d be proud if I were you.”

“What? Why?” She raised a curious eyebrow.

“If the police come to him for help, he’s really good.” The old man poured more tea for his sister and himself. “We don’t get other folks to do our job, and if we ever do, we’re either forced to, or they’re so good that it hurts for us to admit it. Micky might be both.”

Caroline nodded but bobbed her head left and right.

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Why force him to come?”

“I’m old, Phil, and I don’t like travellin’ that much.”

“Neither does he, from what you’re tellin’ me.”

“Yeah but... “

“Carrie?”

Caroline raised her eyes to her elder brother.

“I know you’re hidin’ somethin’. Tell me.”

She bit her lip and looked through the window again. Mundy was still absorbed in whatever he was doing with the dog.

“I’m a bit worried. I think he… He might be happy at work but…”

“But what?”

“That’s the thing, I don’t even know…!”

-- A few days later --

“Here, let me help…”

“Nah, it’s alright, Micky.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah! Look, I just need to put the cane first, then this leg and - oof!- this one…! Ah, thanks, son.”

  Mundy helped his uncle get in the car anyway. 

“Alright, you’ll have to guide me, Uncle Phil.” The younger man hopped in the car.

“Yeah, it’s not too far. Let’s get to the café that I like and you’ll tell me what you think of their coffee, yeah?”

“Mum’s not comin’?” Mundy asked.

“Nah, she wants some quiet time without boys ruinin’ her cleanin’ the house. I got told off this mornin’ cause the house wasn’t clean enough for her standards!” 

“Sounds like Mum alright.” Both chuckled and Mundy adjusted the mirrors and the driver’s seat, fastening his seatbelt.

“Alright, let’s go, son.”

The drive was quiet. Phil told his nephew about the neighbourhood and how it had changed over the years, on the few occasions that they stopped at a red light. 

“Where can we park?”

“Behind the thing, take it left here… And there.”

Mundy parked and went around to help his uncle out. 

“The place looks nice and cosy, eh?” The young man said.

“Yeah, that’s why I like it.” Philip answered and they made their way in. “Here, that’s my table.”

The gentle smell of coffee wrapped them up as Mundy discovered the decor. Cosy was the right word for it. It practically looked like a living-room with the sofas and fireplace, the coffee table and magazines. The rest of the room had the classic restaurant/café layout with tables and chairs but that living-room corner looked very comfortable indeed. The walls were wooden and the beams of dark wood in the ceiling were clearly quite old. It reinforced the overall rustic yet familiar atmosphere.

“Oh hey, Phil!” The café owner greeted him.

“Hey Bob, how are ya?”

“Alright. Who’s this friend with you?” Bob asked as he made his way to Philip and his younger nephew. He was a big man in his late fifties for sure. Salt and pepper hair with more salt than pepper already and big square glasses on a nose that went with the proportions of the large man. Bob wore an apron with the colors and logo of the café and threw the tea towel he was holding on his shoulder.

“That here's my nephew, Micky. He’s come with his Mum to help out, while my bad leg heals up.”

“Oh, brilliant! Where are you guys from?” Bob looked at Mundy who took a seat opposite his uncle. He removed his hat but kept the aviators on. 

“From Australia.”

“That’s quite the trip, eh?”

“Yeah.” Mundy smiled.

“Alrighty then, I’ll let you make up your mind. Coffee’s on me, Phil. No, no, don’t even try to argue!” 

The three men exchanged a chuckle.

“Alright, Bobby, can you give us your classic. Make it two, I want the kid here to try it. Careful, he knows his way around coffees, eh?” Philip answered. 

“Sure thing! Two of Phil’s usual, on their way…!” Bob left Phil and his nephew in peace.

“So, how d’you find America so far, Micky?”

“Not so different from home. You just drive on the right, which confused me a bit but now I think I’m getting used to it.”

“Here, two classics. Enjoy, folks!” Bob put the two cups on the table and added a packet of chocolate for each before leaving them. 

Mundy and Phil were sitting in a corner of the café, next to the window. 

“Go ahead, son, and tell me.”

Mundy took a careful sip and let it invade his mouth, cover his palate and hug his tongue warmly. It was the beginning of October now and the weather was colder than in his native Australia, so the hot coffee was very welcome. 

“Mh… I like it.”

“Yeah?” Phil insisted.

“Yeah, I think so. It’s not too strong or bitter. It’s well balanced without being fruity or too sweet.”

“Gosh, listen to you talk,...!” Phil laughed. “You sound like one of those so called experts they bring on TV or somethin’, heh.”

“I’m just used to drinkin’ loads of coffee.” Mundy explained.

“Drink it when you work?”

“Yeah, all the time.” Mundy nodded and smiled. “I really like it.”

“Even when you’re in the desert, scorchin’ sun and all?” Phil asked.

“Oh yeah, absolutely.” Mundy answered. “It’s really good to drink something hot when it's hot. Helps you sweat and regulate your body temperature. They do that in the Sahara, only with tea and not coffee.”

“Right, right, I didn’t know that, but now that you say it, it kinda makes sense. So talkin’ about your work, tell me what it’s like.”

“What?” Mundy chuckled.

“You a hunter, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So tell me how and what you hunt, son!”

“Oh, uh, you sure?” Mundy asked, raising a surprised eyebrow.

“O’course! Why d’you sound shocked?”

“Cause Mum and Dad don’t really like what I’m doin’ so I don’t really uh… I’m not used to talkin’ about it, is all.” Mundy lowered his head, as if ashamed.

“Yeah and I understand your folks but I’m not them. Besides, I’m a policeman. I’m sure your Mum doesn’t like my job either for the same reason she’s not fond of yours.”

“Fair, yeah.” Mundy nodded, raising his head back for his eyes to meet with his uncle’s.

“So, go ahead! Tell me everythin’!”

Seeing his uncle’s enthusiasm made him blush for an instant. Mundy felt put on the spot. He looked around them and the other customers in the café didn’t pay the last bit of attention to them. He smiled and took a bit of air before starting.

[enigma-im]

Working for the Weekend

Rating: mature Relationship: Orc x Female!Human Warning: Cursing, punching people, courting orc, Bar maiden, courting rituals, orcs, elves, dwarves

Word Count:4177

‘I punched an elf and now this orc has become a regular at the bar’

Part 2

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "What is with orcs and bars, it's so stereotypical by now," Matilda asks me. I glance over at her with a smirk.

"Just like how stereotypical that the waitresses at these orc infested bars are normal curvy and busty," I hip check her.

Matilda looks down at her cleavage," can't help that. Men around here respond nicer to us thick ladies."

"Damn straight," Ed down the bar says. He is an old Dwarf who has been here every Saturday night since the place opened.

"See, they just have good taste," Matilda laughs.

"need another one Ed," I glance down the bar. He looks over then taps his almost empty tanker to the table. I walk over and refill his mug. Handing it back to him with a wink.

"Oh the fairest of them all," he stares dreamily," what I wouldn’t give to be 20 years younger. I could give you a run for your money."

I roll my eyes," Always the charmer Ed. Could talk a cobra out of a basket." he laughs before chugging his beer. I give a grin before turning back to the crowd.

For a Saturday it was fairly slow. The crowd was dispersed at their own tables. A few Elves talking beside the hearth. A group of miner dwarves singing near the back wall. Then near the door is a small cluster of orcs. Seen them a few nights but not enough to get to know them. It’s a nice night, going to get some good tips from those nearly piss drunk dwarves.

A little while later as the crowd dwindles the door opens. Ringing the small bell above the frame. I glance up from the bar I'm wiping down. Its another orc, a little smaller than the rest. He takes a booth seat near the opposite corner of the door. He rests his head against the wall and relaxes.

"You think he will be the last of the night," I ask Matilda. She glances to where I'm looking.

"Probably, hasn’t been that busy today. You don’t mind taking him right," she asks," I still have to check the kegs in the back. Ritz wants them recounted before he orders another batch."

"Yeah sure, just holler if you need help," I wipe my hands on the rag. I look back over to the orc, noticing how tired he looks. I can't imagine why he would come to a bar if he was so exhausted.

I walk over to him, stopping by his table. He looks at me with his head tilted back. At the closer look, I can't help but notice he is handsome. Orcs have never been my type, always loud and boisterous. But he seems like an anomaly. I could be wrong, he is tired.

"Would you like something, got food or beer. Can't ask for much more than that," I try to joke. It works a bit, he huffs with a curt smile.

"Just an ale please," he grumbles. I nod then head to the bar. Grabbing his drink then delivering it to his table. He takes a quick swig but leaves it on the table after. Closing his eyes and resting against the wall. I leave him to it, deciding to clean up the taps so I won't need to do them later.

Watching the orc out the corner of my eye I don’t notice the door open again. It isn't till someone knocks on the bar top do I acknowledge the two who walk in. looking up I immediately notice they are elves. The damn cocky bastards, never much cared for them.

"Hello, I want a honey mead," the one at the bar asked. I nod, glancing at the second one who is looking over his shoulder. As I pour the drink the second one bumps the first with his elbow. Nodding towards the orc in the corner. My defenses go up. Elves and orcs generally don’t get along. I could be wrong, I hope I'm wrong. They could just recognize an old friend. But I highly doubt it.

I hand him the mead and he passes me some coin. I take it but don’t look away as the two walks over to the lounging man. The first elf places his hand on the table, startling the orc awake. There are a few words but I can't hear from back here. I turn around the bar's end. Skirting around the edge of the room, acting like I'm cleaning by the hearth.

"-same idiot who took our kill. Can't figure you still have it," the second one says. I keep my head low and listen. Not wanting to jump to conclusions.

The orc grunts, leaning on his forearms. Cupping the mug in his large hands as he tries to ignore the two. That just pisses the elves off more.

"Answer me when I'm talking to you," the second slams his hands on the table. The cup rattles loud as its jostles in the orc's hands. A few patrons on the opposite end look over. Probably expecting a show soon.

"He probably too stupid to answer. Just a big ugly troll," the first one jokes. I don’t much care for that.

"Some bloodthirsty idiot who can only steal kills then get piss drunk with the money he takes from em," the second on laughs," perhaps we can take the coin off you. Just a fair trade for the meat you stiffed us." the orc growls but keeps his head low.

"So hand over the purse and we will be on our way," the first one leans over the table and tries to grab something off the orc. The orc gives a wide swing, knocking the elf's arm away. In second the elf pulls his sword out and points it at the orc. Aiming it towards his throat. The orc tilts his head away from the blade and sneers at the man.

Without much thought on my part, I run over. I've been working here for well over two years and I've never done something so rash. I'm not sure if it's from the spite of the situation or just cause it seemed unfair. But I still walk over, grab the arm of the second elf. Pull him towards me as my fist connects with his nose. It’s a satisfying feeling, at first. I can almost understand why men do this so often. There is something so pleasing about punching your anger out. It isn't until I feel the immediate pain that I realize why men are perhaps dumb. That fucking hurt.

"You little wench," the second one grabs his nose. Blood streaming between his fingers. Alright, that’s also very satisfying. I'll give men a little bit of slack then. The pain may be just a little worth it to see this idiot's nose bleed. A grotesque satisfaction.

"I'll have your head," the first one lunges forward. Before he can raise his hand to me the orc reaches out and grabs his neck. Standing away from the booth I can admire his height. He is tall.

"You will do no such thing," the orc sneers. Growling inches away from the now choking elf. He tries to snarl out some insult but he cants over the crushing of his throat.

"Don’t kill the lad," I rest my hand on the orc's arm," don’t want to kick you out or lose my job. The pasty twit is hardly worth it." the orc's arm twitches, straining as he grips the elf a little harder. Then he let go, the elf falling onto his knees. It’s a bit poetic to see him kneeling in front of the orc.

The second one still clutching his nose slaps at the first one shoulder," let's go." quickly the two run out the door, the Dwarves laughing as they retreat.

"Quite the hit there las," one of them tips there drink to me," he will be feelin' that for a while." the lot laughs along with him.

"Damn hope so, the man had a strong skull. Might be feeling that for while," I lift my hand. A bruise already blooming over my knuckles.

The orc beside me turns and grabs my hand. I wince but say nothing. He looks it over and sneers.

"Sorry," he grumbles," but you shouldn’t have stepped in. was a foolish thing to do."

I glare up at him," it didn’t look like you were going to do anything. And most people say thank you." I snatch my hand away from him.

"Why would I thank recklessness? It was a stupid thing you did," he growls.

"Stupid like you sitting there taking it? Excuse me for taking care of my patrons," I snap back," you enjoy your ale, sir. I will leave you be for the night." I turn, cradling my hand to my stomach. I stomp to the bar, throwing a small tantrum as I aggressively clean the bar. I don’t even glance back at the orc. If he wants to be ungrateful then let him be.

He leaves shortly after, leaving some coin on the table before he does. When I go to collect it I'm shocked its a gold coin. Well, that is unexpected.

<<<<<>>>>> Sunday night is slow, its no surprise. Tomorrow is a working day so the later it gets the fewer people are here. Tonight is generally used for deep cleaning. Doing the weekly chores like running the line or clearing the drains. It's going to be a boring night.

As I'm polishing some tankers I hear the bell ring. I turn towards the door and shocked to see the orc from yesterday. I guess this is the only pub in town but I can hardly imagine he would want to see me. Maybe he thought I wasn’t working tonight. That thought leaves when he walks towards me. He grabs a stool from the bar and sits.

