#t-rump a liar

[pfalztexter]

Canto XIV

Ezra Pound, Passbild von 1919 (Quelle im vorherigen Beitrag)

Canto XIV "Io venni in luogo d'ogni luce muto; The stench of wet coal, politicians . . . . . . . . . . e and. . . . . n, their wrists bound to their ankles, Standing bare bum, Faces smeared on their rumps, wide eye on flat buttock, Bush hanging for beard, Addressing crowds through their arse-holes, Addressing the multitudes in the ooze, newts, water-slugs, water-maggots, And with them. . . . . . . r, a scrupulously clean table-napkin Tucked under his penis, and. . . . . . . . . . . m Who disliked colioquial language, stiff-starched, but soiled, collars circumscribing his legs, The pimply and hairy skin pushing over the collar's edge, Profiteers drinking blood sweetened with sh-t, And behind them. . . . . . f and the financiers lashing them with steel wires.

And the betrayers of language . . . . . . n and the press gang And those who had lied for hire; the perverts, the perverters of language, the perverts, who have set money-lust Before the pleasures of the senses;

howling, as of a hen-yard in a printing-house, the clatter of presses, the blowing of dry dust and stray paper, fretor, sweat, the stench of stale oranges, dung, last cess-pool of the universe, mysterium, acid of sulphur, the pusillanimous, raging; plunging jewels in mud, and howling to find them unstained; sadic mothers driving their daughters to bed with decrepitude, sows eating their litters, and here the placard ΕΙΚΩΝ ΓΗΣ, and here: THE PERSONNEL CHANGES,

melting like dirty wax, decayed candles, the bums sinking lower, faces submerged under hams, And in the ooze under them, reversed, foot-palm to foot-palm, hand-palm to hand-palm, the agents provocateurs The murderers of Pearse and MacDonagh, Captain H. the chief torturer; The petrified turd that was Verres, bigots, Calvin and St. Clement of Alexandria! black-beetles, burrowing into the sh-t, The soil a decrepitude, the ooze full of morsels, lost contours, erosions.

Above the hell-rot the great arse-hole, broken with piles, hanging stalactites, greasy as sky over Westminster, the invisible, many English, the place lacking in interest, last squalor, utter decrepitude, the vice-crusaders, fahrting through silk, waving the Christian symbols, . . . . . . . . frigging a tin penny whistle, Flies carrying news, harpies dripping sh-t through the air.

The slough of unamiable liars, bog of stupidities, malevolent stupidities, and stupidities, the soil living pus, full of vermin, dead maggots begetting live maggots, slum owners, usurers squeezing crab-lice, pandars to authori pets-de-loup, sitting on piles of stone books, obscuring the texts with philology, hiding them under their persons, the air without refuge of silence, the drift of lice, teething, and above it the mouthing of orators, the arse-belching of preachers. And Invidia, the corruptio, fretor, fungus, liquid animals, melted ossifications, slow rot, fretid combustion, chewed cigar-butts, without dignity, without tragedy . . . . .m Episcopus, waving a condom full of black-beetles, monopolists, obstructors of knowledge. obstructors of distribution." (Quelle)

"Cantos XIV und XV verwenden die Konvention der Göttlichen Komödie, um Pound / Dante zu präsentieren, die sich durch eine Hölle bewegen, die von Bankern, Zeitungsredakteuren, Hackautoren und anderen „Perversen der Sprache“ und der sozialen Ordnung bevölkert wird." (Quelle)

[feelingbluepolitics]

It cannot be too soon to get the liars out.

"When Health and Human Services Secretary Alex Azar announced this week that the federal government would begin releasing coronavirus vaccine doses held in reserve for second shots, no such reserve existed, according to state and federal officials briefed on distribution plans. The [t]rump administration had already begun shipping out what was available beginning at the end of December, taking second doses directly off the manufacturing line.

"Now, health officials across the country who had anticipated their extremely limited vaccine supply as much as doubling beginning next week are confronting the reality that their allocations will remain largely flat, dashing hopes of dramatically expanding access for millions of elderly people and those with high-risk medical conditions. Health officials in some cities and states were informed in recent days about the reality of the situation, while others are still in the dark.

..."[T]here was no stockpile of second doses waiting to be shipped, as [t]rump administration officials suggested this week. Azar, at a Tuesday briefing, said, 'Because we now have a consistent pace of production, we can now ship all of the doses that had been held in physical reserve.' He explained the decision as part of the 'next phase' of the nation’s vaccination campaign.

"Those in line for their second shots are expected to get them on schedule since states are still getting regular vaccine shipments. But state and local officials say they are angry and bewildered by the shifting directions and changing explanations of supply.

..."'States were shocked and surprised that they did not see an increase in their allocations, and when they asked for explanations, some of them were told there was not a large stockpile of second doses to draw from,' said an official working with numerous states on vaccination planning who spoke on the condition of anonymity to recount sensitive conversations. 'They thought they were getting more doses and they planned for more doses and opened up to 65 and up, thinking they were getting more.'"

[ohmightydevviepuu]

our little life (rounded with a sleep) / chapter 3

our little life (rounded with a sleep) chapter three

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful detective. She had blonde hair, green eyes, no family, and she was good at finding people; in fact, she proclaimed this on her office door. “Swan and Humbert,” it said. “Private investigations, missing persons, and bail bonds.”

Only lately, she's been thinking that maybe it should say "Emma Swan: Loner, Loser, Complicated wreck."

Her partner's been killed on a case after she made a deal with her landlord to find what had been taken from him. But when she tracks a possible perp to a bar on the outskirts of town, Emma will find out exactly how deep the rabbit hole goes.

--

always, always, always because of @thisonesatellite​​ and @profdanglaisstuff​ thank you AGAIN to the amazing team at @captainswanbigbang​

cw: canonical character death rating: T/M (implied violence, language) AO3 chapter one | chapter two | chapter three

chapter summary:   Emma’s tracked down her suspect but then he looks into her eyes like he can see her, like he recognizes her--

And it’s a big fucking problem. She doesn’t trust him.  They are not a team.  No matter what he says or how blue his eyes are when he reads her like an open book.

--

“I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting,” James Hook said. “A woman such as yourself deserves my full and prompt attention.”

His voice was familiar; exactly as she had heard it in her dream down to the cadence of his accent.

“Does that line ever work?” Emma asked.

His eyes twinkled with appreciation. “I,” he said seriously, “will let you know, yeah?”

He was wearing eyeliner, kohl smudged around his eyes. Blue button-up shirt--partially undone, matched his eyes, would look even better on the floor--buttoned waistcoat, jeans that showed off his--

Fuck.

Emma needed a drink before she ended up like one of the co-eds.

“MacCutcheon,” she said simply.

“How do you like it?”

“In a glass,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“Tough lass,” he said with a laugh, pouring her a shot.

“Yeah, well,” she said, picking up the shot glass and downing it in one. The condensation left a ring on the cocktail napkin. “It’s been a long day, and I’m thirsty.” She looked around, taking in more of the place--anything to look at instead of staring at Hook and his partially-unbuttoned shirt. “What’s with all of the swords?” Emma asked, gesturing at a wall covered in weapons.

The Rabbit Hole fell on the upside of ‘dive’, but only just barely. Maybe it was the Edison bulbs. The soft yellow glow gave everything a patina of ‘vintage’ instead of ‘grimey’. 

“And what are those, boat hooks?”

“Aye,” he said.

“What are you, some kind of sailor?”

“In another life,” he said, the fake grin stretching across his face, “I served in the Royal Navy.”

“You’ve practically got an armory in here,” she said.

“That’s the idea,” he agreed.

“You don’t seem like the type of guy to collect old-fashioned weapons.”

“Aye,” he said again, the eyes twinkling--again. “I collect blondes from bottles, too.”

Emma was a natural blonde--probably another legacy from one of her parents. She returned his gaze and said only, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

There it was: the real smile. “Perhaps,” he said. “Perhaps I would. James Hook.” He held out his right hand to her, and Emma shook it, which was when she noticed that he only had the one.

“I know who you are,” she said.

“Ah,” he said. “So you’ve heard of me? Well, it’s always nice to leave an impression.”

“Oh,” Emma said. “You have. You’re handsome, and charming--”

“Do go on,” Hook said, shifting his weight against the back counter.

“The kind of guy who--now, stop me if I’ve got this wrong--steals a man’s wife and leaves a boy motherless, then keeps up the grudge by breaking into his home and stealing from him again.” Emma watched him during her recitation. This was her favorite part: skips always broke down when the hot piece of ass they’d been planning on nailing turned the tables and cuffed them.

Not in the fun way, either.

But Hook just looked at her, stepping forward again and bracing his elbow against the bar, his chin in his hand. His fingers curled against his upper lip, his eyes were wide and innocent, and the fake grin had returned; the change was so smoothly done it was--almost--imperceptible.

