#Spray on Paving

[aussiespraypave]

Colour Sealers Spray on Paving Perth,Australia

Being less expensive and fundamentally more functional than stained concrete flooring and other forms of decorative concrete, like polished concrete, this sphere of market has great popularity at places like laboratory, school, hospital, restaurant kitchen, warehouse, garage or repair facility. Spray on Paving Perth,Australia

[i-am-aprl]

BREAKING: Palestine Action spray and slash a historic painting of ‘Lord’ Balfour in Trinity College, University of Cambridge.

Written in 1917, Balfour’s declaration began the ethnic cleansing of Palestine by promising the land away — which the British never had the right to do.

After the Declaration, until 1948, the British burnt down indigenous villages to prepare the way; with this came arbitrary killings, arrests, torture and sexual violence including rape.

The British paved the way for the Nakba and trained the Zionist militia to ethnically cleanse over 750,000 Palestinians, destroy over 500 villages and massacre many families.

The Nakba never stopped and the genocide today is rooted and supported by British complicity.

Now, Elbit Systems, Israel’s biggest weapons manufacturer use Britain as a manufacturing outpost to build arms which are “battle-tested” on Palestinians.

[thestoryofella]

rainy day

summary: you are terribly unprepared for the weather, luckily your neighbor is dressed for a flood.

warnings: fluff, swearing

steve harrington x reader ✿ 976 words

There was nothing more soothing to you than the gentle patter of rain, splashing onto your bedroom window, a stream of light filling your room with the sunrise. So, when you woke up to a mist of rain spraying through your opened bedroom window, you knew it was a good day.

You got ready in a hurry, quickly throwing on clothes suitable for the weather, brushing through your hair, and practically running to the front door to slip on your shoes and grab an umbrella. It wasn’t until you tried to open your only umbrella on the front porch that you realized maybe today wasn’t going to be a good day.

“Well, fuck,” you muttered, the umbrella springs weakly flopping back down after you attempted to shove it open. You love observing the rain, being around it, not being drenched with it. From the looks of the outdoors, you were going to get drenched without an umbrella.

Looking from under the roof of your porch revealed an absolute downpour of rain. The rain came down torrentially, sliding off your roof visually similar to a waterfall rather than singular droplets. Given that your raincoat from last season didn’t fit anymore, and your umbrella decided to shrivel back up on itself, you were screwed.

Bracing yourself, you stepped out from the protection of the roof, immediately being hit by heavy water droplets. Living only half a mile from Hawkins High School was usually great until it meant you lived too close to be a part of the bus system. Today, you despised your proximity to the school.

Walking as quickly as you could manage, you marched through puddles of water that were practically ponds due to the uneven road, quickly feeling the weight of water as it soaked through your normally warm sweater.

You only managed to make it one block before hearing the voice of your only other classmate who had to walk to Hawkins too: Steve Harrington. He jogged up to you in an outfit that sent deep waves of jealousy through your soul. He looked uncharacteristically nerdy as he was readily equipped with rain boots, a rain jacket, and an umbrella. I wonder if he’s even found waterproof hairspray for the weather, you accidentally let out a small snort at that last thought.

Steve was nice, nicer than you expected him to be given his popularity and seemingly exclusive friend group. Despite the fact that you two never talked outside of school, you’d developed a relationship as friendly acquaintances due to your close living proximity and shared understanding of just how shitty walking to school every morning was.

When he meets you, Steve gapes. His eyebrows raise so incredulously that they almost meet his scalp. “Y/N! Did you forget your umbrella?” His breath fills the air with small, quick puffs of clouds, coming out in quick pants after running to catch up with you.

Continuing your pace, not wishing to be out in the rain for any longer than necessary, you and Steve fall step in step making your way toward school. Recalling the events of your morning, you gain a new twinge of frustration in your heart but nod nonetheless. A small frown sets in on your face, “something similar to that. It just wouldn’t open this morning no matter how hard I pushed upwards.”

“Gosh, I hate it when that happens,” he huffs out. “You know the last time we had rain like this, the same thing happened to me,” he gestures to his outfit, with his hand on his hip, “hence why I’m wearing this.”

You let out a small laugh, tossing your head back a little, after observing the ridiculousness of his outfit for the second time this morning. His rain boots look extra silly as you walk on the evenly paved main road, barely even submerging into any water as it readily went down the storm drains. “You know, I was wondering why you had so much rain gear on,” you laugh.

He looks up at you, and a look of embarrassment spreads across his face, a slight pink dusting his cheeks. He has to fight the urge to facepalm himself when he notices your rain-soaked hair. Here he was in every item of rain gear he could ever need while the rain pelted your clothes, gradually lengthening your sweater as the weight of the rain pushed it down your torso.

Without a word, he moved his umbrella to cover both of your bodies and the immediate coverage from the rain was relieving. However, you couldn’t tell if the warmth came from the end of the torrential rain pelting your clothes, Steve’s warm shoulder brushing up against yours, or the heat that crept up your face because of his thoughtful actions.

“Thank you,” you spoke quietly, slightly embarrassed accepting a thoughtful gesture. You’d always struggled with that.

“I figured I should put you out of your misery,” Steve laughed, his brown eyes and cheeks crinkling as a smile overtook his face. You two walked shoulder to shoulder as Steve made an effort to stay close enough to cover the two of you, although his raincoat would probably have him covered.

Walking shoulder to shoulder, you two gradually made it to Hawkins High School, mostly in comfortable silence as you enjoyed the sound of the rain, the tweets of morning birds, and the rustling leaves on overhanging green trees.

When you reached the school, you were filled with a comfortable warmth that you weren’t sure was from the relief of the umbrella or your thoughtful savior who was comically overdressed for a rain storm.

“See you around neighbor,” Steve waved in his oversized raincoat, a few droplets shaking off from the action, with a newfound twinkle in his eye you hadn’t noticed early this morning.

“Have a good one, Steve.”

[marrkopolo]

A Wise Man Once Said

Precious lost its ring in the scrap yard with no metal detector the lavender pussywillows hide the trolls

Hong Kong wheel of fate UW spinned it first Knights of Templar slaughtered at a mass concert of bloody crimson tide

Tithe on a full moon for 2x the glee The crash of waves against the rocks, like bodies slapping against each other during sex blood shooting through veins Hot heat, sticky, in Iceland together I too, know of these lands

Tax season says the King! blue knots on a tent red food buckets hung like death #four crosses in a foreign land alone is no place to exist

An underwater welder lying on the blue tarp, is like a union of troops led by a zebra.

Flying flags at Disney welcome to the world of water failed regret, emptiness and betrayal tattered flags get left to rot sew it in with the others together and the quilt becomes strong and scintillating

Crush you with your own history headless horseman and halo hair dark horse donuts This is as good as it gets!

Red-lipped lipstick cracked porcelain face You can't hold a candle to this

King of the Hill My pool stick is clean now true Kings swim in the swimming pool together King of the Hill Jack of Spades went with the stolen crown and robots learn to volunteer.

Pledge to a sanitizer salute to a gong beat your chest it's loud and strong Love at first sight or sounds like a good idea Wisdom of the crowd or individual motivation?

A rabbi with the yachts Fortified lamps sees all UFOs, telekinesis and even explosive lingerie. One denarius for a days work Why they get more? Stand while another sits. Then switch roles and you'll see why.

What sees with three eyes? The melatonin-like parental bond, third eye awoken, Moksha.

Insane Luke has a scar red dots that kill. Baldie takes biosphere crown the bald animal is cutting loose again Is doraphilia still fun to you?

I attempt to transform but the tea is too strong my hands have small heart Lying down a tiny raindrop falls into my ear swirling into the cochlea My whole world has changed!

Eczema stealing make-up twice North Face go north Racks of weapons are not enough this time

My mask is old but gold bars had paved my fortunate path …a fortunate path(whispering)

Tik Tok vault one exit is enough The eagle has docked into spray-painted madness. Not to fret I hear a falcon cry Jump when the law is bent it will help you fly

Six shooter Six pack 3 sewers 3 fires Twin-spirit 1 spacesuit

Mountain top king of the hill climb Nepal Hajj pilgrimage princess climbs like a pirate piggyback down the wedding aisle

Opposites attract

One fell to its doom down the abyssal void towards the bottom and a ghost ship lost in the Bermuda Triangle with Pandoras Box Lazarus

Gunpowder in shoes Footprints in the sand Jesus did not tap

Short and tall fat and thin Lookalikes Soundalikes Smellalikes the hunt of touch and taste What double currencies create the ultimate Yin Yang effect? AI said to cure pride and competition, exchange abacus rubik-cubed calculators instead of cash.

Echoes and reverberation voices become lightning WATTS= AMPS X VOLTS

Float your payloads into the troposphere with skinny vertical structures of contained saltwater Heat a planet with a satellite asteroid belt

A call for help QR codes morse code gun flare smoke signal what are your coordinates? R-E-B-O-R-N

Some ancients say gunpowder only made flee then gun made to kill Oil spills from bronze age to silicon chips flood the market cut the mall castle cake in half Zangief on a segway You win.Perfect.

Lawrence Groves copyright©2024

[stepfordboys]

The Perfect Boy (Written by RiderVitalli. Revamped by me.)