"One ale please," he grunts out. I cock a brow, watching him as I grab his drink. Passing it along the bar. He grunts in thanks before taking a chug. Banging the tanker to the table when he gets his fill. He wipes his chin with his large arm then looks down at me. "Thank you for yesterday," he grumbles then leaves the bar. Dragging his drink along with him as he sits at the booth he was at last night. We'll alright.

The night progresses uneventfully. He sits in his corner, our eyes catching a few times when I look over. I continue cleaning. After about an hour he gets up and leaves. Once he is out the door I walk over to the table to grab his payment. It’s silver this time but there is also a small figurine. It’s a wolf carved from bone. The creature is sitting down, its tail hanging beside its legs. It's not badly made either, it is just a little larger than my palm. I pocket the gift and return to work.

The rest of the week repeats like this. He comes in orders a drink, then sits at his booth. The seat is never taken, the weekdays being slow. Only regulars come in, mostly older folks. He sits for about an hour then leaves. Dropping his coin and a gift. Some days it was a carved figure. Made from either bone or wood. Once it was a carving attached to a chain. The head of some creature I'm not familiar within the center of the necklace. Like before I pocket all of them. I take them home and set them on my bed frame.

On Friday he comes in like clockwork. Coming to the bar I'm already making his drink. I set it on the counter when he nears.

"Ale, don’t try to trick me today," I try to joke. Despite our rocky start, I've been kind to him. He doesn’t seem to enjoy our conversations. Always grunting in response then going to his table. I still try.

He pays my joke no mind but glances at my chest," your wearing it?"

I look down at the necklace he left me," Yea, I thought it was cute." he grunts, a start of a smile on the corner of his mouth. Then he turns and sits back at his table. That’s the most I've gotten out of him all week. Not much of a conversationalist, but I still enjoy the gifts. I consider them his apology. From the little, I know of orcs I know they are honor-bound individuals. I guess these little figures are tokens of his appreciations. I'll be a little sad when he stops.

Matilda walks over to my side, patting my shoulder." He here again," she nods to the orc," think we got ourselves a new regular? Maybe you should punch people more often," she laughs.

"Maybe I should, here I thought they came in because the drinks were cheap and the staff is cute," I joke.

"Anyway, can you help me move the barrels back there, I think one is leaking," she walks towards the backroom. I follow her. She points to the large puddle of brown liquid.

"Yep, no good," I mutter.

We together roll some of the barrels away. Struggling with the ones that were stacked. Before I could reach over and grab another I see a dark green hand beat me to it. Gripping the lip of the barrel and lifting it with ease. I turn around and see the orc. He guides the barrel to the side, setting it down gently.

"Damn, your boyfriend is strong," Matilda teases. I don’t bother glaring at her. I look at the orc and cock a brow.

"what are you doing back here," I ask.

"Helping," he grunts. He then grabs another barrel and guides it away from the growing puddle. We finally see the one with a bit of splintered wood at the top. The ale is pouring from the crack, dripping all over the floor.

"What a waste," I grumble. The orc grunts in agreement.

"Gotta grab some containers, see if we cant save it," Matilda looks around the room. She spots some large buckets in the corner. She flips them upside down, clearing out the debris.

"Wash that out first," I shout before she can bring it over. She rolls her eyes then heads out the back door to the well. I look over to the orc when she leaves. "Don’t mind helping a little more, don’t think I can tilt that by myself," I point to the barrel. He grunts. I'll take that as a yes.

Matilda returns a moment later. With the orc's help, we pour the leftovers into the bucket. The task made easier with his help. Its very kind of him to lend a hand. I know we could have figured something out but it's just simpler when someone has blind strength.

I leave Matilda to clean up the mess as I walk the orc back out to the main room. "Thanks for helping, really appreciate it," I pat his back," also for the figurines. Did you make them yourself?" I try to start a conversation.

"Yes," he answers shortly. I wait for him to add more, he doesn’t,

"Alright, well for your help how bout a drink on the house," I offer. His lips quirk again but not yet a smile.

"ok," he walks with me back to the bar. I fix his drink, passing it to him with a smile.

"I have to get back to work but thanks again," I pat his hand," don’t mind if I ask your name?" he focuses on our hands. I feel awkward, maybe he doesn’t like that. I slide them away but he snatches it before I get too far. Holding his hand over mine.

"Azhug," he grunts. I almost don’t catch it, too focused on us. It’s a simple touch but I can't help but stumble over my thoughts.

"I'm Emma," I answer," I need to get back to work." before I can retreat my hand he lifts it. Bringing it to his lips where he gives a quick peck.

"It's nice to meet you, Emma," he looks directly at me. I stare wide-eyed, lips parted. My heart stutters and my thoughts run away. Before I can say something stupid he drops my hands and walks away. Taking his drink to his booth.

I take a second to come back to now. Blushing as I try to think of what I should be doing.

The weekend passes and the week is introduced. When I come in on Monday I see Azhug already in. he is behind the bar screwing around with something. I head over and lean against the bar top. Pushing on my toes to see what he is doing. He startles when he notices me, recovers quickly. Messing with the shelf against the wall. All the harder liquors are on the table and he is changing the board.

"Whatcha doing Azhug," I ask. He drops his head, sighing before turning around. "I didn’t mean to bother you," I quickly add.

"No bother, just like hearing you say my name," he corrects.

I cock a brow," Is that right Azhug?"

"Yes," he looks me up and down. I feel a chill run up my spine. If I didn’t know any better id assume he was flirting, just a little bit.

"good to know, butter you up some when I need anything," I take to teasing.

"Don’t need to do that, just ask for anything," he raises a brow. His lips quirking just a bit. What I wouldn’t give to see him smile.

"Anything," I lean against my arms. Perking my chest a bit. I grin when I catch him peaking for a second.

"yes," he grunts.

"Then I want to know what you are doing," I lean back, standing straight. He huffs, his shoulders losing some tension I didn’t notice he had.

"Fixing the shelf," he points behind himself.

"I got that much, why are you fixing it," I reiterate.

"Was going to break, I asked Ritz if I could fix it for you," he answers.

"Fixing it for me," I tilt my head," don’t see how I benefit too much from this." he turns away from me and continues his work. I assume he isn't going to answer but he surprises me.

"Didn’t want you to get hurt," he finally answers," could break and fall while you are here."

I watch his back as the shirt is pulled a little taunt when he raises his arms," well that’s kind of you." he grunts in acknowledgment and continues working. I figure it’s the end of the conversation so I head on to the back to get ready for work.

The week goes about similar to that day. He is around fixing things in the bar. Having short conversations with me when I ask what he is up to. They are pleasant conversation but always short. Azhug isn't much of a conversationalist. With all the tasks he is getting done I just hope he is getting paid properly. I know Ritz can be a cheap son of a bitch.

As the week comes to an end on Thursday I see the usual group of orcs walk in. loud as always, a strong contrast to Azhug's personality. I walk over to them and take their orders.

"Hello boys, what will you all be having," I grin at the group.

"All have a pint of ale, don’t know why you bother asking. We aren't very original," one laughs.

"I don’t know, I'm feeling the mead this time," another ponders," Nah, ale hits the spot better." the group chuckles at him.

"Say where is that heavy-hearted lad at, I don’t see him," one of them looks over to the bar.

"Who you asking about," I look where he is looking.

"The lad who is courting you, I had a question about something," he looks back at me. I squint at him confused. Who is courting me?

"I'm not sure I know who you are referring to," I answer.

He looks at me like I'm dumb," the less bulky looking orc. The one who has been all over you for the past two weeks. Are you daft?"

"Azhug? No, he isn't courting me. Man can barely keep a conversation with me," I huff at myself. They don’t think it's so funny.

"Believe me, Emma, he is courting you. Shouldn’t be too long before he lifts you on his shoulder and takes you off to wear your thighs like ear muffs," he laughs. My face immediately gets red. I look away from the group, hiding my face from them.

"what are you doing," I hear someone say from behind me.

"Its lover boy himself. I didn’t see you back there, fixing something for the lass in the back I'm assuming," the loud one greets Azhug. I turn and see him glaring at the orc. I startle when he hand holds my waist, pulling me back against him.

"No need to get so taunt, we aren't trying to steal her away," another orc calls from down the table.

"Yea, we just educating her on our culture. Say, when are you sweeping her off her feet. Can't imagine you are too far away from that," a different one calls. Azhug sneers at the group. His hand sliding over my stomach, my back flush with his front.

The room gets tense as Azhug glares at the party of orcs. Seeming to stake his claim in front of them all before leaning down towards me.

"Sorry," he mumbles. He then turns with me and guides me back to the bar. Leading me around the table and letting go when we are near the drinks. I can faintly hear the group laughing behind us.

"What was that about," I ask as I fix the party's drinks.

"Nothing, they are just teasing," he glares over me. I snap my fingers in front of his face, catching his attention.

"I don’t think they were just teasing," I look between his eyes," answer me honestly. Are you courting me?" he squints down at me, trying to figure out a way to deny it.

"yes," he grunts. He remains tense, waiting for my response. His fists are clenched and his shoulders taut. I can't help but admire the way his arms flex. The muscle tempting and alluring. Azhug is surely an attractive man.

"Ok, good," I answer. He looks transform to shocked, a little confused.

"What, really," his mouth quirks.

"Yea, I think you could be a good mate. I just need you to talk more," I grin," can't keep a conversation with just myself. Think you can do that?"

He nods," I can do that."

"then alright. Court away," I flourish my hand," but can you explain it to me first."

"Yes, I can do that. Uh, courting happens in parts. Gifts, actions, then taking. I gave you the gifts I made, you took them. Then I'm supposed to help fix up your home or our future home. I don’t know where you live and didn’t want to scare you. So I'm helping the pub. Then finally I take you," he explains. This is the most I've heard him speak in one go. It's nice.

"Take me, like what," I tilt my head.

"Sex," he answers bluntly," we make love. Its where we claim each other and are official." I can't help the blush.

"When does that happen?"

"two days," he takes a step forward. He rests his hands on the bar behind me. Trapping me between himself and the table. He leans down near my ear," I will take you, going somewhere I choose. I'll show you how I will treat you for the rest of our lives. Make you cum as much as possible before reaching my own end. Learning your body as intimately as I can. I will worship you, love you like no one ever before. That is what will happen in two days because you have accepted my courtship. You will be mine Emma and I will be yours."

He leans back and looks upon my red face. I'm biting my lip and damn near whimpering. I know I'm wet, his deep voice having rumbled through my chest. His hot breath on my ear as he whispered those dirty things. I think I might be excited about it now. This large handsome orc wishes to worship me. I can get behind that.

Glancing up at his face I can see a large smile. Its everything I thought it would be. It's an amazing look for him. His eyes slightly crinkled as his cheeks are pulled up. His tusk protruding proudly and his other teeth visible. I can't help it, I cup his face and stand on my toes. I give a quick kiss to his lips. I can feel him stop breathing.

"I can't wait," I peck him again.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- My favorite monster lover is orcs, i just love big beefy men. I’m a simple woman. i just like a man who can bench press me. Part 2

Check out my Archive | Masterlist | Main Blog

[antihumanism]

@transhumanoid​ said:

The short answer is, obviously, the Space Defense Front did nothing wrong.

In a longer answer, it can be a bit hard to tell what the SDF were about. In their first real appearance, we have a guy conducting a bombing campaign on the moon. The target of the bombings (smoke rooms) seems chosen to minimize civilian casualties while still getting attention (smoke rooms have separate ventilation and are built with fires in mind, so set off a bomb in one and the station as a whole is left intact). This sort bombing campaign was very effective for the IRA and has been used with varying degrees of violence and success by all movements. It gets attention for your ideas, can provoke violent reaction from the government/corporation targeted creating sympathy for the cause, and repairing the damaged infrastructure costs money which makes the occupation less profitable. It’s good and it’s valid and anyone who says otherwise is a naïve fool who will grow out of it one day or follow the rest through the kitchen. 

Then our guy just goes straight for the throat with an attack on ISPV-7. If he’d been successful, that would have been the end of human exploitation of space. No need for consciousness of anything, and there was no room for the negotiation that happened in the finale. It makes no sense. However, ISPV-7 was only in so much danger due to a perfect storm of bad decisions by the Commander. So, it seems reasonable that the SDF had no idea how close they came to a pyrrhic victory and their intention was just to deliver another bloody nose.

Maybe, but our guy also seems to think he’s the fucking Lorax.

So, it is all very confused. A lot of risk was undertaken in this bombing campaign to get people to hear this manifesto, and the manifesto is just some exposition mixed with mangled quotes from Dr. Seuss and Kaczynski, and if he had been “successful” in his last attack he wouldn’t have needed to say anything. The Kessler Syndrome would have pinned mankind to Earth for years without any need for ideology or propaganda.

Still, the action is heroic. Our guy is punching well above his weight class and reminding the oligarchs and technicians that they can’t ascend beyond the reach of vengeance and the grasping claws of spite. A lot of people point to the crab bucket and say “oh, those other crabs are being so mean” ignoring that the crab trying to escape is doing so by stepping on the heads of the others and leaving them to their deaths. There’s a lot of dirty little words for the wannabe escapees. “Kapo” is one of them; “collaborateur” is another.

Besides, even when they’re just off their meds, like people burning 5G towers, violent refusers still serve a valuable role. Let’s get microbiotic: in a colony of bacteria, even if everybuggy is a clone there are still point mutations and differences in the amount and type of plasmids that they’re packing. These differences mean that there are different levels of signaling molecules in each cell and enzymes with different active sites and so on. These differences provide the basis of resistance when something comes in and starts taking heads. To get a bit rat, lines for the preservation of the Sentinelese is the most important thing for protecting H. sapiens from the “benevolence” of CelestAI.