“Sounds like a lovely tale,” he said. “But I’m going to wager the truth is rather more gruesome.”

Emma was calm. She was focused. And he was not lying.

“Besides,” Hook said evenly, “I’m going to need you to be a mite more specific in your accusations; you see, I’ve had many a man’s wife.”

“And I need you,” Emma said, matching his tone, “to return what you’ve stolen.”

His smile--the fake smile--faltered. Just for a second. “Tell me something, love,” Hook said, leaning into her personal space, his eyes never leaving hers, “If a woman comes to you and begs you to take her away, is that theft?” He ran his tongue over his lower lip and winked at her.

“But--why would she leave him?” Emma asked before she could stop herself. The son, they had a son--

What were they even talking about?

“Because he was a coward,” Hook said easily. “Because she loved me.”

Emma pulled herself away from his gaze. Whatever was going on here--he wasn’t lying.

“So, lass,” he said, “you know who I am, but you won’t even tell me your name?”

“What fun would that be?” Emma said.

“If you’re helping Rump--Gold,” Hook said, with particular emphasis on the name, “I’m afraid you’re fighting for a lost cause.”

“I’m not fighting for anything,” Emma said, “except for my fee. Tell me what you know about Graham Humbert’s death.” She grabbed his wrist. “And I’m gonna let you in on a little secret--I’m pretty good at knowing when someone is lying to me.”

“He came in here the other evening, on the hunt,” Hook said, biting down hard on the ‘t’. “He often did. It’s rather a target-rich environment, as you can see.” He gestured at the crowded room and leered. “That’s the last time I saw him.”

Emma smiled, the kind that showed no teeth, that was small and controlled, and tightened her grip on his wrist. With her other hand, she pulled her phone out of her pocket, unlocked it and scrolled to David Nolan’s entry. “He came here looking for you the night he died,” she said. “A fact I think the sheriff--” Emma held up the phone to show him “--will find fascinating, don’t you?”

He started to pull away, but Emma twisted his wrist just enough to put pressure on it--enough that pulling away would make a scene and potentially force someone to call the sheriff anyway. The singer finished a song to a scattering of applause, and Emma kept her grip and her gaze on Hook.

“Well done, lass,” he said. Emma let go of him and his hand reached up to rub the back of his neck. He had rings on two of his fingers and his thumb, and a freaking earring, a black stud. “You’ll be Emma Swan, then.”

“There goes my air of mystery,” she deadpanned.

“On the contrary, love,” Hook said, licking his lips again. “You’ve bested me. I can count on one hand the number of times someone has done that.”

“Is that a joke?” Emma said drily. “Because you’re a terrible liar.”

“Ask me what you’ve really come here to ask, Swan,” he said, and something in his face had shifted, like he had dropped the act of whatever part he was trying to play. His eyes were serious and the tone of his voice had lowered.

“Did you kill him?”

“I did not,” Hook said.

Emma believed him. Shit.

--

“Now then,” Hook said. “Emma Swan. Bail bonds, private investigations. Twenty-eight years old?”

They weren’t in the bar anymore.

According to the paperwork Graham had pulled, Hook had owned The Rabbit Hole for more than twenty years--clearly a typo as the man appeared exactly as Gold had described him: mid-thirties, no more, no less. It was difficult to picture him running off with a woman Gold’s age.

He’s older than he looks, Gold smirked, and had looked at Emma in a way that made her want to shower. And rather partial, I’m afraid, to brunettes.

Emma had confirmation of this, at least, when Hook had called out to a beautiful brunette in a micromini, tights and an artfully ripped t-shirt. Lacey, my darling, cover for me here, will you?

She’d laughed and given him--and Emma--a wink, and it was obvious what she thought Hook and Emma were doing, and why they needed cover. I’ve got this, Jamie, she’d said.

And he’d taken Emma to a small but immaculate office, dimly lit, rimmed with books, and offered her a chair with a bow before taking a seat behind the desk. She’s new, Hook had said of Lacey, but she does the job like she’s been here for decades. Something about that had amused him; Hook seemed consistently to be amusing himself with jokes only he understood. Any man who kept a skull-and-crossbones on the wall was definitely a man with an unusual sense of humor--in fact, this room had a distinct nautical theme, with a red flag draped above the black one and an honest-to-goodness ship in a bottle on his desk, and it was all a far cry from the badly-curated murder-tinged whimsy that made up the decor of the main bar.

“That’s oddly specific,” Emma countered. “Do I, like, get a prize if you’re right?”

“An educated guess,” Hook answered, and said nothing else as his eyes settled over her. Emma felt like she was being evaluated; not the first time that had happened, and she had no idea what he thought he was looking for.

“So, then,” he said. “Your Graham Humbert came looking for me.”

“He wasn’t my anything,” Emma said quickly. Maybe too quickly.

“Aye,” Hook said. “Of that I’m well aware.” He twisted his thumb against the metal of one of his rings and broke eye contact, looking down and away from her. “We weren’t friends, you know. Barely even acquainted. But you might say that we had certain connections in common.” Hook looked at her quickly and looked away again. “I hadn’t seen him in as long as I can remember.”

There was something strange underlying the words. Not a lie, but not the truth. And something about the phrase tickled Emma’s memory, like she had heard it somewhere before.

“He was involved with Regina Mills,” Emma said, realizing it at the same moment she said it.

“Indeed he was.” Hook made a sound, almost like a bark, and it took Emma a moment to realize it was a laugh. There was no amusement in it. “You wouldn’t know it to look at him, but she rather held his heart in her hands.”

Emma winced.

“Apologies, love,” Hook said quickly, and with apparent sincerity. “That was in rather poor taste, I admit.”

“You were too, weren’t you?” Emma asked instead of acknowledging his half-assed apology. “Involved with her?”

Another harsh laugh escaped him. “Indeed I was,” he said, “though not in the way you’d think. I did some work for the family. A long time ago.”

Emma smirked. “A man who used to be a sailor and now owns a bar?”

“‘Used to be’ is right, Swan,” he said, “but one might consider the bar payment.” He did that thing again, where he over-emphasized the harsh consonants. “For services rendered.”

“You realize you are the only one in this entire neighborhood who owns their property outright instead of paying rent to Robert Gold?”

“Am I?” He examined his fingernails. “That’s fortuitous.” It was obscene, the way Hook made words sound, but Emma knew a distraction when she saw one. This man used words as deflections, armor not unlike her collection of leather jackets.

“She came to see me,” Emma said.

“Did she?” That got Hook’s attention. “And what did you think of Her Majesty the Queen?”

“Her what now?”

“Regina, love. Latin.”

“You speak Latin?” Emma’s eyebrows definitely went up.

“And Greek,” he pointed out, smirking.

“They teach you that in the Royal Navy?”

“Something like that,” he agreed.

Emma’s head was beginning to hurt. This was shaping up to be the world’s worst first draft of “Who’s on first”--she wasn’t getting anywhere, and she needed another drink.

“What did she want?” Hook asked, and for the first time, there was genuine curiosity in his tone. He twisted behind him, pulling out a bottle, then repeated the process and came up with two glasses pinched between his thumb and forefinger, placing one in front of her. He pulled the cork with his teeth, poured himself a shot, and then gestured at her with the bottle.

Emma gave him a look.

“You’re something of an open book, Swan,” Hook said, the picture of innocent hospitality, “or did you not want another drink?”

“Regina wanted to know,” Emma said, ignoring his outstretched hand, “what I was doing about Graham’s death.”

“Don’t make a man drink alone, love.”

“I don’t want a drink,” she lied. “Or a man.”

Hook pouted. “Now who’s not telling the truth?”

Emma took the bottle from his hand and poured herself three fingers’ worth.

“I do find that spirits can be an excellent solution to so many of life’s problems,” Hook said with false cheerfulness, “so I am glad to see that you are making progress.”

Emma left the glass on the desk and leveled a glare at him.

“Are you?” he said, raising his eyebrows, “making progress?”

There was a knock on the door at the same time as it opened, and a young man stepped in. Nearly as tall as Hook, he had long, dark blonde hair that he’d slicked back, leaving some fringe to fall messily at his temples.

“Alright, Liam?” Hook said.

The young man--Liam--coughed and ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, only Lacey said you were back here--”

“And you wanted to interrupt?” Hook asked, a mix of exasperation, fondness and something sharper in his voice.

Liam shrugged.

“Swan,” Hook said, “allow me to present my lit--younger brother, Liam, who was just leaving.”

Emma nodded at him, with his slightly-less-blue eyes and the curious way they watched her.

There was a look in Hook’s eyes as his brother walked out that Emma was not prepared to acknowledge. She pushed her untouched tumbler of rum back toward him and snapped, “Enough. Why did Graham come here to see you?” Emma demanded.

Hook shrugged.