Dylan had been such a nuisance on my street for as long as I can remember. His parents worked too hard to provide for their family that they didn't have time to raise him properly. It wasn't their fault when he'd fallen in with the wrong crowd, becoming a menace to our neighborhood. But that would change the day he decided to vandalize my prize-winning front lawn, destroying years of hard work and effort, all in the name of "fun."

I caught him in the middle of the night, using his bike to tear up my grass, he'd carved the word "fag” deeply into the dirt, and upon further investigation, I found he'd torn up my flower-garden, toilet-papered my pear tree, even spray painted vulgar shapes and anarchy symbols on my newly paved driveway.

I'll admit it; I blew a fuse! I promised myself I'd never use my incredible gift for revenge, but this was too much. A wave of power rushed across the lawn and bowled him over; his body flopped into the dirt he'd ground up. Seeing his body short-circuit, twitching and writhing as his nervous system overloaded, I knew I'd messed up. Now the only thing to do was drag him inside before the neighbors woke up for their morning routines.

I didn't know what I was going to do at first. I laid him on the cold tile floor in my kitchen, solely so I wouldn't get his filth on furniture or carpeting. His body convulsed a little, but the main effects of the blast had worn off. If I'd left him alone for any longer, he'd wake up with an incredible headache, muscles sore from involuntary spasms, but otherwise, he'd be fine in a few days.

But then I had an idea creep into my head… Could I let this delinquent go only to repeat his mischief on some other innocent neighbor? No. I had to solve this issue while I had the chance. This sad excuse of a boy would no longer be a problem after I'd finished with him. The mental image I'd conjured was perfect in every way, but I doubt he'll like it much.

I looked down at him, breathing heavily but out cold. His body splayed in an awkward position. He'd lost a shoe somewhere, and his shirt had been torn as I dragged him. The clothing choice was appalling; his shirt was covered in silkscreened pot leaves and other paraphernalia, his shorts were baggy, the entire length covered in pockets which, after a short search, were found full of little baggies, papers, lighters, and his wallet, a little chain hooked to his belt as if the 2 dollars and his school ID were worth protecting.

I used a damp cloth to clean up some of the dirt and propped him up on one of my kitchen chairs, using a little of my power to control his body, making it impossible for him to move anything from the neck down. His head lolled forward, his chin resting on his chest. Then, with a nudge to his incapacitated mind, he awoke with a gasp and groaned when the soreness and migraine hit him. He tried to move; I saw his fingers twitch a bit on the armrests, then his eyes widened, and he looked around and yelled for help when he saw who was sitting across from him.

He shouted over and over; again, his fingers, the only thing he was able to move, twitched. Finally, after a few minutes, he calmed down a bit, panting, and begged me to let him go. I explained that I would, but he needed a little lecture first. Shouting again, this time with more force and vulgarity, he demanded freedom and threatened to tell the cops. His arguments were quelled when I explained that he'd send himself to jail if he tried after vandalizing my yard.

Some thought, and he finally went quiet, listening to me. I went on and on about his behavior and how he terrorizes our little community. He seemed proud, even happy that his efforts had been noticed, which made me angrier. I think he could feel the spark of control hit him, his head throbbing, his eyes glazed, and he fell silent. That's when I let loose.

Once inside his head, I read every thought, emotion, and memory in seconds. I knew exactly who this boy was down to the very core. I felt sorry for him. He only wanted acceptance and for someone to acknowledge him. Until now, his family was too busy keeping up with their lifestyle and working to build a decent living to pay attention to their little boy.

They never neglected him; they were good to him, giving him everything he needed and even trying to make him happy with new things, toys, and video games. But he wanted more. Not material things. He wanted to feel like he was necessary, and that's where his gang of rampant delinquents came in.

They pried him out of his shell and let him experience being wanted and needed. He was their fall guy, always able to get out of trouble and their best place to hide the more illegal things. He still looked innocent, so most authorities wrote him off as harmless. That's why he had pockets full of it when I searched.

I could see why he is the way he is now. But I still had to fix him. To solve our neighborhood problem, and now I know how! He craves acceptance, attention, and feeling needed and wanted; I'd give it to him! But I knew he wouldn't like it. His whole childhood and up to now had trained him to be a rebel. His brain was wired to "fuck the police" and to run or fight authority. It was in his blood, his DNA now. Changing him the way I planned would be torture for him! But it'd teach him a lesson! Kill two birds with one stone!

He was still lost in deep unconsciousness, and a line of drool dribbled down his shirt, so I took my time. I didn't change his memories or how he thinks; I left his personality intact. What I did change was the way he'd behave on the outside. The way his body would react to things, he could think of what he wanted to say, but it would come out completely different. He'd be forced to watch as he did something to a new standard. Everything on the outside would change.

I reprogrammed his outward vocabulary, adding educated words and deleting vulgarity. He'd be unable to swear or disrespect anyone in any way. His answers to anyone with any authority would be respectful, ending with "sir" or "ma'am" I tweaked his body language; he could no longer slouch or sit with his legs wide open like most boys do. He'd sit up straight; leg crossed neatly across his knee. He could no longer disobey his parents or elders unless it harmed him or anyone else. And worse of all, he'd do it all with a polite smile!

Next, I tackled his fashion sense. The way boys now dress always bugged me, so I forced him to buy and wear a more formal, professional wardrobe: slacks, khakis, polo shirts, dress socks, or boat shoes. Sneakers for athletics, crisp white t-shirts or undershirts, and only briefs, never boxers or commando, from what I could tell, he liked. This would be one of the most significant changes, so I hammered it into his brain; I could almost feel him fighting back, but in the end, I won out.

Finally, were his hair and his new hobbies and activities? His hair now was greasy and unkempt, hidden under an ugly, worn-out old cap, but from now on, it'd be crisply clean cut, short, maybe military style, or pomp. No, I know what I wanted for him. A "college boy" cut! Shaved back and sides, with a deep part on one side, the rest combed over neatly with a little longer combed over in the front. He'd also keep clean-shaven, trimming up his body and taking out all his piercings, and find that his tattoos would fade till they were gone. The perfect match for his new looks!

He needed some new activities, vandalizing, smoking, and general misbehavior wouldn't work for the new boy. No, he needed constructive things to keep his time occupied! Judging from his current body type, he still needs to do something other than skateboard and bike to stay fit. That had to change.

Seeing his new form in my head, I realized the perfect extracurricular activity! He'd be a swimmer! It takes skill and discipline to be on a swim team, and from what I'd seen in his head, he's self-conscious of his body, always keeping covered. So being forced to wear nothing but a tight speedo and cap would add to his torture; remember, this isn't just to make him better; it's also punishment! He'd also join a track team; his legs are long enough to be well-talented. Adding that he'd now strive for A's and work hard at home and for the neighbors doing chores, I covered his free time well.

I was done. My head was pounding from the effort of all these changes, fighting his mind and winning over. He was sweating buckets, his head lolling back and forth, whimpering as I released my grip on his mind. He groaned, and I let his body go; immediately, his hands went to his head and squeezed as it tried to press out all the changes I'd made. Then he looked up, his eyes a little red, and I heard his mind screaming obscenities and demanding I undo it all, but what came out of his mouth, as his body straightened up on the chair, was nothing like his previous mental statements. "Please, sir, may I have an Asprin and a glass of water, if it isn't too much trouble?"

His eyes widened, and his mind reeled as I got him his request, his hand shakily taking them, and after swallowing the pill and water, he smiled and whimpered meekly, "Thank you, sir. May I go home now? It's far past my bedtime, and I have an early day tomorrow…" His hand unconsciously took his hat off and rubbed his greasy hair. We stood up, and I dismissed him; his last words were, "Have a great night, sir, thank you!" he ran to his house, leaving his bike in my yard.

---

It had been a few weeks now, and I hadn't had the chance to see the boy, as I'd been traveling. When I came home, I found a stranger in my front yard with a lawn mower and water bottle. When I pulled in, I recognized him at once! It was Dylan!

He was wearing an impeccably clean yet damp white tank-top undershirt, a pair of athletic shirts, and an immaculate pair of sneakers, taking a long drink from his bottle and pushing the mower in what looked to be an impossibly straight line. The entire yard looked immaculate! When he turned around, I was looking into the eyes of a completely new boy, a perfect example of a young man. His hair was precise as I'd programmed, He'd even trimmed up his pits, and his chest was shaved bare. He looked clean, aside from the sheen of sweat from the sun and heat, and he'd been working out a bit, the perfect build for a swimmer and the legs of a champion runner!

"Good afternoon, sir!" He politely stated, stopping the mower and shaking my hand. I read his mind; his internal personality was screaming, begging me to fix him, that he learned his lesson. I read the last few weeks' memories and found that his gang had rejected him after getting cleaned up, they didn't want a preppy fag boy in their group, but luckily, he found a new group! The swim team accepted him almost immediately after his tryout.

I'd given him above-average skills and knew they were all good boys like him. I also found that, after the weeks of change, his parents finally showed him acceptance and even praise; his grades were up, he was showing a lot of potential in English, probably due to his new dictionary of a vocabulary, and they let him get a puppy, after he'd asked and promised to take care of him. His life was the epitome of a perfect schoolboy, polite and disciplined, and as he craved, he was now loved and wanted by the entire neighborhood; everyone loved him! Especially since he'd taken to helping the elderly residents, he even had a new girlfriend from the track team. Inside, he was a screaming mess, his rebellious mind still fighting and demanding to be released, but that'd never happen again!