When the SDF returns, they’re a lot more coherent. Mostly because they’re represented by Hakim, and when Hakim and Hachi talk, I don’t know how anyone couldn’t come down on the side of Hakim. Hachi just spews Redditor cliches about how much he fucking loves science, and Hakim responds with the cold hard reality: all that is happening is the increasing stratification between oligarchs, middle managers and engineers above. Maybe you think the millions who died from lack of food or medicine each year are also a cliché, well that’s an opinion you can share with the folks who also think “6 million” is a cliché. Whatever nonsense about “humanity” one says, humans aren’t going anywhere without violence and that violence belongs in the hands of everypony. There will never not be the need for those who blow stuff up and threaten the status quo.

Funnily enough, Locke Smith (one of the best anime names ever and a name that could only be an anime name, John Locke + Adam Smith = lock maker and burglar) would fully agree, which is why he doesn’t take the SDF’s actions personally. The SDF is the necessary obverse face of Locke Smith. Ruthless communalists and ruthless individualists waging a proxy war through all H. sapiens. A lot of meat gets ground up between them, but it is necessary to bend and/or break the backs of the oligarchs and bring about the change they’ll refuse at all other costs.

Which is one of the great things about Planetes, it cheerfully celebrates ruthlessness. Terrorism, corporate backstabbing, psychopaths like von Braun and Locke Smith, love and hate, Hachi and Hakim, industrialist and ecoterrorist. Even Hachi’s PTSD and vision at the end about “space as everyone being connected” is reminiscent of Arjuna in the Mahābhārata who gives into despair at the prospect of war and only recovers his resolve because he’s shown the oneness of all things. Then he picks up his weapons and massacres his enemies without remorse. This also comes from the same chapter as the famous “I am become death, destroyer of worlds”-line.

So, the long answer is, the Space Defense Front did nothing wrong, but neither did their enemies.

[royallyprincesslilly]

Title: Bet You Can’t {5}***

Chris Evans x Uriah & Chris Hemsworth x Summer

Crossover-Collab Five-Part Miniseries

 Warning: Cursing, Tease, SMUT, NSFW, Shenanigans, 

 Words: 4K

 Summary: Uriah and Chris are happily married. A night of relaxing with your best friends Chris and Summer Hemsworth brings up “No Nut November.” Once you hear it, you know where it’s leading. IT was all jokes until somehow it turned serious. The Chris’ strike a full-on bet while dragging their better halves into the madness. The rules are simple, for the entire month of November none of you will have sex, none of you will get that nut in any way. Whichever couple makes it get bragging rights, and the 10k pool bet money. Whichever couple doesn’t make it has to change their social media name to “Failed NNN” for a week and post/tweet as normal and go on IG live to announce their failure. The bet is rigged though when Uriah and Summer decide to sabotage their husbands and make a side bet on who could make their husband fail quicker. All’s fair in love and war, and this is war.

 Note: So now we’ve come, to the end of the road. LOL, I had to do it. Love me some old school Boyz II Men. Anyway, this is it folks, the last part to this crazy Bet You Can’t No Nut November idea I had. Yeah I know it’s March, and NNN ended months ago but oh well. LOL.  I hope you’ve enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Great huge thank you again to  @oceanscorazon for participating in this and being so damn amazing to work with! It was so much fun doing this with you!!

***So for Chris and Uriah’s timeline, this is before the events of Rumor Has It.

***Loosley Edited/Proofread***

🍁 🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁🍁

-Sunday-

-Day One of Week Four-

  Technically the bet was who would make it to the end of November. No one specifically said anything about November thirtieth. Everyone knew that the fourth week of November signified the end of the month, that the week of Thanksgiving was the last week of the month. As far as he was concerned he’d made it and succeeded with flying colors.

 “Eh-em!”

 He snapped out of his runaway thoughts and focused back on you bringing him back to reality. A reality that had him nestled between your thighs with his shorts down to his thighs. God, your body was scorching hot.

 “Did I lose you?”

 “You’ll never lose me, dragonfly.” Softly he nuzzled his nose against yours and brought it to your cheek then your neck. You smelled amazing, like cotton candy, ripened honeydew, gardenias, and sunshine. He loved your scent and right now it was just another thing that was making everything he’d held back seep to the surface. He was struggling.

“Will you forgive me if this is quick?”

 You snorted laughing which made him laugh too. “Really Riah? I’m serious.”

 “I’m sorry baby, I didn’t know you were serious.” You pulled his face to yours and gazed into his eyes lovingly. He loved your doe like sable eyes. He always got lost in them. A hazy feeling overtook him and just like that he was gone.

 “We have no plans today baby, we’re in no rush. I just want you, no matter where or however long.”

 He believed you. His lips met yours for a soft kiss. Just as it intensified he pulled away hearing a deeper meaning to your words.

 “No matter where? Does that mean what I think it means?” Your smile was mischievous and too tempting. Again, his head fell to the crook of your neck. He breathed you in and moaned. Of their own accord, his hips rocked forward nudging your core. He could feel just how much you wanted him. You moaned and tightened the wrap of your legs around his waist.

 “It means whatever you want it to mean.” The shock on his face could not be hidden.

 “Goddamn it, Uriah.”

 He bent his head to capture a darkened nipple between his teeth and gently bite. Like oil to flame, your back instantly arched feeding him even more of your delicious skin. He spent the next several minutes suckling at your breasts, the breasts he knew one day hopefully soon his own child would depend on for nutrients. The thought had him biting you a little harder. Your grunt told him you didn’t mind. He knew you were extra sensitive right now and he decided to use everything to his advantage.

 After five or so minutes he still hadn’t had enough. He licked, sucked, nibbled and kneaded your flesh in every direction until you writhed and begged for more. When he didn’t listen to the pleas from your lips you used your body to plead your case. You rocked onto him, brushing your sex on his throbbing and engorged need. He knew he was at the threshold and knew he would not last as long as he normally did. His mission now was to make this worthwhile for you.

 “Chris, please,” you whined as he quickly flicked his tongue across your nipples.

 “Good things come to those who wait, kitten.”

 He kissed the space between your breasts and trailed down the center of your body to your stomach. Once he reached your belly button he delved his tongue inside and imitated just what he intended to do once he was between your legs. Your moan softened and your fingers buried in his hair and gently tousled his locks.

 “You sure you want me to put a baby here?” Again, he kissed your stomach.

 “Yes.” It was a whisper. He looked up to find your eyes glued to him.

 “Yes?” You bit your bottom lip before you spoke.

 “Yes, daddy.” His lips moved lower continuing his intended path to the treasure at the end of your rainbow. In the last seconds, he decided there was no point in teasing you, but he wanted to savor this.  When his lips met yours again your back arched.

 “Shit,” you hissed out.

 He took his time tasting and teasing you. Slowly he traced your lips with his tongue purposely skipping where you wanted him. He traced down to your opening and moaned finally tasting just what he’d been depriving himself of for weeks.

 “Fuck you taste incredible, baby.”

 “Yeah?”

 Using his hands he pressed your thighs even further back giving him full, unrestricted access. Once you were spread wide he ravaged your flesh never keeping one speed or pattern. His goal was to keep you guessing, keep you arching, keep those sexy moans tumbling from your lips. You gasped releasing a high pitch that gave him goosebumps. Hunger got the best of him and he couldn’t go slow anymore. He hooked his hands around your thighs and pulled you firmly against his lips.

 “Fuck, Chris!” Your fingers were back in his hair raking your nails against his scalp. He sucked your clit in his mouth and swirled his tongue around it pulling a shiver from you.

 “Oh my god, Chris, you’re gonna make me come.”

 “Come for me, kitten. Come right here.”

 He stuck his tongue out and dipped it into your tight core then withdrew only to do it again and again. Each time he sunk his tongue into the most intimate part of you your grip on his hair tightened and your shiver intensified. Small little mewls filled the room and it only fueled him even more.

 Without warning, he felt the sweet gush of your desire flow. He moaned on you but didn’t stop for one second. Your screeches got louder and louder until your body convulsed. You tried to pull his head back, but he was not having it. When you realized he had no intention of giving you any reprieves you tried to pull back. He held you firmly in place and locked eyes with you. he knew that you knew you’d have to give him what he wanted before he let you go.

 “Oh my god!” He watched your eyes roll to the back of your head and felt the resistance in your thighs and he knew you were coming again. Your body shook again, and he still held you right where you were and took everything you offered.

 “Shit, shit shit, Chris!” You squealed his name and continued trying to pull away. Two was good enough for him—for now. He rose up onto his fists and hovered over you. You quickly pulled his face to you and sucked his lips. Your tongue sensually delved into his mouth and twisted around his. The groan he released gave away just how turned on he was and how much pain he was in trying to hold himself back.  Slowly you released his lips while pulling him on top of you.

 “Make love to me Chris, please.” Your hand wrapped around his shaft and squeezed.

 “God Uriah.”

 “Don’t hold back anymore baby. I need you.” You rubbed him along your slit fully coating him with your essence. He closed his eyes to invest himself fully into the feelings that were washing over him. He didn’t know how much more he could take. When he looked at you that was the absolute last straw. You looked so open, so beautifully open for him. he swore he could see and feel every emotion you were feeling and then some.

 “I love you, Riah.” You opened your mouth to speak but instead, you flung your head back and gasps at the first feel of him filling you for the first time in weeks. He felt the instant urge to come but buried his face in your collar trying to hold off the inevitable.

 “Riah--.” The tremble in his voice was so raw. You had to know how close he was to falling apart. He was afraid to move; he was so damn close.

 That was when you began moving for him taking him completely off guard. After your body rocked on his for a third time he was moaning and panting but still holding on. What started as slow rocks, turned into passionate waves with you clenching around him.

 “Fuck!” Before he knew what he was doing he was pinning you to the bed with your legs spread wide and delivering his own onslaught of thrusts. Your nails scraped his back and only fueled him more. His eyes zeroed in and watched himself slide in and out of your body. The sight was mesmerizing. Though each felt incredible and he swore that one would be the last it wasn’t.

 Five minutes passed and he still miraculously hadn’t come though you’d done so twice already. He didn’t know how he was still able to keep going. Maybe it had something to do with him not looking into your eyes, maybe it was because he kept thinking about random things like tomatoes, baseball, football, and even politics. 

Whatever it was it was working, and he was determined to make it continue working. That was until you rolled on top of him and ground on him slowly rotating your hips in perfect circles. His hands instantly flew to your hips hoping to steady you. You swatted them away and threw your head back and continued your search for your next release.

 “Oh my god Chris, you feel so good—so good! Do you feel—feel it?”

 All he could muster were mutters as he held on to your hips. You were not taking it easy on him and half of him was glad for it. He wanted a release more than he wanted air right now, but he wanted to feel this feeling for as long as he could. God, he’d missed you.

  -Uriah-

You were being pretty selfish right now, but you didn’t care. You felt as if you’d been deprived of this for months rather than the weeks it had been. You wanted more so you took more. Bracing your palms on Chris’ abdomen you used him as leverage and began bouncing on his dick.

 “Oh my god, Uriah!”

 His grip on your hip tightened and because of it, you bounced faster fighting against his strength. Suddenly Chris began pumping up to meet you each time you came down. He knew this always made you weak. Your actions stilled so you couldn’t handle the levels of pleasure your husband was giving you. Your body shook and it was then Chris’ hand clasped over your breast. Your body moved on its own and soon both you and Chris were moving in unison each chasing your own pleasure. That was until your eyes met and everything slowed. The mad dash to the finish line slowed as did your bodies.

 Chris rolled you onto your back and crushed his lips to yours and took whatever of your breath you had left. Your moans evaporated in his mouth as did his in yours. His movements did not slow, they only became more and more precise. It was if were trying to bury himself as deep as possible so you would never be without him.

 “Ugh-ugh-ugh! Do you feel me, Uriah?”

 You nodded your head rapidly; speech was not possible. He pressed your hand to the bed and entwined his fingers with yours tightening his hold every time he thrust deeper into you.

 “Oh god, Chris I’m gonna come again. Yes, yes, right there!”

 “You want me to make you come, kitten? Tell me how bad you wanna come.”

 “So bad—please.” You arched your head back once again feeling the intense mix of pain and pleasure only he could deliver. Chris dropped his forehead to yours and kissed you again.

 “Come for me baby--let me make you--a daddy. Let me give you everything we both want,” you panted out on strangled breaths every time he sunk deep into you.

 Chris grunted then splayed his palm across your abdomen. He didn’t need to speak, neither did you. Both of you knew the words you wanted to say but you spoke them in other ways.

 “You want my baby? A little girl with your smile,” Chris whispered.

 “A little boy with your eyes,” you countered.

 Once the words were out the emotion on his face was evident and couldn’t be misunderstood. Almost instantly his thrusts picked up pace and in a matter of seconds his pants and moans were louder than yours, but he soon made you take the lead again.

 “I love you, Chris!”

 “I love you more, dragonfly.” He barely got the words out before he found his release which triggered yours. Your scream was loud and if anyone passed they wouldn’t be able to tell where you began and he ended. Your body shook and a whimper escaped you as you tried to catch your breath.

 Long minutes passed with Chris on top of you still buried deep within you. Neither of you spoke or moved. You knew for a fact you didn’t have either in you. You were completely weak and fulfilled. Chris moaned and looked down to meet your eyes.

 “So much for no nut.” You snorted and snickered into his shoulder. It didn’t take him long before he joined you. He then dropped onto his back with a grunt.

 “Good riddance I say. If you ever do something so stupid again I swear to you I will tie you up and take what I want while making it as torturous for you as possible.” He moaned; you felt a soft thud against your belly making you look down to see he was once again hard.