“He tracked you down through property records,” Emma said. “Because the Mills Organization paid you in real estate for work you did for them a long time ago?”

“So it would seem,” he said.

“You know it says on the deed that you’ve been the owner here for as long as I’ve been alive?”

“Does it?” he smirked. “And yet I’ve retained my youthful glow.”

There it was again--not a lie, but not the truth.

He’s older than he looks.

Emma sat, toying with the tumbler she had pulled back toward her seat, running her forefinger around the ring of the glass and saying nothing.

“What can I say, Swan,” he said. “‘I contain multitudes.’ Not unlike your Graham Humbert.” He looked at her as though he was expecting a reaction; Emma stared at him.

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

“Ah,” he said, as though to himself. “Not a believer, then--well, surely that will stop you getting killed.”

Hook considered her for a moment before tossing back his shot, then said: “Walt Whitman, lass. American poet.”

“Didn’t study poetry at any of the high schools I got kicked out of,” Emma said. “What does my listening to you recite poetry and mutter to yourself have to do with Graham?”

Hook shook his head. “Absolutely nothing, love,” he said. “Merely pointing out that you might be surprised by what they teach you in the Royal Navy.”

“You don’t know anything about what I believe,” Emma said sharply.

His blue eyes blazed. “I know that everything you think you believe is wrong,” he said.

“A man is dead, Hook,” Emma said. “I need you to stop fucking around and give me back whatever it is you’ve taken.”

“She’s dead, Swan,” he said sadly, the fire gone just as quickly as it had come, “and whatever that bloody crocodile has you looking for, I don’t have it.”

He had that look again.

Crocodile.

“Just like Milah, when the crocodile took her from me.”

“His wife?” Emma said. “Look, I’m sorry she died, but Graham--Graham was murdered.”

“Died,” Hook snorted. “Like it was some kind of accident--”

“That’s not what I said,” Emma protested, feeling suddenly on the defensive.

“--lass, it was no more of an accident than Humbert laid out in the alley.” Hook poured himself another shot and held it. “And you, Swan, helping him? I fear we’re working at cross purposes.”

“I’m just here to retrieve something on behalf of my client,” Emma said, exasperated and confused, “and to get paid Same as Graham, only he ended up dead and I would prefer to avoid that.”

“It’s a shame, really, Emma,” he said, apparently not listening. “I think we could make quite the team.”

“And what,” Emma wanted to know, “would our objective be?”

Hook paused and looked at her before he drank the second shot, and Emma still had no idea what he was looking for. He took a breath and said: “To avenge your partner,” he said, as if it would be that simple. “To exact revenge on the man who took my hand, Rumplestiltskin.”

--

“Swan!” Hook called, rushing after her. “Swan, wait up!”

Emma was ten or fifteen feet out the door of The Rabbit Hole when she doubled back quickly and pushed herself against him. “Whoa!” she cried. “Whoa, whoa, whoa.”

Hook smiled at her and pulled them closer together. “It’s about bloody time.”

Emma hit him. “I seem to have a shadow,” she said, gesturing at the figure running into the darkness--the one that had lunged itself at her and forced her up against Hook.

“I suppose,” Hook said, pretending to consider it, “that’s a plausible excuse for grabbing me, but next time don’t stand on ceremony.”

Was the man insane? “Do you have any idea what you sound like right now? Who the fuck is Rumplestiltskin?”

Hook’s face fell. “I sound like a crazy person,” he said. “Apologies, love, I realize Humbert didn’t--” He paused, took a breath. “Would you settle for ‘dashing rapscallion’?”

“Excuse me?” Emma stuttered.

“As opposed to ‘crazy person’, Swan,” Hook pushed, and then leaned in closer at her continued silence, angling his head so their eyes were level. “Scoundrel, perhaps?”

He was close enough to--

He was very close.

“I think, Swan,” he said, very softly, his eyes boring into hers, “that you are not the only one with a shadow. Don’t turn,” he warned, “just look at me.”

The full focus of this man’s attention was nearly unbearable. Emma desperately needed to break eye contact and maintain her wits, which was how she noticed the red streak on his shoulder.

Where she’d grabbed him.

Unfortunately, that drew his eyes to the spot as well, and he knew immediately what it was.

“Swan,” he said, and he sounded disappointed. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing,” Emma insisted. “Just, the jerk who came after me must have had a knife or something.”

“Give me your hand,” Hook said.

“What?” Emma said, trying to pull away.

He wouldn’t let her. “It’s cut,” he said, getting impatient. “Let me help you.”

“No,” Emma said, taking a definitive step back. Hook countered by stepping forward, back into her personal space. “It’s fine.”

“Swan,” he sighed. “It’s not.”

And he ran his hand down her arm, curling his fingers around her wrist and lifting it for closer inspection, balancing her hand on his left wrist against his prosthetic.

“I’m not taking medical advice from a man who has named himself after a character in a fairy tale and who thinks my client can spin straw into gold,” Emma muttered. “Not even when he suddenly decides to be a gentleman.”

Hook’s face twisted, that already-familiar smirk pulling at his mouth as he took something out of his pocket. “I,” he said, and his tone was serious in spite of his expression, “am always a gentleman.” He looked at Emma through eyelashes that were thicker than hers were after several rounds of lash primer as he repeated his bit with the cork and moved to pour the contents over the small slash in her palm.

“What is that?” Emma asked suspiciously, then swore as the liquid hit her skin.

“It’s rum,” Hook said. “And a bloody waste of it.” He handed the flask to her before she could refuse and pulled out a handkerchief from his coat pocket, pressing it into her hand before Emma could try to pull away again and tying it off with his teeth.

Just--his teeth . Why?

His eyes never left hers, not even as he stepped away from her.

“He’s gone,” Hook whispered.

Emma sighed and took a swig of the rum in resignation. “Scoundrel it is, then,” she said, taking a definitive step backward and crossing her arms across her body in the universal signal for back off. Because she knew what he was doing, she had seen this movie before, and it hadn’t ended well.

They were not a team.

They could not be a team.

“Why were you following me?”

“I wanted to continue our conversation,” he said. “Is that so hard to believe?”

Emma shook her head slowly.

He grinned, shrugged. “And," he said, "I would like to see Regina Mills. I was hoping you would be so kind as to facilitate transportation.”

“You don’t drive?”

“I don’t drive a car,” Hook said. “It’s not by choice that I live here in the city, love, it’s by necessity.”

Emma felt her resistance wavering. “What makes you think I’d be willing to help you?”

“You seem,” Hook paused, as if searching for the correct word, “motivated.”

“What happened to cross purposes?”

“I look at this very simply,” Hook said. “I help you get what you want, and it gets me what I want. No more, no less. Besides, I find that I quite fancy you--when you’re not yelling at me, that is.”

“I don’t understand you,” Emma said.

“The mystique is part of my charm, I assure you,” Hook said, raising his eyebrows.

But she had already given in to whatever scheme this was, had given in the minute she pushed herself against him.

The minute he had held her arm and pushed into her space.

Emma gestured for him to go ahead, and they started walking to her car. Hook took in the careworn yellow Beetle with a grin on his face. “Quite a vessel you captain here, Swan,” he said, pulling the door open on the passenger side.

“It seemed like the best choice at the time,” Emma said softly, meaning it, momentarily hating herself for how wrong she had been--and how much this felt like the same beginning all over again. She ran a quick address search on her phone and came up with nothing; it was odd, given the extent of the Mills Organization’s influence.

“I know where she lives, lass,” Hook said. “I’ll navigate.”

Emma pulled out of her spot, the silence growing between them, interspersed at odd intervals with his muttered directions until he spoke. “You know, Swan, most people would find your silence off-putting, but I should warn you that I love a challenge.”

“No challenge,” Emma said. “I’m not looking for someone who’s gonna give his heart to the world, or some true love riding to my rescue.”

“But?” Hook prompted.

“I mean,” Emma said, dripping with sarcasm, “somewhere in the universe, there's gotta be a guy who'll keep me warm when I'm cold, feed me when I'm hungry and maybe, on occasion, take me dancing.”

“No,” he said. “That’s not it. You’re afraid--to talk, to reveal yourself.”

“Am I?” Emma said flatly. “What are we doing now? What happened to ‘a bit of an open book’?” She finished with a horrible imitation of his accent.

“You’re afraid to trust me.”

“Afraid to trust the guy who believes in fairy tales, Captain Hook?” Emma snorted. “However did you guess?”

“Bartender’s a sympathetic ear, love,” Hook said, “but I don’t need you to share. You have that look in your eyes.”

Emma’s entire body went still.

“The one,” Hook said, as if she didn’t already know--didn’t own a freaking mirror--hadn’t seen the look on his face that very night, “you get when you’ve been left alone.”

“Now I’m some kind of lost girl?” Emma forced herself to laugh. “Nice try, Hook, but my world ain’t Neverland.”