[tinydefector]

Beachcomber having his human pet (gn reader) massage his tires (and kinda getting off on it)?

CAR SPA

Beachcomber x human

Word count:1k

Warnings: unknown body job, ejaculation, feeling up, washing car, valveplug.

Beachcomber Masterlist

Hehehe I offer you car wash feel up. It was too good to pass up Beachcomber getting a car spa treatment after a beach trip. So enjoy Beachcomber getting worked up by his human companion feeling him up unknowingly

___________________

beachcomber as he sits on the Oceanside watching the waves roll in.  "Comber!" A voice breaks him out of his daze on the rolling waves. His human companion is making their way back up out of the surf towards him. Beachcomber smiles as he watches them walk towards him. 

"Waves treat ya kindly?" he calls back out to them, gesturing for them to join him on the sands. The roar of the ocean in the background is peaceful compared to the sound of all the ruckus back at base. They settled beside him looking through a bag seeking a lost towel, when they found it they laid it across the sand as they lay down beside Beachcomber. 

"Mmm the surf is great" they state before dropping down to sit on the sand beside him. They lean back enjoying the sun on their skin as they lay on the towel. "Let me know when you wanna head back, promised you we'd go to the car wash since you brought me to the beach, can't have you getting rusty can we" they state with a lopsided smile as they.

Beachcomber laughs in return as he runs his servos over their head, digits brushing their wet hair. "Earth has such beauty, I've never seen oceans like this before." He reply while watching the waters As gulls' calls punctuated serene ambience, Beachcomber savoured Natural beauty of the landscape.   

They lay in the sun for a little longer trying to dry off more, after a little they grab their gear. "Well I'm ready to head off, we'll stop at the car wash to give us both a chance to get the sand off us" they hum happily. 

Beachcomber stirred gently, he stands up stretching slightly before he Transforms with fluid grace, engine purring soft invitation. They are quick to throw their gear into the passenger seat, clicking their seatbelt as they give Beachcomber's steering wheel a pat. “All set” the state. 

Beachcomber pulled smoothly across the sand starting the drive back to the beach entrance of the shore, following the tracks in the sand he  drifts slightly which makes them laugh lightly from the squeal the sand makes under Beachcomber's tires. 

The drive is peaceful, Beachcomber uses his mirrors to watch them as their arm rests on the side of the door drifting in the wind as they drive, the ocean Air brushes against their face before they finally end up back on a paved road. "Just up here Comber, this is the car wash I was telling you about, its the one most cars go to after beach camping" they call him.

Beachcomber's engine purred with gratitude as they signalled their destination ahead. He parks carefully on the grates. "OK Beach boy, bath time" They state teasingly while moving to grab the pressure washer off the wall. They check the settings and soap as they move towards Beachcomber. “ alright tell me if the pressure is too much” they call out to him as the hit him with the soap spray. 

Beachcomber's engine lets out a choked noise before he settles at the feeling of the soap coating his frame. his frame shutters as they lean down and begin scrubbing with a cloth humming along to music playing on his stereo. 

 They lean down under his shield and bumper scrubbing it before moving to the fender which Makes Beachcomber gasp in delight as a choked vent leaves him at the feeling.

Beachcomber has to shut down his vocal system so he doesn't moan as he moves to his wheels and hubcaps. tiny vibrations from his engine in a trembling purr is the only sound outside of every now and then revving too much. 

In truth Beachcomber, he wasn't expecting this kinda treatment with a hands on wash but he would be damned to the pits if he let his vocalisations ruin this for him. Beachcomber's engine rumbled deeply, fans whirring as if overheating. At each movement form his companions' hands that brushes the hidden nooks behind his wheel-struts. Charge ripples through his frame, he can feel himself getting worked up, transfluid leaking from his undercarriage. 

They continue working the grim out of his wheels as they then scrub down his doors, moving further down his frame, their hands move across more sensitive cabling under his door frame as they clean. More transfluid leak from him onto the ground into the grate as he shutters. 

He lets out a silent groan, grinding plating together against his Spike. As the begin scrubbing the underside of his frame trying to make sure they get all the sand and salt their eyes catch a bright pink fluid leaking from Beachcomber. "Hey Beach, I think you have a leak or a broken line." They call out while continuing to clean and rinse him off of soap and grim. They run their fingers over the pink fluid before rubbing it between their fingers trying to figure out what it is.

Beachcomber vented raggedly, in effort to cool his systems from the overwhelming touch. Slowly, consciousness returned, along with mortified realisation as their hand brushed over his overstimulated spike again. “Primus might be transmission fluid” he states quickly hoping that it was believable enough for them not to question it. 

They give a light shrug before wiping the fluid away and washing the remaining fluid away. “Didn't know you guys had pink Transmissions fluid, but eh alien robots should have known you guys don't work fully like us” they mumble.  It makes Beachcomber shutter in relief.  “yea joys of being cybertronian,  but I'll have to get Ratchet to check it out once we get back to base” he rumbles as they give him one last spray down with water. 

“Well you're all clean now Beach, are you ready to head back yet?” They ask with a tilted head and smile. His engine purrs lightly as he debates driving when he knows it would be a shaky drive back to base. “Let me soak in some more sunlight before we head back” he calls back to them. 

__________________

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[morbidology]

James Byrd Jr., a divorced father of three and former salesman, was renowned for his infectious positivity and sociable nature. Whether it was a lively gathering or a mundane day, James infused life into every moment. Often, he could be spotted singing and dancing while tending to his lawn. “He was the funniest person you’d ever want to mee,” recollected Flora Bartee, a neighbour of James’ parents. “Everyone around here knew him. There was no ingrained hatred or anything like that,” recollected his sister, Clara Taylor.

Despite a turbulent past that included a six-year prison stint for theft and parole violation, James was determined to redeem himself upon his release in 1996. Settling into an apartment at the Pineview public housing project in Jasper, Texas, he seemed to be on an upward trajectory. However, an arm injury sustained years prior and a seizure disorder rendered him unable to work, relying solely on disability benefits. To supplement his income, he took up lawn-mowing gigs around town.

On the 7th of June, he attended his niece’s bridal shower at his parents’ home in Jasper. Before leaving, he gave his older sister, Stella Brumley, a big hug and she reminded him to get ready for Father’s Day. It was family tradition that all eight of the siblings would gather for the Sunday service at their parents’ church. “I got my suit in the cleaners. I’m going to be ready,” he reassured his sister and headed down the driveway, ready to walk home.

As he walked down the dirt road, three men pulled up alongside him in their truck. They were: 31-year-old Lawrence Russel Brewer of Sulphur Springs, 23-year-old Shawn Allen Berry of Jasper and 23-year-old John William King, also of Jasper. All three men had served time in prison and had ties to the Ku Klux Klan or the Aryan Brotherhood.

The Aryan Brotherhood got its start on the West Coast in the 1960s. It boasts of members throughout prisons in the United States and exhibits an intense hatred of African Americans and Jews. They considered prison ripe recruiting grounds for the organization. The Aryan Brotherhood has ties to the Aryan Nation, an Idaho-based paramilitary organization that advocates racial violence and white supremacy.

James jumped into the truck bed and the men first of all drove to a convenience store east of Jasper. There are a number of different versions of events as to what happened next in regards to who was driving the vehicle and who decided James’ fate. What is known, however, is that the men drove James up to a small clearing in the woods on Huff Creek Road. Here, James was dragged from the truck and severely beaten, urinated on and defecated on.

During the beating, John reportedly said: “We’re starting The turner Diaries early.” The Turner Diaries was written in 1978 by William Pierce, the head of the National Alliance, one of the largest and most organized neo-Nazi groups within the United States. It is kind of like a bible for right-wing extremists and calls for the violent overthrow of the Federal government as well as the systematic killing of Jews and people of colour.

Following the brutal beating, James was spray painted on the face and then chained by his ankles to the pickup truck, a symbolic remnant of slavery. The men then drove the truck, dragging James behind it. The three men didn’t stop driving as James’s flesh ripped from his body as they weaved from one side of the road to the other side.

They didn’t stop after they came around a sharp turn and James’s body bounced into a ditch at the side of the road, hitting the ragged end of a concrete culvert just below his arm. They didn’t stop when the impact ripped James’s arm, shoulder, neck and head from the rest of his body. They continued to drive for a further mile with just half of James’s body. They finally stopped the truck after three miles, when they ran out of paved road.

After investigators arrived at the church where James’s mutilated body was found, they set up the task of identifying him and retrieving the rest of his body. It wouldn’t be long until his other remains were discovered. His head, neck, and right arm were recovered along the road leading up to the church. There were smears of blood running along the road as well as James’ dentures and pieces of flesh that had ripped from his body here and there. Along the bloody trail, investigators found James’ tennis shoes, shirt, wallet and keys.

The trail of James’ life coming to a cruel end was clear. His blood was smeared along more than two miles of country road.

The three killers were quickly identified and apprehended. They all stood separately and were convicted. Brewer was executed in 2011, following by King in 2019. Berry was sentenced to life in prison and will be eligible for parole in 2038.