 “That did not just turn you on.”

 “I mean it didn’t sound like a punishment really. It sounded kinda hot.” You shook your head and kissed his chest.

 “What are the chances I can convince you to climb on?” You pretend to give it some real thought.

 “Depends on what’s in it for me.” Chris’ smile was wide.

 “Unimaginable pleasure. I have weeks to make up for and for us that means one round down forty-one to go.” Slowly you smiled unable to hide your excitement.

 Summer had been right that ill-fated night on the beach, the two of you were like rabbits. Wasting no more time you climbed on top of him and took control, but only for a moment before Chris was commanding your body to do what he willed telling you his ledger had red in it and that he intended on clearing it before Tuesday night. You smiled and dipped down to him pressing your lips to his ear.

 “Bet you can’t.”

 The incredulous look he gave you nearly made you fall off of him laughing. He smiled and quickly flipped you onto your back.

 “Oh ho, you’re on Mrs. Evans.”

   -Thursday-

It’s all fun and games until someone loses a bet and had to face the consequences of their actions. Today you should have been worried about cooking Thanksgiving dinner and entertaining yours and Chris’ family and friends who made the trip to your house for the holiday. You should be worried about nothing but having enough alcohol for the masses but no, you had more than that to worry about.

 “I can’t believe this,” Summer groaned out on FaceTime. Neither could you.

 “I have my huge ass family over here Riah now look at what this big child has gotten me into,” she complained.

 “I know. These two dummies.” You and Summer shook your heads together. You could see Hemsworth approaching in the frame. When he sat he kissed Summer’s temple and smiled at you.

 “Hey Riah, how are you, love?”

 “Just great.”

 “You sure you’re holding up all right? From what Summer tells me Evans has been giving you quite the workout.” Summer slapped his arm and gave him awide-eyedd look.

 “Really Summer?”

 “Come on girl, how was I going to keep quiet about the back breaking Evans has been putting in, your words.”

 Chris sat beside you then with a serious look on his face. You didn’t look at him long before you looked back to the camera and gave your Chrissy Teigen “yikes” face. Summer busted out laughing.

 “You shouldn’t be talking Summer. Like who the hell has sex on top of a lifeguard hut?” Summer gasped at Chris’ comment and glared at Hemsworth who sipped his beer then spoke.

 “All right, so we’re all gathered here to face our shame. Shall we get on with it?”

 You could see comments coming in. “Wait, Summer have you been live this whole time?” She nodded. You slapped your forehead when you saw a comment come in about you and Chris being some freaks.

 “I tried to tell you don’t let Chris’ very white skin fool you, there is a brother in there somewhere dying to get out and I bet Uriah can attest to those sentiments,” Summer defended.

Your eye caught a comment about Summer and Hemsworth’s escapade on top of the lifeguard hut. They asked if the beach was at least empty.

 “No comment,” Summer announced.

 “Let’s just say it was three o’clock in the afternoon, mate and this is Australia. If the sun’s out we’re on the beach.” His smile was wide as if he was the cat that had stolen all the milk.

 “Who wants to go first?” Chris looked at your smiling face.

 “I think it’s only right the ones who failed first should go,” you suggested giving Summer and Hemsworth an all knowing look.

 “You told them we were first?”

 “I was not going to lie, Christopher,” Summer defended.

 “All right so get on with it,” Chris instructed. Summer glared at him as if to say watch it.

 “Fine, since we must do these childish things. Y’all these idiots made us do this stupid No Nut November fuckrey to the protest—”

 “Strong protest,” you interjected.”

 “Yes, to Uriah and my strong, strong protest. They refused to heed the warning and completely underestimated the power of the pussy.”

 “And they paid dearly for it and suffered the consequences,” you added.

 You tried to stifle your laughter from the comments coming in. When you began there were maybe two hundred thousand watching. That number was steadily climbing and now you saw almost a million people were watching. You were divulging intimate details of your sex life to the world.

 “We said whoever lost had to come on here and announce it. So it looks like me and Summer are the ones who caved first,” Hemsworth said as he looked at Summer who didn’t look sorry at all.

 “Hashtag sorry not sorry,” she offered. You busted out laughing first and Chris followed.

 “Yall shouldn’t be laughing you lost too. Couldn’t even keep your hands off each other,” Hemsworth added.

 “Whatever, as far as we’re concerned we’re the winners. You hear that. I told you anything you can do I can do better.” Hemsworth took the bait.

 “No you can’t, mate.”

 “Uh yeah, I can. This just proved it. the better man won.”

 “What? No you can’t. I’m the better man,” Hemsworth shot back.

 You pinched your nose bridge because you could see where this was going. When you glanced at summer you could tell she knew it too.

 “All right mate, there are plenty of other months. There’s destroy the dick December a full thirty-one days of sex on lifeguard huts and crazy shit, all you can take. First to tap out loses. There’s feral fuck February, a full twenty-eight for the roughest nastiest sex ever.”

 “Oh yeah, I know about those. What about manic masturbate March serious hand lovin for the entire month, and Ass all over April which is self-explanatory and Miss out May thirty-one days of nothing whatsoever,” Chris countered.

 Hemsworth slid to the edge of his seat and pointed his bottle to the camera then began. “I’ve got better. Jumpin’ June thirty days thirty toys goal is to use em’ all like Pokemon.”

 “Jack of all trades July whatever and however the wife wants she gets,” Chris shouted.

 “Orgasmic August!”

 “Sexless September!

 “Orgasms R Us,” Chris and Hemsworth shouted together trying to beat the other to it.

 The comments were blowing up and you and Summer were just sitting there in complete shock at what the hell was happening before your very eyes.

 “Bring it, Evans! I can do this all year!”

 “Oh yeah? You think I can’t?”

 “Oh hell naw!” Both you and Summer’s voices shouted in complete solidarity.

 “There is no way in hell any of that is going down,” Summer enunciated for Hemsworth.

 “Summer come on, he’s challenging us.”

 “No, he is not. Look you fools are not going to put us through this shit again. I want my dick when I want my dick and how I want my dick. You two have no say so. Just shut up, look pretty and slang that dick!”

 “Hallelujah, Amen!” Your shout was that of a church sister who was feeling the sermon.

 “Riah--,” Chris began before you snapped your fingers closed signaling him to zip it.

 Seeing that you and Summer were adamant about not doing any of the shit they were talking about both men glared at each other in silence. You almost felt you’d won but then they both began talking again about what else, yet another bet.

 “I’m calling you now,” Chris said as he stood and began walking away. In seconds Hemsworth’s phone rang and he was standing and answering it before he walked off camera. You and summer sat there in stunned silence. Neither of you spoke for a full two minutes. You could hear Hemsworth in the background speaking in an animated voice, one that Chris sounded to be riveling

 “What the fuck just happened, Summer?”

 She opened her mouth to say something but snapped it shut several times before she sighed and tried again. “Are we right back where we started?”

“The fuck we are.”

 The comments were filled with notebook and pen emojis and peach and eggplant emojis. You shook your head at the same time Summer did. When you opened your mouth to speak a sinful idea came into your head. You mulled it over for a few seconds but each second that passed the lightbulb only grew brighter and brighter. You looked at the camera to see if Summer had the same idea. When you saw her sinister smile spread you knew she did.

 “Did you just have the same idea I had?”

 “Did it involve December?”

 “Ayyyyyyy!” You and Summer Milly rocked in your seats each adding your own twang to it.

 Chris sat back down as Hemsworth sat beside Summer.

 “We got it,” Hemsworth began.

 “We got it too,” you and Summer replied in unison as you smiled and looked at your husbands. They both looked confused. You brought your lips to Chris’ ear and whispered just what December meant to you. after almost a full minute if giving him CliffsNotes of the details you bit his earlobe and sat back. Summer did the same thing and the two of you waited knowing damn well what their answers were going to be.

 As sure as the sun rose in the east and sets in the west both men smiled widely as they looked to each other.

 “Bet you can’t,” they said at the same time.

 “You’re on!” Their quick replies had both you and Summer smiling widely, smiles your husbands didn’t even see. They thought they’d been the ones to yet again pull the two of you down with them but in fact it was the other way around. You and Summer were the puppet masters this time and you both intended to use your powers for evil and they were none the wiser. Chris and Hemsworth got up and walked off again leaving you and Summer to lean into the camera.

 “May the best woman win,” you whispered to each other before ending Live with a wave to the viewers.

 Your husband had no idea what was in store for him this December. 

TagList:

@chrisgalore @chaneajoyyy @rynabarnesrogers @disneysdarlingdiva @bellaamor88 @ab-baybay @sonjashuterbugjohnson @caramara3 @patzammit @yourwonderbelle @motivation-idontknowher @lo-cheu @momobaby227 @thatrandomhetaliachick @missdeerstalker15 @queenbetter @jesseswartzwelder @briellableu @titty-teetee  @zaddysqueen7  @melaninhawtie  @simplyyamberr @airis-paris14 @ashanti-notthesinger @afraiddreamingandloving @ajspencer1892 @wakanda-inspired @chillavesss @drsunshine97 @cleothegoldfish @builtalongthewayside @theunsweetenedtruth @geeksareunique @aykanna @hanasamara @profilia @ollieveracity @autumn242 @missyperle @sup3rn0va13 @forbeautyandlife @kreolemami @designerwriterchic

[gayenerd]

Green Day Deals with the "Rock Star" Dookie 

by Tom Lanham 

(First appeared in BAM Magazine, March 10, 1995)

 Young, loud, and snotty equals beaucoup bucks? What pencil-pushing, graph-charting trend spotter could've predicted it? But the facts speak for themselves: As of late February, Dookie--the brattish, snap 'n' snarl Reprise salvo from Berkeley's sloppy punk trio, Green Day--has sold six million copies. Six million. Chances are, somebody on your block is jumping up and down in his living room at this very moment to the scrap-metal power chords and ardent apathy of "Longview," "Burnout," "Basket Case," or "When I Come Around" and getting lost in the teen abandon of these testy 22-year-olds--weasel-voiced, Montgomery-Clift-like charismatic singer/guitarist Billie Joe; tom-tom tribal percussionist Tre Cool (of the ever-morphing hair-color fame); and bassist Mike Dirnt (who survived Green Day's appearance at Woodstock '94, although several of his teeth did not). 

Yes, punk rock is a marketable phenomenon these days, leaving many involved with the music's initial late-'70s, early-'80s wave scratching their heads, wondering why it didn't take the first time around. Public reaction started as curiosity ("Hey, honey, c'mere and lookit these goofy, green-haired little whippersnappers in an insane asylum on MTV!"), but spiraled up to rock-diet necessity (Green Day just won Grammy and they're nominated for quite a few Bammies as well, including such categories as Outstanding Group, Outstanding Album, and Outstanding Song--"Longview" and "Basket Case"). The fact that they've been nominated at all probably sends a shiver up the old dinosaur backbones of Eddie Money, Huey Lewis, and Boz Scaggs, a time-creepy feeling of "Gee, what the hell do we do now?" Because this isn't just some flash-in-the-pan punk movement, folks--this is a youth movement; Green Day are, as they hiply term it, "bored in the 'burbs," and reaching out, through TV and radio, like some prodigal preachers to other American kids who sense the same slacker ennui. Obviously, we're talking truckloads of kids. 

Ironically, the more fame edges into the Green Day ruffians' lives, the more mature they seem to become. They've turned down all interview requests as of late, even People magazine, preferring to lay low until this tide of interest recedes. Billie Joe got married last autumn, and spent his honeymoon--not in any exotic, expensive locale--but in Berkeley's grand old Claremont Hotel. Cool recently became a father, and Billie Joe's child is due any day now. It's a responsibility they've both eagerly undertaken. Rob Cavallo, the boys' coproducer and A&R man at Reprise, swears they're "old souls, the smartest young kids I've ever met." It rings true. 

The first time I spoke with Green Day, in January of '94, Cool, Dirnt, and Billie Joe were lazing around their dingy basement apartment in Berkeley, sitting on chairs and couches with potentially painful springs poking through. Rock 'n' roll bubblegum cards were scattered across a coffee table, along with several bongs of various sizes, plus a four-and-a-half foot red plastic pipe dubbed "Bongzilla" leaned against a doorway. The only wall decoration, besides a Ren & Stimpy poster, was a Twister game mat nailed up in its entirety, presumably for high-schoolish humor's sake. 

When I'd met Billie Joe a few months earlier at a campus concert, his hair was dyed lime-green and featured squidlike tufts. Now it was dark brown, with only two tufts remaining, and both his ears and nose had piercings. Periodically during the interview, he'd ram a finger into that pierced nostril, rummage around, then stare idly at the resultant booger before flicking it on to the carpet. Cool wandered out of the rec room for several minutes, but returned, red-eyed, to proudly proclaim, "Lookit me! I'm stoned, dude!" Dirnt--when he wasn't strumming an acoustic guitar--kept watching their windowsill Sea Monkey tank, finally noting, "Hey, these Sea Monkeys look just like sperm!" 

Despite all these schoolboy, poo-poo wit trappings (dookie, after all, is kiddie slang for excrement), there was a sense of seasoned wisdom about them, a feeling that they were, as Cavallo postulated, truly old souls. Like the class clown who frustrates all of his teachers by also maintaining a 4.0 grade average, Green Day can afford to play because their work--brilliantly skewed three-minute pop songs, delivered with such vehemence and vitriol you don't dare doubt them--certainly speaks for itself. But, sooner or later, of course, the band has to speak for itself, too, so what follows is a set of excerpts from that first ratty-digs meeting, as well as a later chat with Billie Joe, sans sidekicks. How did Green Day take over the rock world in less than a year? That's the six-million-copy question, and hopefully we'll provide a few answers. 