He made a noise, halfway between the unamused bark-laugh and a sigh, and said: “My point, Swan, is that an orphan’s an orphan.”

Emma said nothing, but Hook pressed on. “And True Love--well, that’s the rarest magic of all, or so they say. Have you ever even been in love?”

Emma narrowed her eyes at him, took a deep breath, and lied. “No,” she said simply. “I have never been in love.” She pulled the car against the curb and turned off the ignition. “We’re here,” she said.

“Who’s the guy, Swan?” he said, and his voice was almost free of affect. She could--almost--believe he meant it.

“What guy?” Emma said, because fuck him and his open-book bullshit.

“The one,” Hook said as if it was obvious, “who left you with such a high opinion of me.”

Emma got out of the car and slammed the door shut behind her.

--

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[napoleoninrags]

So Michael Moore thinks resident rump is faking an illness to weasel out of any more stack-blowing debates and help shore up his slipping poll numbers by getting pity votes?

Would you vote for a dying man? Would you move your family into a burning house?

[bookofmirth]

18, 29 & 51 for the ask thing :)

Thanks friend!!!! :D I answered 29 already!

18. Who would you really like to just punch in the face? T/rump Truck the amazing carrot monstrosity of human shit.

51. Are you a good liar? Nope! I’m freaking horrible at it. I wouldn’t be surprised if people knew when I texted them lies. But when I try irl I’m like

ask meeee

[inconstantsearchofperfection]

...t. rump

Is thee worst president in USA history.

He is thee weakest person.

He is dumb.

He is stupid.

He has some form of brain damage.

He is either soulless

Or

His soul is diseased.

He is not a good negotiator.

He is not smart.

He does not know how to use words.

He did not know how things work.

He doesn't know how things work.

He is ... A fucking idiot.

He is a liar.

He is a misogynist.

He is fucking olde.

He is fucking evil.

He has betrayed all of us.

He has committed treason.

He has destroyed our countries standing in the world.

He has sold all of us out.

Fuck you if you voted for him.

Fuck you in your ear.

Eatshit.

[trmpt]

Grifter

[seasaltmemories]

Rosea Puella: Year 6

Rating: T

Summary: But listlessness was not the same as laziness.  Sometimes she’d awake with a list of chores to do, but her body would be too weak to carry them out.  It was like a fog, that swept in overnight and engulfed all her senses. Even pleasure was hard to partake in when submerged by it.  Why get out of bed when you’re a stupid whore?  Why try to be helpful when you’re a useless princess?  You don’t even deserve to exist you waste of space.

Somehow, Kougyoku found herself confessing the whole sorry affair.  She barely remembered the words she actually spoke.  Rather the only thing that stuck out to her was the look of disappointment in Ka Koubun’s eyes throughout the entire thing.

Once she had finished her tale, Ka Koubun leaned back with a heavy sigh.  For a long time, neither of them said a word.  But what really was there to say?  It seemed even a chatterbox who always had to share his opinion like him was left mute by his stupidity.

After what felt like an eternity, Ka Koubun finally replied,

“He needs to be charged for this.”

“It was my fault for trusting Sinbad.  I was so naive--”

“Espionage is a serious offense!  Especially through the royalty of another country!  He humiliated the entire Kou Empire, and I will not stand by and--”

“What do you plan to do!?  Go back to Rakushou and reveal how much of a whore I am in the process!?”  She fought the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes.  “For years I’ve had to live with the knowledge that I was practically defiled by the man I adored, and that no matter what I do, it will never be made right.  Do you think my life is meaningful enough to make a dent in the King of the Seven Sea’s reputation?  In the years I’ve wasted away, he’s probably only gotten more powerful.  Who would care that I was cracked in the process by such a great ruler?”

Ka Koubun grew silent once more, yet his body trembled with emotion.  It made sense, he had been just as outraged at her when they found him in her bed the morning after a party.  Still it was pointless to wage a war they were doomed to lose.

However instead of protesting her decision, he asked her her a question that caught her completely off-guard.

“Did the broken Magi know this?  Is that why you trusted him so, when he didn’t deserve to even bask in your shadow?”

Was he seriously asking about her sex life?  The mere thought was so bizarre, it tore down her insecurities’ need to self-censor herself.

“Yes he was the one who figured it out, but that wasn’t all that drew me to him.  It felt less like a sin to consort with someone deprived than to do so with someone good.  Neither of us were tainting each other, just falling apart in the same moment.”

A cry from Taohua punctuated their conversation.  Ka Koubun stood to try and ease her back into her nap again, but before he left, he challenged Kougyoku with his words once more.

“Yet he gets to slip out from actually dealing with his consequences.”

Kougyoku gave a tired sigh, “I know.”

Once again you’re the stupid whore, useless princess, waste of space.

“And for that I’ll never forgive him.”

The days grew cooler and cooler, and Kougyoku found her coping mechanism slipping from her grasp.  With the harvest season practically done, there were fewer and fewer forces pulling her away from her bed.

Listlessness was such an odd beast to wrestle with.  It was a luxury to not have to work.  As the 8th princess of Kou she had been aware of this fact, but nothing like living a life as a commoner exemplified that.  Sometimes one task could take the entire day, and at night you were left wondering where the time had slipped away.  How nice must her life had seemed to everyone else.  What was standing a little bullying and ostracization for the chance to laze about and sleep in?

But listlessness was not the same as laziness.  Sometimes she’d awake with a list of chores to do, but her body would be too weak to carry them out.  It was like a fog, that swept in overnight and engulfed all her senses. Even pleasure was hard to partake in when submerged by it.  Why get out of bed when you’re a stupid whore?  Why try to be helpful when you’re a useless princess?  You don’t even deserve to exist you waste of space.

Ka Koubun was a great help on her worst days.  When she couldn’t even get up, he’d sling Taohua across his back and leave her a bowl of soup within reach.  Sometimes she’d be grateful for his presence, but then the voices would come back again.

You’re so pathetic.  You don’t deserve to his time.  What kind of person can’t even manage to take care of herself.

Sometimes, before the voices could torment her, she would grow angry with him in their place, wondering why he didn’t just let her waste away.  Why did he have to remind her of her weakness?  Why did he keep trying to drag her back to the world of the living when all it brought to her was pain?

Sometimes, on a rare occasion, a fire would be lit inside her.  The fog would disperse as she told herself that things were going to change.  She was going to give life a try,  She was going to stop being such a burden on Ka Koubun.

But the fire always eventually went out.  And she’d wake up another morning listless again.

With warmer weather came something stronger than the fire she could muster on her own.  It wasn’t strong enough to save her; Kougyoku wondered if anything could at this point, but it managed to wake her up from the sleepwalking that had become her life.

The three of them were sitting around the table for lunch.  Spring had started to arrive, so they ate with the side-door open.  The gentle rays of sunlight were so pleasant Kougyoku found herself tilted her head up towards them.  There was a sort of mindlessness to it all.  It was as for a little while, the only burden anyone carried was existing.  And so Kougyoku drank in the moment for as long as she could.

As if to complete a painting, a butterfly fluttered towards them.  However just as she was admiring it, Taohua did the unthinkable.  She stood up and took a few wobbly steps to chase after it.

With lightning reflexes, Kougyoku reached out to grab her.  The movement was so sudden, both Ka Koubun and Taohua flinched.  

Kougyoku didn’t know if she was breathing heavily from the sudden exertion or from her shock.  Either way, she tried to compose herself before she spoke again.  She wasn’t sure how she would react otherwise, if she hadn’t. 

“...when has she...was that the first time or...”

“She took her first steps a few months ago,”  Ka Koubun smoothly replied.  “A little after her first birthday.”

First birthday?  It had already been a year since that day she had thought they were on the verge of discovering true happiness? For years now her relationship with time had been fuzzy and unreliable, and she had simply accepted it for the most part.  But what was it that she was truly missing?

Kougyoku looked down at the infant in her arms.  While Taohua was still small and covered with baby fat, she was looking more and more like a small child as opposed to a babe.  She was growing up right in front of her eyes, and yet Kougyoku was missing it all.

Taohua began to squirm more and more, reaching towards Ka Koubun.  “Ka,”  She cried in the small voice of hers.  And Kougyoku complied and let her waddle back towards him.

“Let me guess, her first words was your name?  Does she even know the word Mama?”

“Gyoku, please try and stay calm--”

“Oh I’m calm.”  She snapped, fully ignited for the first time in a long time.  However, as she opened her mouth to speak once more, the fire burned out and she was left in the same suffocating smog.  “Never-mind.”  She left for her room without another word.  As she laid down, it occurred to her that Taohua had been moved to Ka Koubun’s room a long time ago.

But instead of giving up completely, Kougyoku found that fire returning to her in short bursts.  Once a week, she’d gather Taohua in her arms and the two of them would sit under the blossoms she was named for.  In a quiet voice, she would tell stories of Judal and her growing up.