[lupunsus]

another hybrid au brainrot but with Pantalone

hybrid au based on the writings of @cinnamonest

gn Akita Inu hybrid reader, bad writing 😔

I think that Pantalone would definitely have a hybrid whose main purpose is to stand next to him and look pretty. Like a trophy spouse/wife/husband or something along that path.

Of course, with how rich he is, it would be easy to acquire the most expensive hybrid on the market. But where's the fun in buying goods that's already trained? And of course, there could possibly be an issue where being treated so highly because of how valuable one is can lead to issues with dealing with bratty behavior. So, in this timeline, Pantalone acquires a hybrid without spending money.

It's been stated that bear traps are illegal, but who's to say that they weren't modified to be less dangerous? Some people still have issues with actual wild animals getting too close to their property, so if the trap isn't strong enough to cut off a foot, it should be ok, right? Just enough for the animal to be dissuaded, but still walk it off! So it should be fine. There's also the bear traps that were set up way before it was declared illegal and lost due to the weather and nature, so both parties could get hurt. Plus, nobody remembers if they set traps too far from their house, so traps that are set off in a distance to where no house or property is close avoids having to take responsibility and aren't held accountable.

And with snow being able to pile up continuously, it's not long before someone unknowingly steps in it. It's one of the main reasons why Pantalone sticks to paved roads. The other reason is not to dirty his shoes.

So when he's out appreciating one of his many gardens, it doesn't concern him when he hears a scream off in the distance, thinking someone caught themselves in one of the forgotten traps. It isn't until he hears a cry that's between a whine and a howl that he decides to investigate the poor creature that stumbled upon the trap.

He thinks it's adorable how you growl at him while the trap makes itself at home on your leg, even more so when you drop the tough act and whine pathetically for the help of a human.

Now, as an akita inu, formerly living life on its own and fending for themselves, well, history explains itself when his servants are ordered to run a bath. Of course, he removes the trap before bringing you to his abode to show that only he can make bad things go away and even bandages you up to boot. Since it's him, you manage it. But with his servants, it's all struggles and biting. It's fun to listen to their concerns, but he promises a hefty pay to whoever successfully manages to bathe you.

You, who's sitting naked in the middle of a washroom, next to the tub. It would be an adorable sight if your fluffy tail were wagging accompanied by the classic lopsided smile that dogs normally have, but unfortunately, your ears are pinned back and tail swishing dangerously as you bared your teeth to the onlookers and made it very clear that no, you will not be touched by anyone except the person that made your leg feel better.

The competitive atmosphere disappears completely, and everyone huddles together on how to split the money between them. At first, they let a servant with a hydro vision attempt to rinse you off, but alas, they were only compensated for almost losing a hand. Well, at least it was something, but now you have a faint idea as to what people with visions can do.

Well, in your line of sight, you didn't see the vision itself, but it wasn't hard to pick up that some people could spray water on you.

It was impossible to even coax you to eat a treat (that would put you to sleep) as you could smell something was off, and you didn't trust them. "Why couldn't our master bring in a trained animal?" Was what everyone was collectively thinking as they watched you wander around the room, pawing at different things and knocking them over. Some of those things were expensive and hard to obtain, which prompted an unfortunate soul to tell Pantalone that the task he assigned couldn't be done, and there was some collateral damage that would probably affect the surplus of funds he had already.

Of course, having as much money to spare (he funds Dottore's experiments, obviously losing a couple of gold bars and diamonds won't affect him), he orders everyone out of his washroom and takes a look at the mess you made. Training you will be a bit hard, but oh, will it be so rewarding. I like to think that Pantalone has an eye for rare things, so even if you're dirty with mangy fur and looking like some kind of lower breed, he just knows you're worth millions just by appearances alone.

Luckily for him, he saved you from someone who carelessly left out a bear trap, so questions about the legality of obtaining you will be stomped out and replaced with praises of how benevolent and generous he is to have rescued you.

Anyway, he bathes you in 20 minutes.

Of course, not trusting him completely, you growl and snap at him when he touches sensitive areas, and he actually avoids them. But he'll remember for later, when you come to a point where you're eating out of his hand. He decides to let a professional groomer take care of your fur, allowing someone else to muzzle you when you start biting again.

It would seem like he ordered them to do it, but since he comes back with gifts and a worried expression when seeing you all muzzled and tied so you wouldn't scratch or bite anyone, and gently removing them from you, it only strengthens the belief that he is the only one you can trust and be loyal to. After all, he saved you and takes better care of you than anyone else, so he's obviously a good person.

But not good enough to trust with food.

It isn't like he would poison you, but after being used to living in the wild and hunting for yourself for so long, it's hard to accept things that are just offered to you. Especially when handed to you by those suspicious servants. They've been looking your way and pointing a finger, even huffing and moving their mouths to produce weird, low barking sounds. Pantalone teaches you common phrases at first. Basic commands given to dogs, but you wouldn't think they're commands since he always has his eyes closed and mouth all weird when doing it.

Eyes being closed around someone indicates trust, but you don't know any animal that makes a weird curve with their mouth.

But it's easy to repeat small, simple words, and often, you're given a treat for saying the name he gives you, and whenever you call him Master. After a while, he only started to give treats when you'd say "[Name] eat" or "[Name] sleep." Short phrases but positive reinforcement when it comes to speaking works wonders.

It's only when you say a word he hasn't used towards you (because you're such a good dog to him!) that he looks disappointed. And it's scary.

"[Name] is bad?" Paired with droopy ears and an innocent and confused gaze, Pantalone wanted to ask why you'd think of such a ridiculous thing, but hybrids only pick up things said around them. And he's never uttered that sentence even after you almost attacked that lamb Scaramouche adores. It was that puppet's fault for letting such a thing wander around to deliver items for him.

"No, [Name] is good." Along with what you learned was a way to express good feelings (smiling) and ear rubs, you cuddled up to his leg, tail wagging like crazy.

For the servants who have loose lips, they had the choice to end their life or live in debt for 3 generations.

When Pantalone has you wrapped around his finger just the way he likes it, it doesn't take long for him to start training you in how to behave around people. At first, he didn't really mind how overprotective you were when it came to his co-workers' hybrids, but because of his image, he has to at least make sure you behave appropriately for any and all events he must attend.

He's rich, but due to your previous wild nature, he opts to train you with the disposable oversized t-shirts first. If you thought the collar was uncomfortable, the clothes were definitely worse. At least the collar had a soft material on its inside so it wouldn't hurt after wearing it, but the shirt felt suffocating and weird. Weird enough to flop over with a vacant expression and remain that way for a good 5 minutes. Treats were given if the shirt wasn't ruined and you didn't make an attempt to bite at it, but it was still hard to resist the urge.

But the treats were delicious, so you supposed it wouldn't hurt to suffer for a little bit.

But then you saw how that bear hybrid wears jack shit and became really pouty. "[Name] want freedom! Nothing on me!" Ah, how disappointing then. If that's what you want so badly, then Pantalone doesn't mind giving it to you. Of course, this means no more roaming around when he has guests over, staying home when he has to go out, and, of course, not being able to leave the mansion without your collar.

It's okay though! He respects your wishes, and these rules go into effect immediately. Part of him wishes that you'd be more obedient and let him dress you up prettily, but another part is amused and wants to see how long it'll take before you're begging for him to clothe you.

To me, because of how he was born into poverty and became the richest person we know of today, I think Pantalone would have no issue training a wild hybrid into an obedient servant who's loyal and willing to die for their masters. Fortunately for him, akita inus are said to be loyal hunting dogs who do just that.

[faegoddessog]

Woman in Red Ch 12/17

Chapter 12: Jovan and Podgorica

Series Summary: She's a very successful woman who can't seem to find a partner that can keep up with her. He is just wanting to find someone who likes him for HIM, not his fame. Neither of them are prepared for what hits them when she walks into that coffee shop.

Chapter Warnings: 18+ only, just discussion of sex, oh and some like kissing and a lil' submissiveness, and maybe a lil' jealousy. (I had get all 'author's craft' and put some character development and set up in there, I know... so weird. But let me say.. Chapter 13 will put you in heat.)

A/N: In this story, I make no mention of birth control or condoms or STI's. Please, darlings, please love yourself enough to protect yourself appropriately when you have sex. <3

Message me or leave in a comment if you'd like to be added or removed from my tagged list!

@purejasmine, @slowsweetlove, @richardslady121, @austinbutlerslovers, @tadpoleteef, @allittakesisoneflight

Here is the Woman in Red Masterlist

Here is the link to all my posted work: My Dirty Little, and not so little Stories.

Chapter 12: Jovan and Podgorica

They are walking the next day in the city of Podgorica. Aya had seemed rushed, though she tried to play it off as excitement. 

“The driver is already waiting,” she had said, while he finished breakfast, “it’s an hour away, let's get going!” 

He wasn’t sure why they were driving over an hour to the big city, but heck he was always up for seeing new places. 

‘What Aya wants, Aya gets,’ he had chuckled to himself as he tied his shoes. 

For the capital, it’s not that big of a city. It’s also not that big of a country, Austin reasons. Aya tells the driver to drop them off the south side of the Old Ribnica River Bridge. 