* * * 

So punk is back, whether America likes it or not? 

BILLIE JOE: It's always been around, and everyone has their own interpretation of it. It's weird to actually call it "punk" again, when it's been there all the time. 

MIKE DIRNT: It's been springing up in little suburban areas, where people grab it and express themselves. 

TRE COOL: It's people who make a point of setting aside all responsibilities and just playing music. And doing fat joint after fat joint--you have to let go of things like paying rent, going to school, having a job. 

BJ: And, if you can't tell by my house, we don't have a very high standard of living. 

How does today's punk rock differ from its late-'70s cousin?

 BJ: I think it was all about art and fashion back then, really, because everyone who was a punk in England was in art school. I read an early interview with Dee Dee Ramone, where he said he wished the Ramones had more of a glamorous appeal, too, instead of playing in jeans and leather jackets. But it was definitely about fashion, until the Clash really brought out the political side. Our music came from being bored in the 'burbs. You get put in this high school situation, where you're learning someone else's rules in a room with 30 other people that you don't really like. There's nothing interesting about it whatsoever, so you pick up a guitar instead. 

But you all tried college, at least for awhile, right? 

MD: And then we started touring. Constantly. 

TC: So most of our reading now comes from highway signs. 

MD: It's the old grasshopper and the ant story. The thought of actually working is just so... 

TC: Sickening! 

MD: Yeah. So we put everything we had into not working. This is what I do best, and I was always told, "If you're gonna do something, do it the best you can." So why not do the best thing you can, too? 

You guys--at least Mike and Billie Joe--have known each other since you were 10? 

BJ: And the first conversation we ever had was about writing songs. And then we just started playing music. 

A lot of the stuff on your early Lookout! records shows what was on your mind at the time--namely, girls. 

BJ: That was pretty much the viewpoint of a 16-year-old kid. I don't write stuff like that anymore. The new songs are more about coming of age and being apathetic and neurotic.

 Where were your parents when you were touring [at age 16]? 

MD: At work, doing their own thing. 

BJ: My mom's worked a waitress job for like the past 40 years or something, and whatever I was doing was OK with her. 

MD: I moved out when I was 15, and I worked all the way through high school. 

BJ: And me, I've never held a job longer than two weeks. I tried to flip pizzas--it didn't work. I tried cleaning toilets in the Red Onion in El Sobrante. Me and TrŽ, we used to work for the SF Chronicle, selling papers. I sold three the first day, and the next day we just smoked pot, and we smoked pot the next day after that. So we had hella extra papers lying around. Our ultimate goal wasn't to get rich or famous or anything like that. It was to not have a regular job and not be miserable. 

MD: And I've lived in every city around here, except for Albany. Literally. And one thing we want to establish about ourselves is that we're just a bunch of geeks from the suburbs. 

Well, one of the first times I saw you, you guys were closing your set with Survivor's "Eye of the Tiger." That's pretty geeky. 

MD: I grew up on radio--that's all I had. When I was a little kid, I couldn't afford records. I'll tell you, I've been down to a dollar in my pocket a lot of times. I've even lived in my truck. I can remember shooting rats with a BB gun in the flat we used to live in, before they'd make it to our food. 

BJ: I've always been really good about saving. If I got some money, I'd put it away instead of spending it, and I'd buy ramen. 

Why name your disc Dookie? 

TC: Warner's said we could do anything we want, as long as we didn't say "Cop Killer." 

BJ: Somebody told our manager that the ad for it was the most tasteless thing they'd ever seen in Billboard magazine. 

What exactly do you mean on Dookie by "Welcome to Paradise"? 

BJ, MD, TC [in unison]: West Oakland! 

MD: Living in West Oakland, and going out to parties every night. 

So it cost, what, around $100,000 to make Dookie? 

MD: Yeah. We kept the advances low, because you gotta pay all that shit back. Everyone knows you can't become an instant millionaire just by signing, because there are so many people that want a piece of you. 

BJ: We hang out with mostly punks though, and they don't want anything we have. They could care less. And a lot of our friends don't even agree with us being on a major label. 

Is Green Day angry? 

BJ: No, I'm not angry, like, walking around all the time with a frown on my face. But the way my music is interpreted is very angry. 

MD: When you feel really strongly about something, you want to let it out in the most powerful way possible. 

Like the way you baited your old high school principal from the Warfield stage recently? 

MD: I think he was an asshole. He treated me with no respect. And for high school initiation, we got our heads shaved--that's the kind of small-town shit we had to deal with! Sometimes they made you push a penny up the street with your nose. But that's life, and anywhere you go, you're gonna hate a lot of shit in your life. You'll be handed

Dookie? 

MD: Yeah. Yeah, you'll be handed dookie through all parts of your life. And see, what you need to do is just deal with the dookie, build upon what you have, and make something out of the dookie, you know? Like an adobe dookie building! 

* * * 

Several months later, and Dookie is oozing its gooey way into the public consciousness big time. The fading summer heat sticks crackling to the Berkeley sidewalks as punks--many sporting monstrous green or fuchsia mohawks--zing by on skateboards by day, and huddle in Telegraph Avenue doorways by night, conserving feral body heat the whole time. It feels like another world here, a throwback to the Bay Area's DIY/hardcore scene of the early '80s, when squatters reigned supreme and burlesque Broadway--fueled by all-ages shows at the Mabuhay Gardens, On Broadway, and even an occasional GBH or UK Subs booking at the Stone--made weekend conversions to "Punk Playground, USA." It was the best of times; it was the worst of times--despite relentless touring, most of these bands sold bupkus in the way of records, and few, save Metallica, ever held pen in shaky hand over a major-label contract. 

Billie Joe saunters into the Berkeley coffeehouse in rumpled jeans and a grease-spattered flannel shirt; his once-green-and-tufty tresses have grown out into Wally Cleaver waves and been dyed a Rod Stewarty blond. He looks like one of those feisty punks of yore; like he could hold his own through sheer physical endurance in the wildest of thrash pits. There's a new authority about him, the way he strides confidently to the counter, orders a pint-size glass of coffee, then swims through a sea of late-lunching yuppies to grab a table. The singer doesn't seem to notice them at all. Or maybe he's just too tired from nonstop touring to really give a shit. He smiles a goofy grin, revealing a set of generally crooked or chipped choppers, with an entire half of one front tooth missing. But there's such charisma behind it, the same kind of "Who, me?" innocence that little kids use. Billie Joe, you might say, has quickly become the Bart Simpson of the alternative set. 

How else could you explain his uncensored performance at a certain outdoor arena where--in a hyperspeed set lasting only 30 minutes before management threatened to pull the plug--he a) unzipped his fly and paraded his privates around for all to see; b) handed a stunned fan his beat-up, sticker-plastered guitar and urged him to play it; c) destroyed a $600 microphone by smashing it into the stage, then destroyed a second mike he was handed as well; and d) encouraged half the venue to chant, "Rock 'n' roll!" and the other half to respond with, "Shut the fuck up!" He then closed the show with a proposition--"They'll be really angry with us, but what we could do is rip out the seats!" he told the audience, which promptly gave Green Day a standing ovation. Billie Joe not only shrugs off such shenanigans as artistic license, he gets away with them! He's even encouraged to continue by fans who empathize with his uppity "fuck authority" attitude. 

But the facts were all on the table as Billie Joe sipped his house blend that afternoon, and it didn't take a fortune teller to read 'em. Green Day was hitting big time. Fast. And the sheer enormity of the undertaking, the weight of all its accordant responsibility, was just beginning to hit him. He looked older, wiser, and spoke in more grownup tones about his future, which then included a pending marriage to longtime girlfriend Adrienne. You could practically feel this new maturity encircling him like some protective aura. 

* * * 

=Where do all these punks on Telegraph come from? They can't all be local and homeless. 

I think Telegraph has just become this cultural mecca for punk rockers, because most of 'em who are on the Avenue aren't even from here. They're from Arizona, Minneapolis, New York, Florida. They just come out and end up squatting in houses in Berkeley. Why here? It's the climate, and the scene itself--Gilman Street and Maximum Rock 'n' Roll are in this area, and have a link to each other. But at the same time, it's separated, because there are so many different factions of punk now. There are the squatters, the pop-cores, the mods, the crusties. And all these types of people come out just to check it out. Plus, there's the best coffee in Berkeley, and a lot of 'em are real super coffee-drinkers, just pounding cup after cup all the time. It's pretty rare to come across a punk who doesn't drink coffee. I can't drink too much coffee myself--it gives me the shakes at night, so I just have a little bit during the day. Then I can smoke dope and go to bed. 

=What's the attraction in squatting or homelessness for these kids? 

For a lot of 'em, it's the first sense of freedom that they've had. It's like, "You mean I don't have to be home by midnight?" They've pretty much told their families and schools to go fuck themselves, so they go off and do their own thing. When I was 17, I did the same thing. And I had this total sense of freedom, where no one's telling you what to do, you don't have a clock to punch in on, you don't have people breathing down your neck; you don't have any deadlines to meet. You have this endless schedule where you can stay up all night drinking with your friends, or do anything you want. 

=But isn't "Coming Clean" about leaving behind your wilder ways? 

It's also about coming to grips with your sexuality. There's one line, "Skeletons come to life in my closet." And it's like, "Am I homosexual or heterosexual?" You go through this adolescent stage in your life where you don't really know what you are, and one side is taboo because your parents brought you up to think being gay was wrong. And if you come to grips with yourself, that you happen to be gay or bi or whatever, well, that was one thing about punk that was so accepting--all creeds were welcome, all sexualities, everything. 

=Was this something you went through personally? 

Yeah, to a certain extent. But I don't want to go around waving a gay flag or anything. 

=Well, you had a beautiful girl on your arm backstage at the last Green Day show. 

That's Adrienne. She's cool. Actually, we're engaged. That's why it took me so long getting here today--I had to get this! [Rolls sleeve up on tattooed arm, points to a bandaged-on cotton swab] Blood test, dude! We're getting married next week! 

=Has anybody tried to tell you you're too young for such a serious move? 

Of course. There are a lot of people who've said stuff. My parents have been a little more understanding than her parents. I just called my mom yesterday and said, "Mom, I'm gettin' married," and she said, "That's fine, son. Have fun!" I can hardly surprise my mother nowadays. But [this relationship] has been a recurring thing for the past four years, and we just decided to get serious about it. She's coming out here, and we're moving in together, so it's like, "Why not?" I don't really have any wild oats to sow, or anything like that. I'm not into the "Gettin' chicks all the time" thing.

 =I know a lot of girls who'll be really bummed that you're gittin' hitched. They all seem to have developed a crush on you... 

Me?! It must be the teeth [grins again].

 =OK, so maybe you didn't brush often enough when you were young. But you were busy developing a direction... 

I wouldn't necessarily say I had a direction or anything. I just knew I wanted to write songs. It comes from...uh...I don't know. I have no idea. It wasn't any kind of cosmic force or anything like that; it was just a matter of having a guitar around and wanting to play it all the time. I've had the same guitar since I was 11--I bought it off this guy at a guitar store. And I still play it--you know, the blue one with stickers all over it? That's my blue guitar, and, for some reason, things come to life, and everyone calls it "Blue" now--"Where's Blue? Can I pick up Blue and play it?" 

=And you let just anybody touch it? 

Oh yeah! Blue's not prejudiced. 

=It's interesting to note that the general public seems to think Dookie is your debut. 

Yeah, but that's just the general public. There are people who've been with us since the beginning, who know how long we've been around, since our first 7-inch came out back in '89. 

=And now you can afford to trash pricey microphones. 

Actually, Warner Brothers paid for those. It was pretty nice of 'em. They looked really nice--I remember looking at 'em and thinking, "Nice microphones!" They gave me one mike and I took it and threw it down, and they gave me another, and at the end of the set I creamed it pretty hard, I guess. We toured Europe with this band Die Toten Hosen--we played nine dates with 'em--and we got charged for a microphone every night. I dunno, for some reason we just started smashing shit. We'd start throwing equipment around at the end of each set, and these kids would start grabbing Tre's drum set and throwing it, and then they started smashing the microphones too. And the bouncers just couldn't do anything about it. 

=And you actually yanked your dick out onstage too? 

I did. Totally. It was the real thing. I dunno. The bands that we were playing with were just boring. It was more like making a mockery of the whole thing. The big arena rock thing is just so dated now, like Journey or Queen. Which is why I think punk rock started to begin with--it was this reaction to all the dinosaur bands. So for me, that show was, "How can we make a complete mockery of this but at the same time have fun with it?" I like to leave people guessing, "Did he hate that or did he like that?" It's not that I don't care--it's more that I'm careless. I try to be as happy-go-lucky as I can, but you can become apathetic at the same time. 

=Do you feel like Green Day is a part of, or represents, the so-called "slacker generation"? 

There's one side of me that doesn't mind it, because it's a generational thing, and another side of me that says, "Fuck that!" The reason I wrote the songs is, I ended up going back to Rodeo, where I'm from, for a week. And then I said, "Fuck it," and left. But I managed to get several good songs out of it. A lot of my friends had just turned into complete burnouts. And these are kids I've known since kindergarten, because it's a small town and you know everybody. And it was all fixing cars, staying up all night on methamphetamines, smoking dope, and finding out all these rumors about people I haven't heard of in 10 years. Like, "Oh, did you hear about so-and-so, who got married, had three kids, and ended up shooting everybody in his family?" And it happened! It was a true story! You're there for one week, and you get caught up in it. You get so bored, all you wanna do is watch television. And there are no record stores, nothing around, so you end up hanging out with all these delinquents who aren't punkers at all, just cultural idiots. So I was watching all these people rot and rotting with them until I realized, "Shit! I gotta get the fuck outta here!" 