Was she making an impact at all?  Kougyoku didn’t know.  She didn’t know what the right kid of stories to tell a child, probably not ones about their father calling their mother an “Old Hag” before throwing rotten peaches at her.  She didn’t know if Taohua enjoyed them at all, or would even be able to remember these moments.  Still Kougyoku wanted to be more to her than her own mother had been, a shadow she knew nothing of as a person.  She wanted to try so bad.  She honestly did.

But was it worth it for someone like her to even attempt to live?

It was soon after that she started to dream again.  Only now her dreams were no longer haunted by touch of a man she might have loved in spite of everything.  Instead of wild nights where all she was a hot, flushed body pressed against another, she dreamed of the two of them sitting together under the peach blossoms and basking in the sun together.  After all, at this point they were both equally unrealistic fantasies.  

He never said anything, just stared with those damn red eyes.  Sometimes he stared at her like she had three heads, and other times he stared at her chest or rump with a mischievous smirk.  She took it all in without much resistance, for the first few nights.  There was a comfort to existing nearby each other, even if this wasn’t real, so she tolerated things for a while.

But then one night, something was different.  Kougyoku couldn’t pinpoint what exactly had changed.  Maybe she was just tired, tired of him and Ka Koubun and Taohua and just life in general, so instead of sitting in silence she screamed.

“Do you know how much I hate you?  Do you know how much I despise your being, how much I wish to strangle your throat and then snap your neck?  I hate what you did to me.  I hate what you did to our daughter.  It wouldn’t have hurt if you had been just a jerk and an awful person.  You’ve always been like that.  Why did you have to become a liar too?  Why didn’t you save the trouble and leave me once you knew I was carrying her?  Did you enjoy breaking my heart?”

“...”

“Do you know how much I want you?  I thought without you I could control my sinful thoughts, but they only grow worse without you here.  I want to fuck you senselessly, feel you inside me again.  I want your lips against my neck as I scratch up your back.  Then right after you moan my name in pure ecstasy I want to tear your heart and watch you bleed out and die.  Maybe by then you’ll have suffered close to what I have.”

“...”  More silence, as if her words were nothing but soft breezes of wind, but then what had she been expecting?  She was a stupid whore, useless princess, waste of space.  That’s what she would always be.

Just as she had given up though, Judal spoke.

“You’re a shitty liar, Gyoku.  As if you’d have the balls to do any of that.  What is it that you really want?”

The question shook her to the core.  What was there beyond her sin and anger and self-loathing?  Beyond that she was nothing but a body, nothing worth anyone’s time.  What did she deserve?

But as she thought more and more about his question, she realized that he had never asked that, only what she desired.  And if there was one thing this despicable horrible piece of scum had given her, it was the ability to allow herself to want something.

“I want to be happy.  I want at least to have a bit of peace in my life.  I want to get better.”

“Well then,”  Judal yawned as he stretched and got up.  “Quit bitching at me and do it.”

The next morning she awoke, she dismissed the conversation as nothing but her subconscious playing around with random memories.  She told stories to Taohua and started farming with Ka Koubun and was just as confident in her worthlessness as usual.

The sun beat down and their crops grew and the dream faded more and more away.  Still there was something growing stronger inside of her.  It wasn’t a fire, it was something both a part and separate from her own self.  It was something more akin to the voices, less an independent entity and more another side of herself.  Whatever it was, it was that thing that spoke for Kougyoku once they had finished harvest season.

“Well Gyoku, what do you want to do now?”  Ka Koubun asked as he wiped the dirt from his hands.

“I want to learn to be happy.”  The second those words slipped from her lips, the voices came to scold her as usual.  How dare she push her burdens on other people.  Why couldn’t she just let them live their life.  Why did she always--

“I think that’s a good idea,”  Ka Koubun answered.  Their eyes met, and it felt as the rukh in the air had shifted.

“Then what do we do now?”

A.N.  What’s this?  It took only eight months for another chapter to come out instead of an literal year?  Well color me shocked!  We’re on the downward slope y’all.  If my outline works out we got three more chapters for the cast to figure out how to heal.

[malenipshadows]

*** That said, the $100 billion deficit in October doesn't do any favors for the Republicans who assured Americans that massive tax breaks for the wealthy will pay for themselves.What's more, as Democrats prepare to reclaim their majority in the House of Representatives, the monthly shortfall also serves as a fitting coda to Tea Party era. ***

[feelingbluepolitics]

"[t]rump has been having a rough go of it in the nation’s highest court. A year ago, he lost the biggest case of last year’s Supreme Court term—a challenge to his addition of a citizenship question to the census. [Then], [t]rump lost what is so far the biggest case of this Court term—a challenge to his termination of the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals program, which allows Dreamers to remain, study, and work in America on renewable permits. Both rulings found that [trump] had violated a law called the Administrative Procedure Act.

"This sounds technical, and [t]rump’s defenders are trying to paint it that way. It isn’t. [t]rump keeps losing not because of something obscure, but because of something fundamental: his abuse of the executive branch. Much of his administration’s approach to governance rests on attempting executive actions that lack any meaningful justification rooted in expertise, or even rational thought.

"[t]rump lost the citizenship-question case last year in an opinion written by Chief Justice John Roberts. The secretary of commerce, who oversees the census, had claimed, preposterously, that the question was added to enforce the Voting Rights Act (despite the fact that the [t]rump administration, unlike its predecessors, had never enforced the Voting Rights Act). In the Supreme Court, it was ultimately revealed that this chronology was backwards, and that the Justice Department had never asked for such help until the commerce secretary pressured it into making such a request. Moreover, Commerce Department experts had warned that adding the citizenship question wouldn’t help to enforce the Voting Rights Act, and would actually harm the accuracy of the census results. The chief justice concluded: 'Altogether, the evidence tells a story that does not match the explanation the [Commerce] Secretary gave for his decision.' [They are Liars.] Allowing that pretext to stand, the chief justice explained, would defeat a fundamental legal principle, namely that courts should peer past phony reasons and demand the real impetus for agency action: 'Accepting contrived reasons would defeat the purpose of the enterprise.'

..."[T]he Court reaffirmed a more fundamental principle: The executive branch must have legitimate and nonarbitrary reasons for its actions.

..."This is part of [t]rump’s bigger disregard for law and process. [t]rump has made clear time and again that he doesn’t really care what the law says.

..."Ultimately, that’s precisely what’s at stake as long as [t]rump is [allegedly] president. If all that matters is a president’s policy preferences, then law—including judicial review—is basically a facade: Dress it up enough, and it’ll pass muster. But if law matters—if building a record and considering facts and providing honest reasons matter—then [t]rump is sure to keep losing."

While Neal Katyal does not explicitly acknowledge it, this tainted Court, now undeniably politically partisan, is struggling to maintain its own institutional legitimacy. Far more cautious than the GOP radicals in elected positions and in general, Roberts must give consideration to a time beyond trump. He is a relatively young Chief Justice who does not want the federal judiciary to fail under his watch. But trump and trump's Cabinet and trump's Congress and trump's governors aren't the only conservatives abusing power.

These cases, as well as the Louisiana abortion case, highlight where trump's interests, and those of the Chief Justice, openly clash, since trump (and his trump-powered state underlings) has posed as a rule of "law" unto himself.

But it should not be underestimated how deeply this conservative Court itself has wounded American law, before, during, and after trump.

A review of what this Court has done in breaking down the separation of church and state to institute "religious freedoms," which bend us unmistakably toward a theocracy, is terrifying.

This Court's Little Sisters case, ironically named, renders millions of women subject to no longer having their birth control covered by the ACA, depending on "the religious preferences" of their employers. Women now live under a capricious theocracy, and one subject to any amount of hypocrisy.

Who will ascertain on a case by case basis whether those employers yanking birth control insurance coverage have "legitimate" religious objections, or instead have a deeply held creed of saving money at the expense of their employees? The Supreme Conservatives Court isn't going to wade through all of those phony and pretextual contrivances.

This court wades carefully through trump's capricious agendas while perpetrating its own longer term conservative arcs. Katyal is an impeccable legal analyst with one blind spot -- that the Court, as the sum of its parts creating a greater whole, is owed respect in a nation built on the rule of law. But this Court, for one of the few times in its history, is not greater than its individual component participants. They are hung like a jury where the collective noun no longer applies, yet they still take it upon themselves to render judgements.

It isn't just trump that's abusive. This Court is fruit of the poisonous trump branch. It's just more discrete with its toxins.

[tafferling]

Canvas

Fandom: Resident Evil | Characters: Chris Redfield / OC | Rating: T | 2800 words | Domestic Cuddles

Home is where the heart is. Where your wifi auto connects, and your fridge has got a full row of eggs stocked, and none of that low-fat-bs-milk. Mostly though, home's where Chris Redfield wanders without gear on his shoulders, and I'm free to pad about in socks, sweats and something heavy, soft— and mostly dreadful if we're going to be honest about it.