Austin is wary as they drive through an urban residential area, past old white plaster and stone work houses close together. They pass old crumbling walls then down a narrow alley like street with a mish mash of graffiti clearly done by rebellious teenagers on one corner and a Mosque on the other. Finally the road ends at a dirt turn around on what looks like a vacant lot. There are mounds of stacked stone just there as though no one actually cares that they are ancient ruins. Four or five dumpsters tagged with spray paint are the only witnesses of their arrival. Bits of the city can be seen through the line of trees at the far edge. This looks like a place that you might be taken to in the boot of car and not return from. Austin turns to look at Aya with concern. 

“Oh come on, live a little,” she says with a wink, getting out of the car. “I’ll text when and where,” she says to the driver. 

She excitedly traipses down a narrow, nearly hidden trail, lined with weeds and bits of trash. She looks completely out of place in her tailored linen trousers and off the shoulder button down. Her wedge sandals are completely not made for this. He looks at the driver who shrugs as though he’s seen her do this a hundred times. Austin hurries after her, feeling dubious. 

The trail opens up almost immediately onto a paved path that was hidden by the weeds.  He immediately breathes a sigh of relief as they turn a corner around what looks to be an old ruined tower and he sees the wide manicured steps leading down to an old stone footbridge. It spans a tributary only a few feet from its confluence with the mainstem below. What looks like a courtyard with what once was a fountain is on this side of the bridge, the embankment opposite is a tangle of stone walls,  foliage, layered rock and hollows. It feels like a set piece from The Labyrinth, apart from the traffic and city noises. 

“You had me worried there for a minute,” he says, coming up behind her. 

“Have I steered you wrong yet?” she says with a wink and a smile. 

Hand in hand,  they cross the bridge and wind their way up the hill. They pop out on a busy street. They walk a few blocks, passing the Montenegrin National Theatre, which  makes Austin perk up. 

“I think they haven’t started their season yet,” she says when he asks about going, “besides, last time I was there, I ended up getting caught being naughty in the coat closet. I’m not sure I’m welcome anymore,” she giggles as they passed.  

They walk the tree lined streets. They pass a few restaurants and art galleries. The architecture is pretty simple and at times brutalist, echoing its past.  There are a few shops to check out, but nothing fancy. Austin is wondering what it was about here that made Aya want to come so badly. 

They round the corner and find a loose crowd of people around what looks like a construction site on an empty lot. There is a mix of people in business attire, general random people, men in construction clothes and press. Austin makes to cross the street, away from the cameras.  Without a word, Aya takes him by the hand and threads her way around to the leading edge of the crowd. There is a podium and a microphone and a few clean, new shovels.  It seems to be some sort of ground breaking ceremony.  As if on cue,  a man steps up and begins a short speech. 

Not speaking Montenegrin or Serbian, Austin has no idea what is being said, but Aya seems to understand at least some. Standing next to her, he can’t help but stare at her thinking of how he couldn’t resist her if she drew him into a coat closet. He starts wondering if there are any errant closets near when he hears, “Hvala Aya Glascoc!” 

She hands him her purse and winks, then walks the handful of steps to the podium before he knows what is happening.  She shakes the man’s hand, speaking a few words to him. They turn, smiling, to the crowd as camera shutters snap. She steps back and someone hands her a hardhat and a shovel.  As though she had done it a million times, she shoves the tip into the ground and with her sandaled foot, drives the blade in, leveraging the dirt up, the crowd claps.  She kisses her hand and waves. There are a few more photos and she rejoins Austin, a couple people shaking her hand on the way.  Austin is just stunned, standing there holding her bag. Well, at least he knew why she needed to come to the city today. 

……………

“Ok,” he says, once they are sitting down. “Confession time.”

She and Austin had slipped away, hard hat, shovel and all. She had been evasive answering his questions, telling him she was hungry and needed to eat and that she knew the perfect little place. 

“Oh” she says, chin on her fist and leaning in, “what do you have to confess, is it dirty?” her eyes sparkle with mischief. 

“No,” he chuckles, “what just happened?” 

“Oh, this is my favorite little place, I always come here when I’m in Podgorica so they know me,” she evades with a giggly smile. She knows what he means. She just is shy of the subject.

They had walked into the adorable little cafe tucked away behind a nearby park. It was all stonework and plants and a massive vaulted skylight inside.  Aya had been greeted loudly with hugs, before they were seated.  

“That’s not what-” he begins.

“Aya!!!” A man, younger and handsome, walks in big strides to the table with arms wide. She jumps up and he bends his muscular form around her and plants a hefty kiss on Aya’s lips. Her hand cups his cheek in familiarity as she returns the kiss in kind. It was the kiss of someone who knew her intimately and lasted a little too long, in Austin’s opinion.  

Her eyes sparkle as she leans back, speaking in the lilting mix of what sounds like Italian and Russian to his actor's ear. The man’s hands lingers around her waist,  holding her tightly to him.  Austin smiles tightly as he is introduced as ‘my friend Jovan’ by Aya.

“Zdravo! Nice to meeting you.  I welcome all friends to Aya,” the man says in a loud voice, his English only slightly questionable. He takes his hand from Aya’s waist to extend it out to Austin, still pressing his body to hers. He shakes the man’s hand politely. He finds that he isn’t fond of the casual intimacy between the two, even when they step apart. 

Aya and the dark haired man continue talking for a few minutes in a mix of Montenegrin and English, her hand lingering on the man’s arm. Austin watches the exchange trying to keep his face neutral, but  twirling the ring he wore on his finger in agitation. He wishes that the table was not in the way so he could step closer to Aya and let this overly intimate man know he was more than just ‘friends to Aya’. 

Fuck, but is he? More than just a fuck buddy to her? The thought tightens his chest on the way to his gut, souring in his stomach. He takes a couple breaths, trying to manage what he is feeling. 

‘Calm down, you have no right to be jealous,’ he reminds himself. But he admits, it’s exactly what he’s feeling. 

Jovan walks from the table to the back of the restaurant saying  “I take care of you! You will not pay!”  

“You know I will Jovan!” she fires back. 

Austin shoots her a questioning look, pointing his thumb after the man. He doesn’t yet trust himself to speak. 

“That’s Jovan, it’s his restaurant,” Aya’s grin is ear to ear. “We fight every time over whether or not I will pay.   He is the reason I know any Montenegrin at all. Oh and this is his wife, Jelena, she always lets me pay!” She gets up and hugs the young woman that comes around the corner. 

The second Aya says ‘his wife’, the tightness in Austin’s chest lessens. Her eyes go wide when she is introduced to Austin, who stands up and shakes her hand with a big smile. 

“Wait, you are the Elvis, da?” she says in thickly accented english. 

“Yes Ma’am, that was me,” he slips into the accent unknowingly as he smiles shyly and nods. 

Family is called over, selfies are taken, autographs signed and the declaration that ‘you are family now!” is made. 

Jovan brings out the rakija and pours a tiny glass for everyone.  They toast with shouts of  Živjeli!  Jovan grabs the back of Austin’s head and plants a kiss on his cheek. It’s jarring, but Austin’s  Fan Mode is on so he keeps his cool. It’s helpful to know that Jovan treats everyone like he wants to sleep with them.

“He’s uh,” Austin blows out a breath when they settle down, wine in hand.

“Alot, I know,” she reaches over and brushes the back of his hand soothingly, “but at least he is joyful.” 

“He taught you Montenegrin, eh?” Austin asks, flipping his hand over to let her fingers dally in his palm. 

“Uh huh” she sips her wine, giving him a knowing look, drawing circles with her fingertips. 

“Oh really?” Austin tries to play cool, but feels the jealousy creep back in. His hand closes on hers, not exactly possessive. 

“Do you really want to know?” Aya asks, squeezing his hand. 

Austin blinks, “I don’t ask questions that I don’t want to know the answers to.” His hand slackens against hers. 

“Jovan was one of my more enthusiastic paramours here, until he fell in love with Jelena and got married," she says matter of factly. "He taught me to speak what little Montenegrin I know and I taught him how to make a woman orgasm six ways to Sunday,” she stares into his ocean eyes,  tracing the veins up his wrist. 

She had been at the wedding last year and had given them an enormous amount of money, enough to purchase the comfortable home they lived in. She was pretty sure that Jelena knew that the reason she enjoyed such a satisfying marriage bed was because of her. 

Austin nods, takes a breath, shivering at her touch. He laughs, looking down at her hand, feeling the weirdest conflict he’d ever felt.  It was one thing to talk about exes, and another to run into them, another still to get hugs and kisses and be called ‘part of the family’. Yet how is it that she can make talking about her ex-lovers such a fucking turn on.  Aya was an enigma. 

“I bet you did,” his voice is breathy as his fingers do their own dance on her wrist. “Thanks for being honest about it,” he says, trying to find equilibrium. 

Jovan brings out the first course, winking knowingly at Austin.

“You lucky, Aya is magic,” he says under his breath to Austin, “She teach me so good, Jelena could no refuse,” He winks conspiratorially. 

Austin just nods and smiles, possessiveness welling up again. 

The food is so delicious. Austin watches the interplay between Aya and Jovan drop to being casual and he starts to calm. 

“Ok Aya, let me try again,” Austin says as they finish the first course, “What was all that with the ground breaking?” he goes for the direct question instead of trying to be amusing. 