=As they say, you can never go home again. 

Oh yeah, definitely. Unless you get pregnant, like my sister did. Then you have to go. But I quit school my senior year--I just wasn't getting anything out of it. I was taking nine periods a day, plus night classes, which left me no time to smoke dope whatsoever. And my mom even suggested I drop out, because she was a dropout, too. I come from a long line of dropouts. I still have nightmares about being late with my homework assignments. When I finally went in to sign out of high school, the teacher went, "Now, who are you again?" 

=And if that teacher could see you now! 

A lot of people think you get this big connection with a corporate label, and you make millions of dollars, but they don't understand that you just don't make that much money. And when you do, it's easy to piss it away. I mean, every cent that I've made, I've pissed away. I'm not gonna say how I did it, but I don't have it But I don't think you necessarily have to be a punk to decide to say, "Fuck it." You don't even have to have a direction. It's just a matter of getting the fuck out and exploring things for yourself. 

=But didn't you feel abject terror when you first set out on your own? 

Nah, I didn't. Because, for some reason, I knew things were gonna be all right. You can create your own future as long as karma's on your side. And I'm a strong believer in karma. I think things can come back to you if you're just willing to give. 

* * * 

True enough. At least six million times over!

1995 Tom Lanham

[writingmyselfout]

Because I Could Not Stop for Death - Chapter Four

Language: English

Rating: Teen+

Pairing: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter

Tags: AU - Canon Divergence, Reptilia28′s Don’t Fear the Reaper Challenge, Manipulative Dumbledore, Black Hermione Granger, Slight Ron Weasley Bashing

Prologue 1 2 3

Chapter 4: Writing on the Wall

Summary: Off to Hogwarts

                                                                                                    2 August 1991

DEAR Draco,

Sorry if this is messy. I thought I’d practice writing with a quill. It’s easier than I thought it’d be, but messier to. I have to remember not to leave the tip on the paper or it leaves big smudges.

What was the name of the restorant restaurant we went to lunch to? The cake at that place was the best I’ve had! I hope the food at Hogwarts is that good too. I can’t wait for classes to start. I’ve been reading a few of the books in the meantime. I decided to name my owl Hedwig, after a witch I read about in A History of Magic .

Will you be taking the train too? If you aren’t already sitting with friends, maybe we can sit together? If that’s okay, of course. You’ll be the only person I know so far. If you’ve got other friends sitting with you already no worries. I guess I’m just nervous. Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape told me about being famous, but I didn’t realize what they meant until I saw people’s reaction to hearing my name and seeing me. Do you think it will be the same at school?

Write back soon please!

Harry Potter

4 August 1991

Dear Harry,

Practice writing with a quill? Do you mean you’ve never used a quill before? What were you using to write until now?

The Copper Crup was the name. Mother would take me there for my birthday because their food is of much better quality than most of the others around. Of course, they have nothing on what our House elves can prepare at home, but it’s nice to go out sometimes, as Mother points out.

Mother and Father have said they have gotten me an owl from a breeder to take with me to Hogwarts. I haven’t seen him yet, but I think I’ll name him Vespid, after the most famous Wimbourne Wasps Beater.

Of course I’ll be taking the Hogwarts Express. All students have to take the train. Some of the others starting in our year I think expect me to sit with them since our parents are friends. Father probably wants me to, since their families are part of the Sacred 28. You can probably sit with us. Some of them are kind of dumb, though.

Did you really not know you are famous? Have you been living under a rock? Forget just school, or even England. Every witch and wizard in the WORLD knows who you are! They write an article about you every year in the Daily Prophet.

Draco Malfoy

                                                                                                    5 August 1991

Draco,

They write a WHAT about me every year? What’s the Daily Prophet? Is that like a newspaper for wizards? I thought I was just a normal, non-magical kid for years. I live with non-magical family, and they don’t like to talk about magic. But after what you said, I looked at more recent years. Did you know I’m mentioned in our A History of Magic book? Only a small bit, I guess ‘cause they don’t know anything else, but it’s embaressing. Embarassing? I can’t remember how to write that.

I guess if you’re used to quills, maybe you’ve never heard of a pen? It’s what non-magical folks use. It’s a big of plastic with ink inside of it and a metal tip to write with. Or pencils, which is wood. I’ve sent one of each over for you ‘cause I think it’d be easier than trying to explain in writing.

It doesn’t sound like you like those other kids. Do you have to sit with them? Can we move seats during the trip? Maybe you can sit with them for a little while and then leave.

But what do you mean, their families are sacred? What are House elves? I remember what you said Beaters did, but who was Vespid? Sorry if my questions are dumb. There’s so much I don’t know. But if my questions bother you, I’ll stop asking them.

Harry Potter

8 August 1991

Harry,

You live with Muggles? No wonder you don’t know anything! I can’t imagine growing up with no magic. How terrible. Lucky for you, I know all there is to know.

The Daily Prophet is the wizarding world newspaper. It gets delivered by owl every day. House elves are magical servants, but only older, more magical families have them. Most of the Sacred 28 do, anyway. The Sacred 28 are the oldest, pureblood wizarding families, and a lot of them are very important. None, of course, more than the Malfoys. Father is on the Board of Governors for Hogwarts, and he knows the Minister of Magic personally. Mother says that because of that, I must be careful with who I become friends with, as they might be trying to get close to me so their parents can get closer to Father, or because we’re wealthy.

It will probably be the same for you, since you’re famous. Mother said the Potters were very wealthy, too, when I asked. Did you inherit everything? Are you and your Muggles relatives living at the Potter estate?

Most importantly, we must do something about how little you know about Quidditch. Elric Vespid was a Beater for the Wasps something like 600 years ago. He hit a wasps’ nest so hard at the Appleby Arrows’ Seeker that he retired, and it’s why the team became known as the Wasps. I have sent over my favorite book, Quidditch Through the Ages. It will tell you all you need to know about the game. Mother says it’s polite to return gifts when you’re given something, so consider it a thanks for what you sent me. I have never seen a pen or pencil before. They’re strange. I think I prefer a quill.

If there’s no magic at your house, what do you do for fun?

Draco Malfoy

                                                                                                  11 August 1991

Hey Draco,

Thank you for the book! I’ve read it all. I can’t wait to see a real game.

Muggles aren’t all bad. But you should probably never meet my family. They are pretty terrible. If they’re the first Muggles any witch or wizard meets, they’d never want to meet another ever again and I wouldn’t blame them. They’re the worst, really. But my mum’s parents were Muggles, and I’ve mostly only known Muggles.

Wow, is your dad really that important? You must’ve been surprised when I didn’t know who you were then! It sucks you have to worry about people being friends with you only ‘cause of your dad or your family’s money. I hope we can both make friends who don’t care and just want to be our friends ‘cause they like us , you know?

As for what my parents left me, I actually only found out at Gringotts right before meeting you that they left me a lot of money. I had no idea before, but I guess technically, I am wealthy now? But I don’t know anything about an estate. I tried to ask my aunt and uncle, but like always, they didn’t really give me an answer. I think they don’t actually know, ‘cause if they knew about how much money they’d left me, I’m sure they’d have tried to take it. My uncle actually said my dad wouldn’t have had anything to give me worth writing a will for. Can you believe it? I decided not to tell them anything. Maybe the professors can help me look into it.

How cool would it be to find out there’s some big ol’ house somewhere they left me?

Harry Potter

   With letters to read and respond to every few days, the month of August flies by for Harry. It helps that aside from when he first came by and his aunt informed him he was to move his things to the upstairs spare bedroom, his family has mostly ignored him. Their daily interactions were limited to letting him know meals are ready, and one time when Uncle Vernon told Harry to stop letting his owl come in and out of the bedroom before the neighbors noticed. Hedwig was less than pleased with the restriction, but Harry opts to avoid any issues by only letting her out at night.

   Draco’s letters were an insight into the world he would be entering in a way that reading through his books could not provide.Occasionally, his comments about Muggles or Muggle-borns, directly or what seems to be implied, make him pause. Harry tries to avoid complaining about the Dursleys once he notices, because he doesn’t think it helps his case when he tries to explain to Draco that Muggles aren’t all bad.

   After all, Harry isn’t exactly Muggle-born, but his mother was, and he feels like he may as well be when he grew up knowing nothing about magic. It makes him wonder if others think the same, or if maybe Draco grew up in a family similar to the Dursleys in that they hated people who were different. It meant either having an entire world that might think less of his mom if she were alive, or having a friend who might have a lot more in common with his dreaded cousin than he’d hoped. Harry prefers to not worry about it now and just enjoy having someone his own age to talk to for the time being.