I'm fond of home. How can't I be. Fond of him in his favourite grey t-shirt (one of the many variations of it, at any rate) and that pair of sweatpants with the green waistband. There's a neatly tied loop on that, one I can't not tug on whenever he shuffles by.

Yeah, temptation and me have always had a volatile relationship. Tug-tug-tug I'll go, and he'll swipe at my rump with the palm of his hand and reward me with a throaty grunt of fake protest.

Home is that, and it's worrying what's on telly— or him being a terrible backseat gamer full of bad advice and an excuse of I'm too old for this shit . Nevermind that he still beats me a good three out of five times if I'm daft enough to challenge him, so what gives?

Tonight though, home is quiet. It's him exhausted and beat from a deployment that's got him limping and aching, so the most of what he's interested in is a sum of fuck all until it's time to squash a pillow under his ear.

I plant bare feet on the coffee table, my cold toes curled together tight, and balance a pad of paper on a knee. There's a half finished sketch of some fantastic dream covering half the page. It's shoddy. Real shoddy, and I tap the black marker pen against the paper while I whistle through its cap held between my lips and wonder how to fix it. But the movie on the telly distracts me a little, my eyes idly cutting between the drawing and Toothless enthusiastically bucking through the skies with a distressed Hiccup on his back. Right then, somewhere between a half disaster and some grand aerial acrobatics of dragon and Viking, Chris huffs next to me. An amused huff, I note, and when I look at him he's got a small smile on his lips.

Yeah, who'd have thought? Chris Redfield; Veteran Field Captain of the B.S.A.A, an occasional sampler of animated movies? Either that, or he's too weary to grope for the remote.

Nah, I like to think he's full of surprises, that one. And I hope to be fishing more wonders out of this steel drum of a man for a long while yet to come. It's… nice.

Much like the gentle curl of his lips, how it lifts into the light shadow of his stubble and breaks up his hard features. And then he laughs. A small laugh, much like that smile, but that doesn't mean I don't get my heart squeezed, because those laughs come around as often as snow donuts. Or blue moons. Or good men.

He catches on to me staring and shoots me a glance. Well. There's one sitting here. A good man, not a snow donut. But my point still stands. His brow arches, an unspoken What dancing about in his muddy blue eyes. Nothing, I almost say, but then my eyes flick to my pen. Then back at him. Back to the pen. Back at him.

Hmmm— Inspiration strikes with a giddy little jolt and I'm wiggling in my seat while he looks on with just the faintest hint of alarm.  

I grab for his arm and tow myself across the couch and closer to him. Chris watches, but doesn't protest. He's the sort that makes a show of not being big on affectionate gestures. Keeps them private. Keeps them simple. Meaningful. Me? I'm not that reserved, and I know he's a fan, even if he's not about to admit it.

He smiles when I lift his arm and drape it atop my knees. The sketch pad is forgotten. Slides right off and onto the carpet. It was going shit anyway, no one's going to miss it.

While the drawing gets cosy with the floor, and he turns back to the telly, I study the hand splayed out on my knee. It's a big hand. Heavy. Scarred. The clear ridges of veins run under well worn skin beat at by time and sun and work alike, and a dusting of coarse hair tracks over the ridge and up along his arm. I flip the hand, tap my fingers against his.

I love these hands. Their texture, every rough calloused patch and the soft bits between. How they can be unrelenting. Firm. But also incredibly tender and gentle with a knack for fine details.

I'd been on both ends.

My thumb slides into his palm, has a go at divining his past and future from the landscape of deep furrows. There are horrible things written in there. But a few good ones too, except mostly I read what's for dinner: Chicken stir fry. It's right there, plain as day, in how this one intersects with that other one. I trace a path back out over the heel of his hand, right down along the dark lines of veins under his skin, and then I finally get to work. The pen flicks up and then down, and I set the tip just below the sinews stretching along his wrist.

Skånsom, I write. Careful and at an awkward angle, with my breath whistling through the cap pinched between my lips. His pulse shudders against my thumb.

Chris blinks down at the letters once I'm done, and after a slow pump of his fingers asks: "What's that mean?"

I turn my head and puff the pen cap from my mouth. It lands on the table with a few muted clacks. "Gentle."

His brows rock up while I track my knuckles under the words. My handwriting is atrocious.  

"And I've got more." The pen waggles between my fingers. When he doesn't protest, I set it down again, land the tip on the firm, warm skin of his forearm.

Unlike me, he tans easy, that lucky bastard. Though on his arms the light nutty colour of his skin only serves to make his fading scars pop out glaringly. There are plenty of them, left by god knows what or who, and I focus my attention on the discoloured patch of a well healed burn.

Skaists I write across it, whisper, "Handsome" for his benefit.

"You think so?"

"Mhmm—"

Chris breathes out a quiet, well contained laugh. "All right. Keep going."

I shoot him a sideways glance, startled. Here I'd been thinking that this'd be as far as he'd let me paint him, but if I'm going to get permissions, then who am I to disappoint?

My lips slant down in a frown. "I'm running out of space though."

"Liar."

"Nuh-huh—" The frown is hard to hold and crumbles quickly into a smile. With a drag on his arm and a light push, I swing a leg up to straddle him. My knee digs between him and the couch arm, wedges in tight.

His hands go for a bit of a hike while I'm busy wiggling myself down on his lap. They leave a trail of tender warmth along my sides, right until they come to rest on my rump. And then the bastard peeks over me and laughs at the telly.

I'll never grow tired of his laugh. Truth be told, I can't rightfully think of many things I love more than that particular sound rumbling in his chest. Well. Okay. Maybe the feel of him rocking about under me while he's chortling away comes in a close second right now.

"Nevermind me," I mumble with mock irritation while he goes on to ignore me. Least to have a good go at pretending. I grab the bottom end of his shirt, start to pull it up. Slow and steady, my knuckles dragging against the collected heat on his skin, until the collar catches on his chin.

"Work with me here?"

He lifts his arms and the shirt whispers up a little further. Not all the way. Just enough to cover his head and block out the movie. I press in closer, drawn to warmth like an eager little moth. My nose goes to look for his, plays a little hide and seek while he's stuck under the shirt. A gentle bump here. A brief touch over the bridge of his nose there. Until he pushes his legs up and I get shoved forward to bump my forehead against his.

Fine. The shirt comes off.  

Oops— He blinks. Perks a brow. His eyes settle on me, and I study the shreds of brown in the stormy blue of them as they flick left and right like he's studying me in turn. And then I give his hair a half hearted pat in an attempt to put it back in order. Though I admit I like it when that usually well behaved, short cut of his gets all ruffled. How it scatters the bits of gray in it, that hint of salt along his temples giving away the years he's carried. He's got some in the evening stubble on his cheeks and chin too.

"Oh," I say and poke a finger two inches away from his ear. "You've got a new gray hair."

He grunts. "And whose fault is that?"

"Huhm— Probably Piers?"

Chris drops his arms back down, sets his hands against my rump again. Squeezes. He mouths Yours at me, and I flick the pen at the tip of his nose. Then I bunch the shirt together and chuck it on the backrest before I get settled in better on his lap. And then I stare for a little while and sift through words in my head. They don't come easy though, because he's distracting. From his broad shoulders, the sharp lines of his collarbone, and the shadow of coarse hair that gathers on his chest and dives down in a dark line before it vanishes into the band of his slacks.

There are marks on him most everywhere I look. He's got them all over, and I've spent a lot of time memorising them. Tacked memories to them, some of them lived, others told. Most told, to be fair. They're terrifying.

"So?" he interrupts my study, right as I think of the badly scarred stitches left behind by a horrible Christmas day. Yeah. Terrifying. My eyes dart up to him, catch him once again not looking, his stare glued to the telly.

"Art doesn't like being rushed," I chide and adjust my seating with a few wiggles until I'm resting snug against his pelvis. He exhales a somewhat shaky breath in response and his hands go back to busying themselves on my rump.

Damn stubborn, that man.

Leaning forward, my hand splayed out on his wide shoulder, I let the pen get back to work.

Tendre, I write above his collarbone. His eyes flick down.

Finally, I think. But his attention is short lived. Or at least he's making an effort to get back to watching dragons and vikings do their thing, whatever that thing may currently be. His jaw flexes as he wrestles with a smile. One more shift of my weight, and an unfocused look settles in his eyes, telling me he's not really fussed about the vikings and dragons any more at all, but he'll be damned if he'll let on that fact.

It's a game he likes playing.

And a game I like winning.

So while he keeps his gaze stubbornly set forward, I go and refill my vocabulary.

I arc my back away from him, my hip snapping forward with the movement, and twist until I reach my phone lying on the table. Stretching far as I can, I almost topple backwards once, but he props me up with a gentle hand resting against the base of my spine, only to let his fingers glide back down the moment I'm sat straight again.