“Ah yes,” she dabs her mouth with the napkin, “I was a donor for the new building, part of my philanthropy. They asked me to come to the ceremony, I didn’t want to make a big deal for you.” 

“Aya was THE donor,” says Jelena behind Austin. “So modest.”

Jelena refills their wine. 

“What is it going to be?” asks Austin. 

“It will be a hospital for your mind, like depression things,” says Jelena. 

“It’s not a hospital,”  Aya clarifies,”  it’s going to be more like a community center. It’ll have a space for meditation and yoga and art classes. A place to do what makes you happy, plus a little coffee bar.”

Jelana looks at her with pursed lips… “and.”

“And the main part is for a non-profit clinic for emotional health.” says Aya almost sheepishly. 

“Oh,” says Austin, “that’s really cool, Aya. Y’know, you CAN tell me these things. You don't have to spring them on me. I want to know about your passions, so I can support them, ” he doesn’t care that Jelena is still listening in.

Jelena's eyebrow lifts at Aya as if to say, 'this one, keep this one.'

"Sorry Austin, I'm just so used to doing my own thing," she shrugs it off.

“Yes, she helps so much. We love her,” Jelena smiles warmly at Aya. Then she is pointing a finger at Austin, “Do not fuck her up… I will not like you anymore.” 

“Yes Ma’am,” he says with a smile.  

“Good,” she walks away to another table. 

“You know, that’s like the third or fourth time I’ve been told that,” he says to Aya, “You really have loyal friends.”

“I love my people, what can I say?” she sips her wine as though she were the reigning queen. 

He silently wonders why they all seem so very protective of her. It was clear that she was special in nearly every way. She was magnetic, this he knew all too well, so it only follows that those she touches, literally and figuratively, would love her. If he wanted to be more than just another bit of fluff to her, he was going to have to reconcile these exes still caring deeply about her in his mind. He knows it won’t be the last time something like this happens. 

“Why mental health?” he asks, deciding to put focus somewhere else to let his thoughts settle. 

“Well,” she says tentatively, “I think it's really important for a better society. I try to help the local clinics in every town I own a place in.  They really didn’t have one here so…” she shrugs. What she doesn’t say is that Montenegro has a high rate of suicide and that is actually why she even considered buying a place here. 

“Hmm. How, uh, how many more places do you have?” he asks.

“Ok, since you only ask questions you want to actually know the answers to, “ she smiles at him, then begins ticking off on her fingers.  “New York City, Kuala Lumpur, London and here are investments or for business so I have apartments. I have private homes in the Caribbean and near Aspen, and the Malibu house of course.” She doesn't mention her apartment in Florence. 

“How often do you get to each?” he is astounded that she has so many homes.

“At least once a year,” except Florence. She’s not ready to talk about Florence. 

…………………………

“How about a tub with me?”  Aya says stretching onto her toes to put her arms around his neck. 

She had seen Austin with Jovan, how he went a little possessive then pensive. Jovan was full-on physical touch all the time. Would she admit that part of why she drug Austin to his cafe was to see how he would handle it, maybe. She could tell that he was in his head about it now and thought maybe he needed a little simple reassurance. Besides, if he was going to get his back up every time they met someone she’d fucked, it would get old really fast. 

On the way home, Aya had snuggled into him, falling asleep on his shoulder. He watched the view, mentally dissecting his feelings. Currently, he was standing by the piano, looking out over the ocean view, trying to decide if he should tell her.

“Well, you gotta get dirty first,” Austin says with a smile, not yet, he decided. 

“Do I?” She returns his smile with a sideways glance. 

“Yes of course, otherwise the tub won’t work,” he smirks, running a line down her jaw with this thumb.

“Well, I suppose you could fuck me more, that would surely make me dirty,” she offers with a shrug, as though it’s just an idea. 

“And how exactly do you want me to fuck you more, huh? Aya?” he pulls her against his body. “Do you want me to take you up against a wall, or bend you over something? Maybe outside on the terrace again? Do you want me to lay you down and fuck you? Do you want my cock in your mouth again?“  His voice is soft but dominant. He isn’t sure where exactly all this is coming from, he only knows he wants her.

‘So much for feeling simple’, she thinks as he offers her a smorgasbord menu of sex.  The same words could have been said with spite, a challenge to her motivations. Indeed she has been accused of using sex to her advantage. But really her way is just wanting sex. Instead of acusitory, his hand is gently on her jaw, turning her face up to meet his. His eyes and his tone both tell a story of dominant desire. 

It is sexy as hell. 

“I want…I don’t,” her mind trapped by indecision, “Yes,” she finally breathes out, “any way you want me.” She lets go of any pretense that she will have any major say in what happens for the next few hours. 

“Any way *I* want,” his eyes smolder at her, “Oh, Aya, that is a dangerous thing to offer me,” he echos her words from two weeks ago, Fuck has it only been two weeks?  “Hunny, I have to admit,” his fingers shake just a little as he pushes a hair back from her face, “I don't feel like being gentle tonight.”   Aggressive possibilities flash in his mind. 

“I meant what I said,” she locks eyes with him, returning the smolder joule for joule. “Any. Way. You. Want.” The bite on her lip and the look in her eyes erase in a flash any trepidation he has.

“Well, we are definitely going to need that soak later.  I think after what I want to do to you, we will both be sore and …messy,” the word ‘messy’ melts off his lips. “Newfoundland? Right?”

“Yes Sir,” she says. This is exactly what she wants, she realizes, to not be in control. 

“Oh, I like that,” he rumbles, somehow more turned on by her submission.  He didn’t know exactly what he was going to do, only that he wanted to claim her, to have her, rule her, even if just for the night.

“Do you want me to get out some playthings?” she looks up at him through her eyelashes. 

“Yes,” he growls and pulls her in for a kiss full of promises.

She pulls away and disappears into the bedroom. He opens the piano, sits and starts playing a series of cascading arpeggios. It’s his go-to warm up when he wants to play, plus it sounds impressive and satisfying.   He is the picture of a patient man with nothing to do but tickle the ivories, inside he is all nerves though. They’ve not talked about any sort of sub/dom stuff yet. Honestly he figured if they did, he’d be the one kneeling at her feet, not the other way around. Not that he’s not played like this, he has ideas. It’s just that he doesn’t know what she’s ok with or what ‘playthings’ she’s going to bring. Fuck, as long as she is taking,  it could be an entire orgy army she is assembling in there though a secret tunnel.  

Aya spends a few minutes digging deep into the back of her closet to find what she is looking for.  Her hands shake in excitement as she pulls the box out. She has one similar to this in every house she owns. She can’t remember if she’s used everything in this one or not.  She hears him playing her piano and smiles.  She has no idea what he’ll be up for as she glances inside. She kicks herself for not bringing it up sooner. But hey, no time like the present. As she turns to leave, she sees something strappy and black peeking out from behind a boho dress.  Perfect! 

When Aya comes back from the bedroom after freshening up, she is carrying an ornately carved lidded box and wearing a bra and panty set that look to be more like elaborate crisscrosses of black elastic than actual lingerie. It frames her snake tattoo nearly perfectly as well as her naked nipples. Her hair flows down her back, but is held away from her face with a clip.  

His eyebrow raises at her appearance and he stops mid arpeggio, the sound from the sustain pedal ringing in the body of the instrument.  He decides she was worth the wait, his hard cock agrees.  She comes over and presents him with the open box. With one glance, he knows what he wants to do with her. 

“Oh my, so many possibilities in one little box,” his look to her is pure devilish lust, “Pet.”

[whump-me]

They waited until you were all together. That made it easy to arrest all of you at once.

They crammed you into a tiny cell together, so small there’s barely room to move. But there’s a window, looking down on a paved courtyard. The sun is out.

It isn’t long before they come back, shouting and waving their guns around. They herd everyone out of the cell with sharp kicks and weapons jabbed into backs. Everyone but you. They leave you where you are.

A few minutes later, you hear familiar voices from below. You rush to the window in time to see them force the others to their knees and shoot them in the back of the head one by one.

You scream. Drawn by the sound, the last of your friends looks up at you—right before the final gunshot ends their life.

Then there’s silence. Down below, limp bodies lie sprawled atop one another, their blood and brains sprayed across the concrete.

You’re alone.

And through your grief and rage, you wonder: why did they leave you alive?

[autisticsupervillain]

It's Fictional Throwdown Friday!

This Week's Fighters...

Agent 47 vs Bell!

Conditions:

Both sides have their entire canonical arsenals. Agent 47 does not have his Easter Egg feats and Bell has no scaling from COD Zombies.

Scenario:

After the United States declassifies Operation Greenlight, the program in which they hid nuclear bombs in every major European city in the world to detonate on the off chance any of them fell to Communism, the International community is outraged. They give Agent 47 a luxurious extended contract, as well as a blank check, to assassinate everyone who was involved in the project that's still alive to send the message not to do this again. Bell, who had retired to a beachside mansion in Florida after somehow surviving the ending of Cold War, notices several of their old colleagues dying in mysterious accidents and gears up to take on whoever's going after them.

Analysis: Agent 47

"Names are for friends, so I don't need one."