   He’ll worry about everything else once school begins.

~~~

DRACO wakes up on the first of September practically vibrating with excitement, and much earlier than needed, as the sun is only just beginning to lighten the sky outside his window. It’s not as large as the one in his room back at Malfoy Manor, but this residence is in London, and therefore much closer to King’s Cross Station, where he’ll need to be in a few short hours. He calls for a House Elf to ready a bath for him and is a whirl of movement as he double checks his trunks to ensure that nothing was forgotten when the House Elves finished packing it the night before. They didn’t, of course, but he needs to move, to do something, or he feels like he might explode.

   He’s been waiting his whole life to go to Hogwarts. He’s imagined grand adventures and wow-ing other students with his natural talents at magic and Quidditch, and winning the House Cup for Slytherin for the next seven years. Sure, now that he knows he’ll be going to school with the Harry Potter, he realizes that maybe he won’t be the most popular, but he’s basically made the most famous kid in school his best friend before anyone else has even met him! So they’ll just be the most popular students together.

   The Malfoys had hosted an end of summer party to celebrate the incoming class of Slytherins a week before the term was to begin. Such get-togethers was really an excuse for the parents to talk privately of whatever matters adults spoke of, while the children basically bragged and attempted to ingratiate themselves with whoever their parents had told them to, often those present considered one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, or pestered the older among them to tell them more about Hogwarts.

   This specific gathering had only those whose families had children of Draco’s age and would be attending Hogwarts for the first time. Gregory Goyle, Millicent Bulstrode, Pansy Parkinson, Vincent Crabbe, Theodore Nott, Gemma Runcorn, and Daphne Greengrass--with her little sister Astoria in tow--were all expected to be sorted into Slytherin with Draco. They talked about what they expected based on information gleaned from older Slytherin students they knew, or some of the wild rumors they couldn’t seem to get confirmation or denial about, such as the Sorting being a test of skills. It quickly devolved into comparing the quality and price of the things they would be bringing to school.

   “Did you know,” Pansy suddenly piped up, interrupting Daphne Greengrass bragging about robes she’d gotten in Paris over the summer for school, “that Harry Potter is supposed to be starting this year too?”

   A new round of rumors and speculations they’d overheard from their parents were shared. Draco had been tempted to tell them that he had met the famous Boy Who Lived, the elusive child celebrity no one had ever seen. At least not accurately. The Daily Prophet had an artist rendering every year when they ran their anniversary article about the end of the Wizarding War, but the only description that anyone knew to be accurate was the lightning bolt scar on Harry Potter’s forehead.

   Instead he had kept it to himself, thinking it would be much funnier to present his good friend Harry Potter to them all on the Hogwarts Express. Imagining their expressions had delighted him, and as he gets ready, still brings a grin to his face. It helps to pass the time, which seems to drag on as he waits for it to be time to leave. Once his parents are awake and breakfast is served, though, it seems to be no time at all before they are at the station.

   They aren’t the first ones there, although he thinks if he had rushed his parents through breakfast, they might have managed it. Draco is certain his mother, who would normally only allow them to be either promptly on-time or fashionably late, is indulging his excitement. Being early means he practically has his pick of compartments. He opts for one in the middle, the House Elf that accompanied them puts his trunk in the compartment for him before disappearing back to Malfoy Manor, and then he goes to say goodbye to his parents. He allows his mother to fuss over him, smoothing his hair back and adjusting his robes as he tries not to impatiently look around. Even his parents are in for a surprise, as he has only told them that he’s been writing to the student he met at Diagon Alley with the Slytherin Head of House, Professor Snape, but not who that student is.

   “Lucius!”

   The Malfoy family turns as one to the voice calling. Mr. Parkinson is heading over, wife and daughter in tow. He’s pushing a cart with two trunks, presumably Pansy’s. It’s left to one side as the parents start talking, and Pansy comes over to Draco’s side, asking if he’s picked a compartment and where, so she can go sit with him.

   Draco doesn’t particularly want to sit with any of the girls he knows. For one, in his small experience, they tend to get bored with talk of Quidditch. For another, the compartments look like they’d fit about four to six comfortably, which means there’s just enough room for him, Harry, Theodore, and likely Vincent and Gregory, and still be able to sit one more. But if Pansy joins them, she’ll want at least one other girl to come, and then they’ll be over by one or squished in together.

   So he lies. ““Somewhere towards the front.” He makes a vague gesture, glad that his mother, if she notices, doesn’t correct him even though he knows she kept an eye on where he went when he boarded. Narcissa Malfoy always knows where Draco is at all times.

   Pansy nods her head, intercepting Crabbe and Goyle when they head over to get their help with her trunk. Ordering them, really, and Draco realizes that since she got to them first, they don’t know where he’s really sitting. Ah well, he’ll have to try to catch them on their own otherwise they’ll just have to sit with Pansy the whole trip.

   Hoping to catch Theodore before Pansy does so he can at least give him the right compartment, he suddenly catches sight of a familiar figure coming through the barrier from the Muggle side of King’s Cross station.

   “Oh, he’s here!” Draco announces, catching the attention the adults with the outburst. Before either of his parents can react, Draco is off, weaving his way through the crowd.

   Harry is moving slowly, pushing the cart with his heavy trunk and his caged owl, fascinated with the sight before him. He’d known, logically, that the professors wouldn’t have lied to him about how to get to the platform. It hadn’t prevented him from feeling like he was going to crash into a solid wall and cause a scene as he moved towards the barrier. He’s surprised and delighted to instead find a whole hidden section of the station. There are people all around, adults saying goodbye to their children, students greeting each other and gathering in small groups, and then there’s a blond boy standing in front of him, bringing Harry to an abrupt stop.

   “There you are,” Draco says by way of greeting. “What took you so long?”

   “Hey! We left a bit later than I’d hoped,” Harry explains. “It’s like a two to three hour drive for us. How’d you get here?”

   “We have a London residence,” Draco explains, his tone suggesting that this should be obvious. “And of course, with Father’s connections, we got a Ministry car to drive us. Come on then, my parents will want to meet you before we board.”

   Harry follows after Draco, slowing his steps when he gets a good look at the group awaiting them. He recognizes Mrs. Malfoy from the glimpse he got of her at Diagon Alley, and Draco’s practically the spitting image of his father, so it’s easy to figure out which is Mr. Malfoy. The rest of the adults, however, he can’t begin to guess who they are. What’s more, all eyes are on him and although he’d tried to remind himself that morning that this might happen once people realized who he was, there’s something distinctly unnerving about the way he’s being watched right now. They leave his cart by the train entrance, just to the side so as to not be in anyone’s way, and then Draco leads him over to the group watching them.

   “Mother, Father.” Draco stops in front of his parents. “This is the boy I met at Diagon Alley, Harry Potter. Harry, my parents Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.”

   “H-How do you do?” Harry mutters, trying to stand still under their scrutiny.

   “Why, Mr. Harry Potter. This is a pleasant surprise,” Mr. Malfoy says, smiling. It’s not a very friendly look. “How exciting for the students of Hogwarts to get to go to school with the wizarding world’s biggest hero.”

   Something about the way Mr. Malfoy says it makes Harry feel like he’s being insulted or mocked to his face. “I, uh, I should put my stuff on the train.”

   Harry forces a smile, and then starts to move towards the train. He’s sure it’s his imagination, but he is certain he can feel their gaze on his back and he’s distinctly uncomfortable. He has a hard time trying to explain to himself what it is about these adults that makes him want to flee, as it’s not quite the instinctual knowing he’s occasionally felt since the day he received his Hogwarts letter. But it’s close enough that, as trusting his instincts thus far with the wizarding world has turned out in his favor, he thinks he would be better off leaving their company as soon as possible.

   “Hold on.” Draco hurries after him. “Go right from here, and it’s the fourth one down. My trunks have the Malfoy crest on them.”

   He’s basically being ordered, which might have bothered him if he weren’t so desperate to get away right now. Harry instead just nods before he grabs Hedwig’s cage, deciding to get her inside first and moving the heavier trunk once he knows for sure where he’s going. Finding Draco’s trunk with his family crest, an image he’d grown accustomed to seeing pressed into the wax Draco used to seal his letters, was rather easy. He set Hedwig’s cage inside, and then went back to get his trunk. He pauses briefly before stepping out, hoping to avoid notice, but a group of students coming off the train block him from view for a few moments as they stand around just a few steps away.

   Quick as he can, he grabs his trunk and starts to try to single handedly drag it up. “Need a hand?”

   Harry looks over his shoulder to find a tall, lanky redhead. “Oh, uh, yeah. That’d be great.”

   The redhead looks back down the train and yells out, “Oy! Oy, Fred! C’mere and help!” Looking back at Harry, the boy waved him away before coming around to grab one end of the trunk. When another, identical redhead appears, he grabs the other without question and the two lift the trunk onto the train.

   Harry quickly follows, directing them over to the right compartment. There’s an eyebrow raised at seeing the crest on the trunks already there, but they simply lift Harry’s trunk before nodding at him.

   “There you go, firstie. All set.”

   “Thanks,” Harry replies, pushing his glasses up.

   He stands out of their way to allow them to leave the compartment, debating on whether to introduce himself or not. Before he can decide, one of them seems to take a closer look, hitting the other’s arm suddenly. “Hey, is that a scar? You wouldn’t happen to be--”

   “Harry!”

   Harry turns around briefly to see Draco approaching, but his attention is drawn back to the twins as one says, “Well, we’ll be off then!”

   “Oh, okay, bye!”

   “The train will be leaving soon,” Draco tells Harry, eyes watching the twins leave for a moment before looking over at him. “I only saw a few of my friends, so I think they might be sitting with Pansy. I told her I was towards the front so she wouldn’t sit with us, but I think she told them the same, so they might be with her.”

   Harry frowns a little, thinking he doesn’t want to have to try to move his trunk. “Did you want to move over to where they are?” he asks.

   “Hm, no,” Draco responds after a moment’s consideration. “I’ll tell them I’m back here, see if they want to move. Do you want to come with me to find them?”

   “I think I’ll sit with Hedwig, I don’t think she’s used to all this activity yet.” It’s an excuse, when really Harry just doesn’t think he’s up for another group of people staring at him just yet, but when he looks over at his owl she seems to understand and starts flapping her wings and hooting loudly. “I should probably sit with her until she’s calmed down.”

   Draco shrugs. “Suit yourself. I’ll be back.”

   Harry closes the compartment door, goes and then sits down, reaching a finger into Hedwig’s cage to stroke her head. “Thanks.”

   She hoots at him once in reply before settling down. Harry turns to look out of the window, the panel above open so he can hear the sounds of the crowd of parents and students, many of them starting to say their goodbyes. The platform is starting to clear, an indication that they’ll be departing soon. A flash of red catches his eye, and he sees a group of redheads, only just visible as they stand a little ways down from his compartment

   He thinks for a moment it might be one of the twins, but decides what he can see of them isn’t quite right. This boy is shorter, though the hair is the right shade. The woman standing with him speaks up, and Harry can hear them clearly.

   “All right, Ron, you be sure to behave. Listen to Percy and, what’s that on your nose? Come here.”

   A younger boy jerks into view as he pulls away from the woman. “ Mom , geroff!”

   The twins appear then, and with them standing together, Harry notes the resemblance. He listens to them joke and tease the younger boy, who grows obviously more annoyed and sullen with the teasing, and then yet another boy appears. He’s already changed into his robe with a badge on his chest, and the twins start to tease him about being a prefect as well. Harry thinks it’s rather nice, to come from a family close enough to tease like that, even if the twins’ siblings seem to be annoyed by it. The one already in his robes allowed their mother to kiss his cheek, said goodbye to someone outside of Harry’s line of sight, and then seemed to board again.

   That was when one of the twins said, “Oh, guess who we just met on the train, Mom?”

   “Who?”

   “Harry Potter !”

   The one out of sight suddenly piped up, and it sounded like a little girl, her voice carrying as she loudly begged to be allowed on the train to see him. Harry leaned away from the window then, hoping to stay out of sight. How embarrassing would it be to be caught eavesdropping on them as they started to talk about him?

   “No, Ginny, the train is about to leave. You can’t get on,” the boys’ mother responded, cutting off the little girl’s begging. “Are you sure, Fred?”

   “Pretty sure,” was the response. “Saw a bit of a scar on his forehead. Malfoy’s kid called him ‘Harry’, too.”

   “Malfoy ?” The way the woman said the name made Harry frown automatically, not wanting someone to say anything bad about his only friend. Then he remembered Lucius Malfoy’s smile and thought perhaps, if that’s who she was thinking of when she said it, the reaction might be warranted. “Are they friends, do you think?”

   “Who knows? Maybe they just met? Anyway, we should be getting on, Mum. We’ll know for sure during Sorting. Who knows? Maybe he’ll be a Gryffindor!”

   “Be sure to let me know,” she tells them. “Try to befriend him if he is, okay? Poor thing, being an orphan raised goodness knows where or with who, he could probably use all the friends he can get.”

   Harry decides to close the window, distinctly uncomfortable with hearing the obvious pity, and not particularly interested in hearing any more. Especially since the little girl starts to cry, half-pleading and half-demanding to be allowed to go with her brothers or at least be allowed to get on and see Harry. It sounds like the beginning of a tantrum, at least in his experience based on his cousin’s tried and true methods, so he is relieved that closing the window prevents him from hearing the rest of it.

   What he is able to hear, loud and clear, is the train's whistle as it goes off to announce their departure. Outside, it looks like there are no more students on the platform, instead just a few parents and younger siblings, waving at students in other windows before leaving or waiting to see the train off.

   The door to the compartment opens as the train starts to move, and the youngest of the redheads is standing there. He’s taller than he appeared while standing outside, Harry notes absently. Ron, as they’d called him, starts to back out with an apology when he suddenly stops, staring at Harry.

   “Are you him?” he asks.

   Harry blinks at him for a moment, surprised. “Who?”

   “Harry Potter?”

   “Oh, him. I mean, yeah, that’s me.”

   His eyes go over to the trunks, and he frowns. Harry follows the direction he’s looking at and realizes it’s Draco’s trunks that have drawn that reaction. “I’m Ron Weasley. Are you really friends with the Malfoys’ kid?” Blue eyes lower again to meet Harry’s gaze. “You shouldn’t be, you know. Just warning ya, they’re-”

   “We’re what?” Behind Ron stands Draco, arms crossed, scowling.The redhead half turns, still standing in the compartment doorway.

   “Draco’s my friend,” Harry interrupts before either can say anything. “So can you step aside so he can come sit down?”

   Draco doesn’t wait for the other to obey, basically shoving him aside to come in and sit across from Harry. He gives him a smug look, crossing his arms as he waits to see what he’s going to do. He knows this kid’s type, trying to ingratiate himself with someone better than him. Clearly, he thinks, Harry can spot the type too.

   “Weasley, you said, right?” Draco drawls. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

   The stubborn look that comes over the other’s face makes Harry think that this might turn into a bigger confrontation when one of the twins comes by. “There you are, Ron. Are you bothering people?”

   “Yes,” Draco announces instantly, frowning at seeing another redhead.

   “Really, Ron, can’t leave you alone for a second.” The other twin appears, grabbing the youngest sibling by looping an arm around his neck and dragging him back away from the door. “Come on, you. You’re with us; Mum’s orders.”

   “We didn’t introduce ourselves earlier,” says the remaining twin. “I’m Fred Weasley, that was George--” the other twin, clearly still within earshot yells a hello “--and that was our brother Ron. Our fault for telling him Harry Potter was here. He’s not used to meeting famous people. Consider him an overzealous fan.”

   Harry blushes at the reminder. “Uh, no, no worries. Nice to meet you. Thanks for the help earlier.”

   “No worries.” George waves a hand dismissively. “We’ll see you later. Oy, Fred! You just passed our compartment!”