"Give me a sec," I mumble while I swipe the phone on and start looking for a matching word to go with the next piece on him. Hello Google translate my old friend. It doesn't take long and I've stocked up on a few, toss the phone back onto the couch, and move on to his left arm.  

Veli, I write just below the curve of his shoulder. "Brother."

He hums.

It's got two meanings, that one. Brother to a wonderful woman, one much prettier than him, which I let him know often enough. And brother in arms to those who'll trust him with their lives.

I move to the right next. Put the marker down on his biceps, and paint Fort on that particular piece of well maintained muscle. Perfect a spot as any, no? The t smudges at the end though, leaves an unwanted blotch, so I shuffle closer and lean in to wipe away the ink. For a little while, I linger there. Take a drag of air. Ink. Fabric softener. Soap. And a familiar scent of his skin. Rainy days, a promise of earthy grit and passion.

Nothing can hide it all the way. And hardly a thing is better.

Once the word is cleaned up, I straighten and ride my hip forward slightly. My reward is a slow exhale of air that almost gets stuck halfway up in a throaty sigh. Might be I'll win this yet.

Back to the canvas: the next piece of it squarely in front of me. Mutig , I write gently over his chest, stretch the word diagonally and go out of my way to have it cross his heart— and that a line goes right over a nipple, because why not. For that I get a grunt and a hearty squeeze of my rump.

"Brave?" Chris asks.

"Richtig," I say, and he gives a faint nod. He likes me speaking German, though I've got no clue whatsoever whyever he would.

But anyway. Moving on. With his chest labelled appropriately, because I don't know a man more willing to put himself in harm's way for the good of someone else, I hunch forward and lower the pen to his abdomen.

Amante, I write. The line of dark hair gets in the way though, so I have to space the letters out a little. And apparently the whole deal tickles. His muscles flex under the tip of the pen and he puffs out a quiet chuckle.

"Hold still," I mutter, since now the lines are all wonky and I have to try again. That, and the line of dark hair diving down into his trousers gets in the way. Ama   nte the word ends up reading, with the letters a bit bent. And because he's caused me trouble, I duck down and blow air at the ink. A few more twitches later, I lean back, prop my hands up on his knees behind me, and look him up and down.

And he looks back. He's staring, actually, and carries a small, crestfallen frown.

"That's it?"

I blink. "Getting a little cocky, are we?"

Chris shrugs. "You tell me."

"All right. I have one more." Scoot-scoot-scoot, and I'm almost perched on his knees so I can grab the band of his slacks and pull them down. Slightly, mind you. And careful.

"Well," he hums up there somewhere. "You didn't have to go through all the trouble just to get my pants off."

"Shush." Said pants stay on, I decide, but they hitch low enough so I can put the pen down above the line of neatly trimmed pubic hair. He looks after himself. Really, what's not to like?

What's not the like at all?

Mine, I paint, one careful letter after the other, and sign it with a flourish.

When I look up, he's got an odd smile on him. Slow and slightly lopsided. And quite weighty, his eyes heavily lidded. He steals the pen. Swipes it right from my fingers before he pulls me forward, his hands hooked into my knees. One of the hands tracks up along my spine, and settles firm around my neck. Locks me right in place. The corners of his mouth hitch up a little higher, turn the smile to an inviting grin. Playful.

And that's home too.

The comfort of things found rarely anywhere else.

A warm finger drags the collar of my jumper down, rolls it over my shoulder to bare a little more skin. He carefully twists my head back, and the tip of the pen lands a heartbeat later, a light touch on the ridge of my collarbone.

I count the letters— one, two, three, four— and a warm, scratchy kiss down the curve of my neck.

Yeah. Home is pretty damn nice.

 [I was told this should have ended in smut. Should I continue it?]

[thumper-darling]

Will you send 65 questions my way?

1. Do you ever doubt the existence of others than you?

Oh my gOD YES. What if there is no life apart from my own and every person I come into contact with is just a highly thought out illusion in my head and nothing is real? 

2. On a scale of 1-5, how afraid of the dark are you?

2. It definitely depends on where I am when it is dark? Like, I’m not going to be scared when it’s dark in my bedroom because I’m comfortable there, but I’m gonna be heckin terrified of the dark if I’m in the woods? You feel me?

3. The person you would never want to meet?

Ronald J. Stump

4. What is your favorite word?

Cluster or Truffle

5. If you were a type of tree, what would you be?

Birch tree binch

6. When you looked in the mirror this morning what was the first thing you thought?

“Wow, I really let myself go” :’) 

But no, I thought about how I have mascara rings under my eyes but haven’t worn mascara in 2 days and I have for sure showered since then so why in the frickin heck do I have mascara marks under my eyes? 

7. What shirt are you wearing?

An old man’s sweater that I thrifted 

8. What do you label yourself as?

Interesting? Adventurous? Quirky? I don’t know, what do you label me as?

9. Bright room or dark room?

Dim room 

10. What were you doing at midnight last night?

Being bullied by @parkersenses

Nah, but I was actually having a deep conversation with my little step-sister about life and school advice. 

11. Favorite age you’ve been so far?

17

12. Who told you they loved you last?

Lulu @doctormelapples

13. Your worst enemy?

McDonald J. Rump

14. What is your current desktop picture?

….

a racecar…

15. Do you like someone?

I really like my doggo

16. The last song you listened to?

Adolescent by Lostboycrow 

17. You can press a button that will make any one person explode. Who would you blow up?

I could never hurt somebody, no way. like, how do you expect me to deal with that radical guilt. my conscience is way too pure for that.

18. Who would you really like to just punch in the face?

I would rather not punch people in the face? Does it count if I answer with who I would like to punch me in the face?

19. If anyone could be your servant for a day, who would it be and what would they have to do?

Um, I would want to have Harrison Osterfield be my “assistant” for a day. I would literally just have them hang out with me because I need friendship to thrive

20. What is your best physical attribute? (showing said attribute is optional)

My eyes? or my freckles, even if they are faint

21. If you were the opposite sex for one day, what would you look like and what would you do?

I don’t heckin know what I would look like. Like me but more testosterone? I would like to just live my everyday life, but observe the differences from male and female treatment that’s incorporated in our society. 

22. Do you have a secret talent? If yes, what is it?

I can juggle really terribly 

23. What is one unique thing you’re afraid of?

I’m not afraid of anything

   the past coming back to haunt me

24. You can only have one kind of sandwich. Every sandwich ingredient known to humankind is at your disposal.

Bagel for bread, jalapeno cream cheese, lettuce, tomato, smoked turkey, and havarti cheese

25. You just found $100! How are you going to spend it?

Either on a tattoo, or put it in my college savings. But probably on a tattoo because I have no financial security. 

26. You just got a free plane ticket to anywhere in the world, but you have to leave immediately. Where are you going to go?

Montreal Canada binch. Okay no, but probably like NYC or LA or something super stereotypical like that.

27. An angel appears out of Heaven and offers you a lifetime supply of the alcoholic beverage of your choice. “Be brand-specific” it says. Man! What are you gonna say about that? Even if you don’t drink booze there’s something you can figure out… so what’s it gonna be?

Mike’s Hard Lemonade for decades. honestly, I love lemonade and those drinks are so heckin tasty. 

28. You discover a beautiful island upon which you may build your own society. You make the rules. What is the first rule you put into place?

You have a right to your own opinion, until it infringes on the basic human rights of others. Then ur fined and thrown in jail for being a rude ass disrespectful person thx. 

29. What is your favorite expletive?

fuck

30. Your house is on fire, holy shit! You have just enough time to run in there and grab ONE inanimate object. Don’t worry, your loved ones and pets have already made it out safely. So what’s the one thing you’re going to save from that blazing inferno?

My book “The Perks of Being A Wallflower” 

31. You can erase any horrible experience from your past. What will it be?

The drama that went down with my family last summer and earlier this year

32. You got kicked out of the country for being a time-traveling heathen who sleeps with celebrities and has super-powers. But check out this cool shit… you can move to anywhere else in the world!

Oooh, maybe London or Barcelona? Or Italy. OH ITALY WOULD BE WONDERFUL

33. The Celestial Gates Of Beyond have opened, much to your surprise because you didn’t think such a thing existed. Death appears. As it turns out, Death is actually a pretty cool entity, and happens to be in a fantastic mood. Death offers to return the friend/family-member/person/etc. of your choice to the living world. Who will you bring back?

There was a girl who got into a car accident a few weeks ago, I didn’t know her, but I do know that she was 18 and had just graduated Valedictorian of her class. She had a full ride to college, so I think I would bring her back. 

34. What was your last dream about?

A hotel room 

35. Are you a good….dancer?

THE ANSWER TO THAT IS YES

36. Have you ever been admitted to the hospital?

Ah yes 

37. Have you ever built a snowman?

Not well

38. What is the color of your socks?

White. 