One day, the International Contract Agency found a mysterious man knocking on their front door. The man had no name, no history, and seemingly no personality. All he had was a remarkable gift for murder, as if he were the grim reaper himself. He said he went by 47. It wasn't a name, so he made it one. He became the ICA's greatest assassin and paved a legacy of death everywhere he went.

In truth, Agent 47 was a clone, created by Dr. Ortmyer in an attempt to create the world's greatest assassin. Unfortunately for Ortmyer, he succeeded. 47 killed his pseudo father, and struck out on his own. Left directionless by the revelation of his birth, 47 attempted to start a normal life for himself. Unfortunately, he found that his only talents were in killing people. So, he decided to he was going to be the best there ever was at it. He would kill the most powerful people in the world for the right price and prove that no one, no matter how powerful, was above consequences.

Agent 47 is a master of stealth and disguise unlike any other. He's considered a myth to law enforcement agencies all around the world and has repeatedly killed people with the same level of mythic status as himself. Those who do know he exists would much rather hire him than make him their enemy. A smart move considering he tears down international conspiracies on a weekly basis.

Agent 47 is quiet the Renaissance Man, even rivaling Mario for the title. He's more than capable of doing nearly any job on the planet and is capable of using anything as a weapon. He can knock grown, fully armoured men out cold with snowballs and feather dusters. He can kill people with umbrellas, pencils, and pens. He can even use fire extinguishers as improvised grenades. An Agent 47 armed with only his garrote wire, silver baller pistol, and coins is best considered fully armed and dangerous, but he's capable of using much more. When even his standard, silenced Silverballer pistols are strong enough to kill elephants in one shot, you know he's a walking armory. Shotguns, SMGs, sniper rifles, and more. If 47 doesn't have them at home, he can buy them off of his arms dealers. And that's not even counting his truly ridiculous weapons, such as a briefcase that homes in on anyone he throws it at and goes through anything in its path, a variety of grenades and explosives disguised as rubber ducks, toys, or golf balls, and a whole host poisons he can inject, spray, or poison your drink with, ranging from emetic rat poison to make you vomit, sleeping drugs to knock you out cold, or traditional poisons that can enduce heart attacks or shut down your brain. Whether he's bringing it from home, finding it on sight, or making his weapons out of whatever he's found lying around, 47 always has countless weapons close to hand and he can kill you in at least five different ways with each.

Similarly, 47 is smart enough to competently perform any job on Earth, even frequently imitating and impressing experts in his field. Butlers, Doctors, DJs, CEOs, Engineers, and so on and so forth. He has successfully disguised himself as close loved ones of his targets and is fluent enough in most languages to pass himself off as a native speaker. This vast array of knowledge allows him to improvise countless ways to kill his targets. From drowning you in a toilet, tricking your bodyguards into killing you, manipulating your wife into pushing you off a bridge, driving you to grief stricken suicide, or even running you over with a goddamn train, if there's a way to kill someone, he's thought of it and performed it with no one any the wiser.

On top of his superhuman intellect, 47 is superhuman physically as well. He can survive exposure to the freezing cold temperatures of the Carpathian mountains while mostly naked, is immune to nearly every poison and disease known to man (baring few exceptions) has survived being electrocuted while standing in water (albiet was knocked out by this), tanked a hit from an RPG-7 (which explode with a minimum energy of 3,600 kilojoules) and has a resistance to mind control so great that the person trying to mind control him died from the sheer backlash. It has even been noted by an implied psychic (who was clairvoyant enough to deduce a client's criminal history) that 47 has an aura of death looming around him that strikes terror into anyone capable of seeing it. And since 47 doesn't physically age, he will never grow out of his prime. As such, he's still kicking ass well into 59, easily outperforming men half his age.

Agent 47 also has the Instinct ability, a sixth sense that allows him to see through walls and can predict where his targets are going.

47 has snuck into the White House undetected, frequently dismantles international conspiracies and secret societies, and is strong and skilled enough to defeat a middleweight MMA World Champion in only three blows. He even bested Sanchez, a genetically engineered superhuman who was twice his size, in unarmed combat.

If 47 has any weaknesses at all, it's that he rarely makes an emotional connections with anyone. The trauma of his ruthless upbringing has left him emotionally distant and he struggles to emotionally connect with others. Those he does care about he will do anything to protect, even against suicidal odds. Similarly, he has repressed many of the memories of his childhood, partly due to trauma and partly due to mindwiping drugs, and he frequently questions his place in the universe due to his upbringing. 47 doesn't think he's capable of committing to any line of work that doesn't involve murder, without hurting the few people he holds dear.

Agent 47 was an attempt to create the world's greatest assassin and he was a complete success. Unfortunately for his creators, he was still human. This meant that they were the first in a long list of people to discover just how well they'd succeeded.

Analysis: Bell

The year is 1981. The Cold War rages on. Even with both the United States and the Soviet Union staring down economic crises, both hover over the nuclear button waiting for the other to blink. The fate of billions lay in the hubris of empires.

It is in the midst of this chaos, American black ops operative Russell Adler, known and feared as "America's Monster", stumbles across the master plan of the mythical Russian spy Purseus. Supposedly the spy that leaked the Manhattan Project, though until now, he was considered nothing more than an urban legend. The reveal that the agent was involved the Iranian Hostage Crisis and seemingly had bigger plans on a global scale, was enough to put the United States on high alert. President Reagan authorized Adler to take Purseus down by any means necessary, treaties and international laws be damned. This gave Adler the green light to concoct a particularly devious plan.

Abducting one of Purseus's top agents, Adler subjected them to the United States's experimental mind control program. He tore apart their old personality and rebuilt them from the ground up, creating new memories for them to recontextualize the vital knowledge they already had. They weren't a co-conspirator in Purseus's plans, they were sn American agent who decoded them. They weren't a Soviet operative, they were MI6, no CIA, no ex-KGB. Whatever Adler needed them to be for his current narrative and operation. Their old self was gone, rebuilt and replaced with a codename. Bell. And they had a job to do.

They could still be nonbinary though. Adler didn't care about that. He may be America's Monster, but he's not transphobic. Diversity win?

As amoral as the action was, Bell proved to be worth the risk. They're highly trained in weapons from all over the globe of the Cold War era, including those which technically shouldn't even exist yet. For close range combat and stealth operations, they carry knives, throwing knives, smoke grenades, stun grenades, M67 grenades, tomahawks, and even C4. But for full on gun battles, they come decked out with a variety of rifles, machine guns, and pistols. From the tranquilizer gun when stealth is of the essence, to the glorious and iconic SPAS 12 shotgun. Oh, sorry, the "Gallo SA12". It's a SPAS 12 guys. The trusty recursive bow and "Pellington" (*cough* R700 *cough cough*) sniper rifles make silenced sniping a breeze, while the War Machine and Thumper Grenade Launchers helpfully obliterate everything in their path. And for everything in between, the MP5 and AK-47 submachine guns and automatics shred through dirty communists and filthy capitalists alike.

Bell possesses a remarkable intellect beneath all that firepower too. They're smart enough to track Purseus's best agents across the globe, covert enough to infiltrate the KGB Headquarters in the heart of Moscow, and deadly enough to kill everyone there should their cover be blown and leave no witnesses. The sheer fact that they can get away with half of what they do without causing World War 3 is a testament to their skill and lethality. Hell, the whole reason Adler mind controlled them was because traditional interrogation techniques just wouldn't work on the bastard. And with a willpower like Bell's even that only gets you so far...

As Purseus's plan unraveled, more dark secrets about both sides were revealed. The United States had secretly inserted nuclear weapons inside of allied nations "just in case" they needed to be detonated, and Purseus was planning to activate them to turn the world against the US. Cornered and desperate, Adler had no choice but to dive even further into Bell's mind... inadvertently allowing them to break free of their control in the process.

Bell had seen the worst sides of both halves of the Cold War. Seen that both were perfectly happy to kill billions for their own benefit. The Cold War wasn't a war of ideology, it was two dying empires using foreign nations as a chess board to stroke their ego. And now Bell, fully themselves again, had to choose which one would decide the fate of history.

Should Bell choose to rejoin their Soviet Allies, they'll get the rare pleasure of facing the legendary Alex Mason in combat. The one who fought his way out of a gulag with just a rusty handgun. The one who, when under Soviet mind control, assassinated John F Kennedy. And they would have the even rarer pleasure of killing him.

Early in that very game, Mason would survive an aircraft wing falling right on top of him and get up completely unharmed. A 48,000 kg aircraft wing falling from a height of 48 meters would hit with a force of roughly 1,686 kilojoules. And Bell could still kill him.

Of course, the cost of that honor would be allowing Purseus to kill billions. Would it be worth it? Which of these rotting empires deserves the world on a string? And which is the least likely to have Bell killed once the choice is made?

Throwdown Breakdown:

The AroAce assassin the kills capitalists for a living vs the nonbinary communist who started world war three. If these two black ops operatives offering their handlers plausible deniability met in one-on-one combat, who would win?

In terms of weaponry, these characters run broadly even when it comes to their standard firearms. While 47's weapons are technically more advanced due to coming from the modern day, a gun is a gun and neither of these fighters are bullet proof. Bell has the advantage of usually coming into a fight dressed for combat with typical military grade protective clothing, while 47 enters situations dressed in his typical suit, but I'd argue that difference is minimal too. 47 has consistently proven that his firearms can pierce standard bullet proof vests and military gear quite easily if needed, and while Call of Duty is unrealistic, it doesn't present its setting's military gear as completely impenetrable to bullets. Far from it, actually.