   The compartment door is closed behind them, and Draco shakes his head. “Weasley, the youngest one, clearly wanted to be friends with you because you’re famous. Like I wrote you, you’ll run into those types all over. Who knows, maybe the twins were in on it too.”

   “You think?” Harry considers it for a moment then shrugs. “George and Fred seemed nice even before they knew who I was earlier. As for their brother, well, I just don’t like people talking about my friends. Or telling me what to do. If he wanted to be friends, he should’ve just said so.”

   Draco is surprised at Harry’s reasoning, and starts laughing. “You’re weird, you know that?”

   “What happened with your friends?” Harry asks when Draco’s done laughing.

   “Ah, I ran into Theodore. Pansy convinced them I’d be sitting with her so they sat in her compartment. I told him we’d be back here, but it’s fine. They were being rather loud anyway. And this way, we don’t have to worry about Crabbe and Goyle trying to steal any snacks we buy. They’re always hungry.”

   “Their names are Crabbe and Goyle?”

   “Family names,” Draco clarifies.

   “Why do you call some of them by their first name and some by their last?”

   “Ah, it’s considered polite to only address those you’re close with by their first name, and everyone else by their last name.”

   “Oh, so when I wrote you that first letter, it should have said ‘Malfoy’ instead of ‘Draco’?” Harry wonders aloud.

   Draco shrugs. “Well, yes, but it’s fine. I realized since you were raised with Muggles, you probably didn’t know any better.”

   “I think it’s less because I grew up with Muggles, and more that your family is super upper class,” Harry argues. “That sounds like the kind of rule rich people have.”

   “Hm, maybe.” Draco thinks it over, never having thought of it like that. “Although,” he points out after a moment, “didn’t your parents leave you a bunch of money? So you’re rich, too.”

   “Honestly, I still forget,” Harry admits. “I’ve never really had my own money to buy whatever.”

   There was a knock on the door and then a woman opened the compartment door with a dimpled smile asking if they wanted anything from the cart she was pushing.

   Draco grins. “Well, here’s your chance to spend some, then.”

   Harry jumps up, more than a little hungry after skipping breakfast, only to realize he wasn’t familiar with any of the snacks on offer. “Wow, I’ve never seen any of these.”

   “Are you joking?” Draco shakes his head, answering himself. “No, of course you’re not. We’ll just have to take some of everything then.”

   Harry insists on paying, and then dumps the giant load on the seat next to Draco, sitting on the same side so the snacks are piled between them. Draco insists on letting him have the box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans, laughing loudly when Harry immediately eats a green one he’d assumed would be apple or lime flavored only for it to turn out to be grass. The Cauldron Cakes and Pumpkin Pasties are great follow-ups to recover from the strange jelly bean. When Harry opens a Chocolate Frog before Draco can explain it will jump, he’s so amused he opens a couple of the other ones, both of them laughing as the compartment is momentarily filled with half a dozen hopping frogs. All but one have stopped when the door opens and a round-faced boy is momentarily caught off guard when it suddenly jumps at him.

   “Trevor?” He pulls the treat off the front of his robe where it jumps and visibly deflates at seeing it’s just chocolate. “Oh, no. Have you seen a toad? I can’t find mine.”

   Harry shakes his head, smiling. “A toad? No. Sorry.” Draco shakes his head as well, and the boy leaves.

   Once he’s gone, Draco starts looking through the cards, showing them to Harry and explaining what they are when he realizes it’s yet another thing the Boy Who Lived knows nothing about. He’s highly amused at Harry’s surprise when, right before his eyes, Merlin stretches and then moves out of frame. But it’s Harry’s reaction to seeing the Albus Dumbledore, frowning down at it as he studies it, that piques Draco’s interest.

   “What is it?”

   Harry looks up at him, shrugging as he puts the card aside with the others he’d gotten. “Ah, no, I was just surprised. I’ve heard of Albus Dumbledore, but it’s the first I’m seeing of him.” Harry stops, wondering if he should explain the feeling of distrust that comes over him at hearing the name--and now seeing --Albus Dumbledore, but not quite sure how to explain himself. He has no frame of reference for what might be weird in the wizarding world, so he doesn’t know if this sense of déjà vu he gets is normal or not. “He’s older than I expected,” he finishes lamely.

   “He’s pretty famous too,” Draco informs him. “Father doesn’t like him.”

   Harry’s tempted to ask for more info but they’re once again interrupted by someone opening the door. The boy who’d asked about the toad is back, standing behind the girl who’d opened the door. She has brown skin, bushy brown hair, and brown eyes that look around the room, taking in both boys, the owl, and the pile of wrappers and uneaten snacks quickly before gazing back at the boys. When she speaks, her large front teeth stand out, and her tone is distinctively bossy, but something about her is so familiar that it takes Harry a moment to put together what she’s said.

   He is too busy realizing that the same sense he’d gotten from Draco back in Diagon Alley, that had prompted him to befriend him, is coming over him again twofold. Somehow, he knows that Draco might be his first friend, but this girl was going to be his best friend. He should probably look into why he gets these feelings at all.

   “Have either of you seen a toad? Neville’s lost one.”

   Draco sighs. “Harry already told him we haven’t. It’s just a toad anyway.”

   “Harry? As in Harry Potter?” the girl asks, eyes moving from Draco over to Harry. Blinking, Harry just nods. “I’m Hermione Granger and this is Neville Longbottom. I know all about you. You’re mentioned in our History of Magic book, of course, but I got some extra books for background reading and you’re in Modern Magical History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts , as well as Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century .”

   Harry stares, surprised, looks over at Draco who shrugs, then back at her. “Am I?”

   “Didn’t you know? I’d have learned all I could if it were me,” she announces.

   “Yes, well, it’s not. Shouldn’t you be off looking for a toad?” Draco reminds her.

   Hermione frowns at Draco. “No need to be rude. Who are you?”

   “Draco Malfoy. We need to change since we’ll likely arrive soon, so leave already,” Draco orders.

   “Draco.” Harry shakes his head at him, then looks back at Hermione Granger and Neville Longbottom. “I’ll keep an eye out for the toad, but we haven’t seen ‘em.”

   “All right, thank you.” She starts to close the door, telling Neville, “Come on, let’s ask them down there.”

   “Longbottom’s family is one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight,” Draco says after they’ve left. “Granger, on the other hand, is probably Muggle-born . They really shouldn’t be letting any of them into Hogwarts, I think. Keep it in the old wizarding families.”

   “What?” Harry challenges. “Why does it matter?”

   Draco stares at him for a moment like he can’t believe he’s asking. “They’re just not the same! They’re not brought up to know our ways or anything.”

   “Neither have I,” Harry points out, then reminds his friend, “And my parents might have been a witch and wizard, but my mum was a Muggle-born. If she hadn’t been accepted at Hogwarts, my parents wouldn’t have met and I wouldn’t be here.”

   Draco is about to say something more to defend his point, but he closes his mouth with an audible click at this reminder. He wants to push back, make Harry understand why Muggle-borns just aren’t the same, but he can’t think of how to do so without sounding like he’s insulting Harry’s mother. If Harry got annoyed with Ron for seeming to insult Draco, a friend he’s only just made, chances are insulting his mum is a surefire way to make him angry.

   They change without exchanging another word, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Harry, wondering how he can get his friend to understand why his way of thinking is wrong. Draco, trying to think of a way to get through to Harry that pureblood witches and wizards are superior. It’s an awkward silence, and when they’ve finished changing, neither seems sure of what to say or how to change the subject. Finally, at a voice announcing they’re about to arrive and are to leave their luggage on the train, they decide to divvy up the remaining snacks and stuff them into their pockets.

   When the train stops, they shuffle out into the corridor and make their way onto the platform outside. The night is cooler here, farther up in the north, and Harry hopes they aren’t going to be outside for long. It’s with relief that he recognizes the booming voice calling for first years. When Hagrid spots him and greets him, Harry’s mood is instantly lifted.

   Draco is standing next to him still, and by the way he’s looking around Harry thinks he might be trying to find his other friends. He wonders if their brief friendship is due to be over already. Still, Harry nudges him and nods his head towards Hagrid and the lamp he’s holding as he calls the first years over before heading over. He doesn’t want Draco to think he doesn’t want to be friends anymore, but he also doesn’t know if now that he’s been reminded that Harry’s parentage isn’t as “pure” as his own, if he’ll want to stay friends. All he can do is act like he normally would and leave Draco to make his own choice.

   Hagrid leads them all down through a slippery dark path down to the edge of a large lake where they all get a glimpse of the castle for the first time. He gives them all a moment before announcing they’re to get into boats, keeping to 4 per boat, and he waves Harry over clearly to join him. When he reaches Hagrid, he’s holding up a toad he’s just found. Neville Longbottom cries out the toad’s name, rushing forward to claim the animal, and Hermione Granger comes following after him at a slower pace. It’s clear they’re going to also join Hagrid’s boat, and so Harry assumes even if he’d been inclined to join, chances are Draco will take one look at who else is there and opt to sit with his friends instead.

   It seems all the more certain when after getting in the boat, Harry spots Ron Weasley making a beeline for their boat to claim the last spot.

   So he’s surprised when Draco materializes in front of him, climbing in and muttering, “Mark my words, Potter. Longbottom is going to let that toad go and knock us all in the water trying to catch him.”

   “Hope you know how to swim then, Malfoy,” Harry answers with a grin.

   Then they’re off across the lake, making their way towards the glittering castle on the other side.

Story Notes:

Title is from a Pink Floyd song.

[fanworldbuildingfun]

Lessons Learned - Rumors from the Cantina (”Nar Shaddaa High Tea”)

The ice cubes clanked loudly in the glass as Altha slammed it on the table, caring little if she damaged either. It was shuffled to the side to join its empty brethren as the smuggler motioned for the server droid to bring her another glass of Corellian whiskey. A not-so subtle snort from her companion made the female cathar’s head snap up to glare at him. The man, though, seemed completely unimpressed with Altha’s attempt at intimidation

“Girlie,”  - the nikto male stretched back in his seat, placing his arms behind his head -  “keep practicing and one day you –might– be scary. Not anytime soon, but one day. You going to finish that one?” his head titled in the direction of the new drink en route to the table

Altha pointedly ignored the query, and snatched the whiskey the moment server droid was within the reach, downing it in one go. Immediately after, she bent over gagging as an ice cube made its way down her throat with the rest of the alcohol. It took a few moments of heaving and hecking before the cathar managed to straighten herself – all to visible amusement of the nicto

“Either you shut up, Madras, or I know where I am getting leather for my next pair of boots” no one outside of the feline race would have hoped to achieve the rumbling hissing in which the words were uttered

“And here I thought I should be a good friend and point out you don’t exactly have the creds to slush on booze –“

“Barely acquaintances, and I kriffin know it!” Altha slumped into her seat “You don’t need to remind me”

The previous bluster was all but gone. Almost as an afterthought, she placed the glass – the one she managed to hold onto by some stroke of luck – with the rest of. A scaly, green hand appeared in her line of vision, dropping a small stack of paper napkins before her

“Then clean up and pay attention this time” the mildly-teasing tone Madras spoke in vanished – and so did the carefree look in his eyes

“You aren’t a bad captain, Altha, but neither are you so good I can’t find someone else to go on a run with – “ the man paused, mulling over what he was going to say  “ - and I’m not missing out on this one just because of your prissy mood, kid. I’ve done jobs for these guys before, got my payment, a place to lay low, all at the small cost of timely delivery and sealed lips. Which is more than I can say of you”

The worst part was, Altha couldn’t even say anything to that – the last cargo she carted almost cost her her ship, and all she got for her run were a measly few thousand creds. That barely covered the repairs – and the asshole whom she delivered the goods to knew it. She could still remember that tiny smirk on his face. Oh how she wanted to wipe it off with her claws… Or maybe she did. That would explain the tail she had to drop… A snap of fingers in front her face startled her out of finishing that thought

“Oi, I thought I told you to pay attention” the nicto drew back from where he leaned over the table “Run, money, a spot to park while those Exchange assholes are up and riled, that ring any bells?”

“Keep your head in this, kid. Or I –will- take my offer elsewhere”

“Yeah, yeah – so you keep saying. Going to spit it out already? Ain’t like you to dance around like that – must have been quite something to get you all cagey in a middle of a packed cantina” which, on Nar Shaddaa, was as close as you could get to privacy – there were just too many people to keep track of

“It keeps me coming back. That should tell you something” the man harrumped before going on “Look, the guys are cagey, but they did good by me so far. Ain’t like they are asking for anything terribly under the table – I have zero idea why they would go to freelancers to do the job, but I am not complaining. But this one’s bigger than normal. I need a hand here”

“And so you thought, “My, that stellar gal Altha is just the one I would share the good job with?” the cathar snorted “Because if so, I call your bull”

“Actually, I thought of your big ship” the smile that appeared on Madras’s face was just this side of sleazy “Now, your personality is an unfortunate side effect - ” he barely blinked as a half melted ice cube hit him in the chest “ – but I’m ready to sacrifice my standards for company. Just this once. My ship doesn’t fit that much people…”

The nicto was interrupted by the sudden near shriek of “People?!” that caused a few nearby patrons to turn their attention to their table. Putting on his best sappy look Madras leisurely raised his hand – to drop it right on the top of the fuming female’s head, giving it a bit of scratch. It served both in freezing Altha in her rant, and causing those staring at them to look away, some rolling their (multiple) eyes in exasperation over the perceived couple’s antics.

“What the kriff you you mean my people?!” Altha’s words were just as furious, but much more quiet this time “Because I am not dealing with slavers, Madras, and you better explain why the heck you would ask me….”

“And I just told you they aren’t asking for stuff like that” the nicto retained his sappy look, but his tone was quickly moving into “annoyed” territory “We aren’t talking slaves, kid. This is a transport run – we are picking up refuges, or settlers – whichever, I didn’t bother asking – and getting them from point A to point B. Now will you stop spitting at me?!”

The cathar’s ears pressed to her skull, shutting up her oncoming tirade – though she kept glaring up at the nicto. A moment later she shrugged his hand off her head with a huff “Start with this one, next time. What’s the price?” And was it worth the hassle of dealing with having who knows whom on her ship?

“Three thousand up front. Rest depends on the amount of pick-ups we need to make. We split half and half in both cases” satisfied the cathar wasn’t going to blow up again, Madras made himself comfortable again – and away from the explosion radius of the temperamental female

“Uh-huh. Looks to me you are getting the better cut out of it, if you intend to lump most of them up on me” even half of three thousand was a… Loath she to admit, a good offer – three grand were a cost of a shiny new speeder

“And if it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t be seeing even those” Madras spent far too long in the smuggling business to fall into a trap like that “Plus, you’ll need me to deliver them. Our guys aren’t exactly the most open – the place is full of nav scrambling tech like you won’t believe. Had to be towed at least part of the way there – no way you are finding the place yourself”

On one hand, a job for paranoid lunatics who may or may not deal in slaves. Artha wasn’t going to just take Madras’s word on that (though it helped). On another, the pay was… Acceptable, and the big guy said it wasn’t his first rodeo for this folk. And the nicto didn’t have the rep of maverick to work just for anyone. Heck, it couldn’t be worse than her last run

“Fine. Deal. You sharing the coordinates now or later?”

The grin on the man’s face could rival that of a loth cat who finally got his prey “Later, kid. Isn’t exactly the place to do it, cantina. Once we are off planet. I’ll holo you”

Pushing his chair back, the nicto got up and stretched. Altha winced as she heard a few bones pop (even the noise of cantina was not enough to cover the sound up), but Madras didn’t seem to care. Lizards

“Oh, and kid?” the man’s face twisted into expression of unholy amusement “Hard as that seems, try to be on your best behavior. Think at least a few of our folk are Imps” with that statement, the nicto walked into the crowd with a noticeable spring to his step

Leaving the female staring at the small mountain of glasses she racked up

Imperials. She just had to jinx herself, didn’t she?