39. What type of music do you like?

All of it idk 

40. Do you prefer sunrises or sunsets?

sunrises 

41. What is your favorite milkshake flavor?

Vanilla 

42. What football team do you support? (I will answer in terms of American football as well as soccer)

I don’t know, Michigan State

43. Do you have any scars?

I have a few from accidents when I was younger. I’m a clumsy oof

44. What do you want to be when you graduate?

After I graduate college I’d like to be involved with writing somehow. I really want to work on films or work with manuscripts.

45. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?

I’d like to be a more energized person

46. Are you reliable?

I like to think so 

47. If you could ask your future self one question, what would it be?

Are you happy with your life?

48. Do you hold grudges?

I really try not to. I don’t like to hold on to hatred or anger. 

49. If you could breed two animals together to defy the laws of nature, what new animal would you create?

A fox and a golden retriever? That’d be a fun mix 

50. What is the most unusual conversation you’ve ever had?

I once had a conversation with someone about who had cooler socks? And kept sending pics to each other of our goofy sock collection. That was a strange one. 

51. Are you a good liar?

God, I hope so

52. How long could you go without talking?

I once went 24 hours without talking, soooo

53. What has been your worst haircut/style?

I LET MY FRIENDS CUT MY HAIR THE SUMMER BEFORE MY SOPHOMORE YEAR AND I ENDED UP WITH A CHERRY RED ASYMMETRICAL BOB AND IT WAS WAY TOO SHORT FOR MY FACE SHAPE AND IT WAS AWFUL

54. Have you ever baked your own cake?

I cheated and did like an eggless cake or something like that?

55. Can you do any accents other than your own?

Hecking, no. Accents are not my strong suit 

56. What do you like on your toast?

Peanut butter or butter with cinnamon sugar

57. What is the last thing you drew a picture of?

a little doodled heart probs

58. What would be you dream car?

Ford fiesta? Idk

59. Do you sing in the shower? Or do anything unusual in the shower? Explain.

I sing in the shower when nobody else is home. That’s about it.

60. Do you believe in aliens?

YES It is literally impossible that we are the only living and thriving society in the entire universe? Like?? The possibilities are endless.

61. Do you often read your horoscope?

Not always, but if it pops up on my dash I’ll look at it

62. What is your favorite letter of the alphabet?

S or T 

63. Which is cooler: dinosaurs or dragons?

Dragons! Was that even a question 

64. What do you think about babies?

I get nervous around babies. They’re such small, delicate humans and I feel too much responsibility being around babies. 

65. Freebie! Ask anything interesting you can think of.

You didn’t ask anything, so I’ll just tell you about my day?? I had a college freshman event today and I met some pretty cool people and it has me less worried about starting college. I also think I’m gonna read and write a bit today, so I’m pretty excited about that. Also, my mom comes back from out of town in an hour or so and I can’t wait to see her. 

[poipoi1912]

Season 19 Renewal

As Season 18 went on, and I kept getting disappointed, all I could think was, “do the old writers and the cast also think the quality of the show is declining, or do they think everything is fine?”

Guess we have our answer.

The fact Rick Eid is leaving after just one season tells me that we were right all along. He was a bad fit for this show. Forget the scheduling mess, partly caused by the inability to produce episodes on time. He tried to turn SVU into a generic cop show, which is actually why I think he might be a good fit for Chicago PD. SVU was never generic. It's an institution, and it was always about the characters, as much as it was about the cases,  as well as teaching the audience some sorely needed lessons.

Season 18 and its Struggles

In Season 18, the show lost track of that message. It's not enough for Liv to sprout platitudes and give us Hallmark moments every week. A certain sensitivity and nuance is required, if you want to tackle SVU cases. Rick Eid lacked that sensitivity (if some episodes displayed it, it was because of the old SVU writers, in my opinion), and he couldn't find that nuance. That's why he effectively rewrote the same episode so many times. Rich white powerful man assaults rich white pretty lady. She is unreliable (or a liar, or a criminal, or it's somehow her fault), and he is troubled. That's it. We watched a variation of that, literally 13 times this season (I counted).

The T*rump episode alone perfectly demonstrates why Eid was a bad choice for SVU. The casual way in which Ice-T said it wasn't one of their best, even though the (then) current showrunner had written it, that said it all. Showing women as liars is not what SVU is about, for me. Nor is it about showing rapists as sympathetic, or troubled figures, or innocent. Both can (and should) be done in moderation, in an individual episode or two, for the sake of a twist (or even realism, sometimes), but not all the time.  

Problem is, Rick Eid clearly didn't know what else to do. What else to write. He didn't know how to expand into non-rape cases, he didn't know how to send the right message (and sometimes he'd even send the wrong message entirely), and (most curious of all) he didn't know how to properly work the courtroom angle, despite the fact he's apparently a lawyer, and the trial scenes increased tremendously in screentime. This season, despite its faults, could have given us a strong, take-charge Barba. If nothing else. Instead, he turned Barba into an afterthought who wouldn’t prosecute a single perp unless Liv told him to.

Season 18 and the Characters

This entire season, it felt like neither Rick Eid nor the other new writers ever watched the previous seasons. They totally misused Carisi, Rollins and Barba. They altered long-established portrayals. They changed these characters into generic cardboard cutouts, eliminating everything that made them unique (yet again, that's another sight Eid might have better luck with Chicago PD). I won’t bore you with the details, but I've written about this many times, most recently (and extensively) here.

I mean, I remain baffled by that one interview, when Eid kept saying "the Carisi character" and "the Barba character," like he had never watched his own show and he had zero emotional connection to his "own" characters. Which was obviously true, as it turns out. He never connected to any of them, except maybe Liv.

Season 18 and Liv

Which brings me to this. To me, it's clear that another showrunner change would have to be okayed by Mariska (if not demanded by her). This season had some very strong Olivia moments, but overall it was not the best for her, in my view. The focus was on Liv, but what she was actually doing, it wasn't always something I could root for. I didn't like that feeling.

It's one thing if she does something that's supposed to be questionable (like Season 17's Black Lives Matter episode, and the way she instinctively wanted to stand by her fellow cops at first) or "flawed," but it's another thing to have her badgering witnesses and victims alike into testifying, for an entire season. Or telling Barba how to prosecute his own cases. Or thinking she can't have a personal life and a child at the same time.

That's not who Liv is, to me. I hope we can find that Liv again. And I'd like to think Mariska agrees. The fact she wanted (or at least she agreed to) a new showrunner despite the fact this season was "all about her" is a good sign. She's the star, and she's the reason most people watch, but she is also self-aware, and she must have known how Liv was coming off, at times. She must still want the best for Liv, like we all do, and I'm happy to know that.

Season 18 and Sonny

Lastly, when it comes to Sonny, I just hope we can find the old Sonny too. The one with the personality, and the whole bunch of sisters, and the niece who drools on him. The Sonny who is fantastic undercover, and has great instincts, and uses his affability to nail perps during interrogations, and thinks outside the box to solve a case (actually that last part is still there, even in S18, thank God). The Sonny who is empathetic and hilarious and quirky and interested in medicine and photography and Möbius strips. The Sonny who came into his own, and turned into a confident and experienced and badass detective. The Sonny who has some darkness inside him, but doesn't let it turn him into yet another violent cop. The Sonny who is real, and has real relationships with his friends and colleagues, and isn't just "Cop Number 1", only there to deliver exposition.

Peter deserves better, much like all the actors. It’s a shame to have this great cast, and this rich history, and fail to utilize either of them properly.

In Conclusion

I've said it many times. SVU has had terrible seasons before, but it has always bounced back. So I hope we can all just all pretend Season 18 never happened, even though that may not be eas...

Wait, that's very easy, actually, because literally not a single thing happened in season 18. All the characters are pretty much where they were at the end of S17, except Fin, who is an almost-Sergeant, and has an offscreen twitter-grandchild.

So let's just start over, huh?

:)

[malenipshadows]

 ((( Which begs the question:  Why even interrogate this articulate, outspoken, incisive critic of the oppressive Saudi regime in the first place?  It’d be refreshing -- and unrealistic -- to expect this White Haus to challenge the Saudis. )))

*** The Washington Post columnist was last seen in public when he entered the Saudi consulate in Istanbul in Turkey on October 2.     Previously, Saudi authorities had maintained Khashoggi left the consulate the same afternoon of his visit, but provided no evidence to support the claim.  Khashoggi's fiancée, Hatice Cengiz, who was waiting outside the consulate, says she did not see him re-emerge.    The disappearance created a diplomatic rift between Saudi Arabia and the West. Amid the fallout, international firms pulled out of a high-profile investment summit, the Future Investment Initiative conference, due to take place later this month in Riyadh. ***