The real deciding factor here is 47's other gadgets. While Bell's guns can sometimes be anachronistic and unrealistically advanced for the time period, 47's stranger tools border on Bond weapons compared to their relatively grounded arsenal. The homing intangible briefcase is something Bell has no answer for, while 47's variety of poisons attack from a vector Bell has no resistance to. Meanwhile, 47's built in immunity to most poisons makes Bell's tranquilizers nearly useless and 47 has more means of getting sleep inducers into his enemy's system, from gases from a distance, to injections in melee.

On the other hand, overtly powerful explosives are a rarity in 47's arsenal, making the destructive capacity of Bell's grenades and rockets an advantage. If 47 wants to match thr destructive capacity of his opponent, he's going to need to get creative. Propane tanks, fire extinguishers, gas lines, and other environmental factors to undermine Bell, but those are moreso a tactics thing than an equipment thing.

Stealth skills are another near deadlock. I consider their immediate skill in covert operations to be nearly equal, with equally impossible feats under the belts of both: 47 infiltrating the White House, vs Bell infiltrating a meeting of the heads of state of the Soviet Union. Normally I'd give 47 the edge for improvisation. Bell is usually following a preset plan in most of their missions while 47 inprovises on site, but Bell's plans end up going to hell in such a way that they end up improvising anyways. The thing that nudges this field juuuuuuuust into 47's ball park here is creativity, Instinct, and quality of diguises.

When the plan goes to shit and 47 is left scrambling, his immediate instinct is to break off as quietly as possible to strike back at a more opportune moment. When Bell is up shits creak without a paddle, their first instinct is to get out of dodge shooting down everything in their path with whatever weapon they can find. Both of these have been highly successful approaches, but 47's has a better payoff in a one-on-one like this. Furthermore, Instinct will allow 47 to keep an eye in Bell and maneuver them into unwinnable situations, even from far away, or while retreating undercover. And finally, while both are experts of disguise and infiltration, 47 has a better track record owing to his specialization in that field, successful passing himself off as loved ones to complete strangers, where Bell had to rely on prior familiarity with the Soviets they were infiltrating.

On the other hand, this is only an advantage if 47 manages to break off from the engagement. Even then, Bell's equal skill does give good odds that they could get the drop on 47 as well. Instinct does not make 47 omniscient.

Finally, we have hand to hand combat, which is 47's most definitive edge. He is a little over twice as strong as his competition (3,600 vs 1,686), has more modern training, and has fought more people in hand to hand combat in more varied situations across various different fields of combat, while Bell as specifically fought only soldiers like themself in specifically battlefield situations with similar training and tactics to themself. But, this advantage is solely predicated of experience and strength. In terms of skill and caliber of opponents fought, 47 and Bell are once again equals, with Alex Mason in particularly either evenly matching (Lucas Grey) or downright surpassing some of 47's toughest foes (Sanchez and The Rage).

All that said, 47 does not sweep Bell by any stretch. Most of his advantages are only by slight margins. Ever single skill that Bell and 47 share is a field they are nearly equal in. I'd even go so far as to put marksmanship slightly in Bell's corner given the caliber of opponent (Mason) that Bell has outsniped, 47 just has more skills generally to draw on.

Part of this is due to experience, yes. 47 is nearly 60 compared to his opponent's "unspecified but 30s at the youngest". But this mostly comes down to their exact specializations. Bell is a black ops soldier might to fight and infiltrate in Cold War military environments. 47 is an all purpose assassin built to operate in *any* environment. The areas that 47 outclasses Bell, particular in creativity and bizarre weaponry, are areas that wouldn't be useful behind cover in the battlefield and are only coming up as shortcomings here in a one on one fight against someone who does those skills.

That's what happens when you put the protagonist of a military FPS against a Stealth Sandbox protagonist. One has to be built for doing one specific thing very well, while the other has to do *everything* very well. And when the sandbox character has six games to perfect their arsenal, well... there's only one conclusion to be reached.

Here's how I think this fight would roughly play out.

This would start out as your standard shootout and they two would stand evenly matched for a long time. Eventually, one or the other gets forced back. Either 47 gets forced to retreat by Bell's destructive arsenal and battlefield experience, or Bell is driven to retreat by 47's bizarre weaponry. More likely the former. What ensues is a game of stealth and misdirection as the two try to get the drop on each other.

47 would use his Instinct to keep an eye on Bell while using every weapon he can find to set up an ambush. Given 47's experience outsmarting Cold War operatives, such as Eric Soders and Janus, both of whom were major players in undercover operations in the Cold War, 47 would use prior knowledge of that sort of mindset to set a purposefully inconspicuous trap, all the while trying to keep hidden with sporadic movements. Given Bell's own considerable skill, especially considering their defective work, this would take some time to pull off...

Both characters would ambush and escape each other back and forth with gas grenades and flash bangs, wearing each other down with traded bullet wounds, stab wounds, and cholk holds before disappearing again.

47's victory wouldn't come from a superior display of martial arts, or gun play, or even stealth. It'd come from the perfectly laid trap. An entire room set to blow with a leaking stove before Bell takes a shot... flooding a room before carefully using a loose cord... or loosening the supports right below the most viable sniping perch right when Bell goes to take the high ground. One mistep and it would just be over. No muss. No fuss.

"Target down, 47. Now find an exit."

This Throwdown's Winner is...

Agent 47!

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The Runaway

(Dad! Sniper x Teen! Reader)[Platonic ofc]

Summary: Reader decides to run away, leaving their troubles and family behind. Emotionally repressed and conflicted, Reader seeks some other place to feel at home.

I intend for the reader’s age to be about 14 or 15 in this story, but the age is up to your interpretation as well!

CW: Violence, Gore

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The Runaway (Pt. 2/???)

Through the trodden milkweed and tangy scent of fireflies, you dragged yourself across the cusp of a nighttime world you’ve never known. When you took a fleeting moment to rest, you could hear the wind echo over the hollow mineral valley. It carried low on the plains, rousing owls in their nests with distant cries. The base was small behind you by then, the main road up ahead. It would bring you into town, but no further. Most of the branching ways were flooded from the springtime swell of water, making the clouds heavy and the soil overwhelmed. But you didn’t need to go much further than Teufort, luckily. You just needed to find someone willing enough to shelter you while the flood evaporated. A part of you scolded yourself for not being so thorough in the planning-stage of this process; finding a generous soul in this town would be like sifting for gold in a power plant’s waste basin.

But despite your surplus of reason and hope, you still realized that your chances were slim and only getting slimmer as the moon waned in its sky-bound cradle. There would be other things moving, shifting, and running through the night other than yourself, and those things often had sharper teeth in larger amounts. One ear was always cocked to the side, listening for the snap of sticks or calls of advance. If push came to shove, you had a small can of pepper spray on a keychain you had gotten as a birthday present about four years prior. It was probably expired, but it was something.

When the trees thinned out and the grass dipped into a wide ditch beside the paved road, you waded through the mud and stagnant water until you were finally treading on blacktop. The trip would be easier on level ground, your ability to navigate improving tenfold. Assuming the world hadn’t gone topside since the last time you went on a supply run, the town was a straight walk to your left. You jogged, deciding that you might make it into town before sunrise if you hurried. Your bag was thankfully light, only filled with the necessary provisions for short-term travel: a few protein bars, some water, and an extra pair of socks. For as little as you actually asked for it, your father had imparted a piece of advice you kept close to heart—in survival situations, bring dry socks. It could be the inch of difference between life and hypothermia. 

Still, the writing on the wall remained the same. Things had gone cold and quiet between you and your family. It wasn’t so much the things that they had done, but rather what they hadn’t. The same could be said for your father, who seemed more like a blurry figure and quiet voice in your peripherals than a dependable figure you could fall back on. Coupled with your lack of formal education and socialization, you were a recipe for resentment and stewing righteousness. A series of small sparks over time eventually culminated into what we had in the “there” and “then”: a set of shoes padding down the main road, a bag light and a heart heavy.

There were no streetlights this far in the badlands to guide your path, only the ground right in front of you that seemed to stretch for miles. Yet with every step forward, you were another step free. 

The night was full of screeching birds and wild things, the thrum of a clinking engine hidden somewhere along the bend.

[moaihybitoyoidaics]

Some Things Never Change~ Jurdan

Jue and Cardan return to the Duarte family home to find a gift for Taryn's baby shower. A trip down memory lane leads them to reconnect with Jude's childhood best friend.

A chapter from The Captured King on wattpad (@ teddyhawkins thats me)

Word count: 2148

Jude's POV

The house still stood as it had the day I had left, almost identical to the pictures we had saved more than ten years before. Although now, instead of sun filled windows there were wooden boards, and the parallel-striped lawn was over grown. The door hung ajar, slightly off its hinges. I turned to look at Cardan, whose face was an indecipherable mask.

"Home sweet home." I muttered under my breath before heading up the cracked paving slabs. Running after me, Cardan's composure fell away a second later.

"Jude, are you sure we're okay to be here?" He asked quietly. "Are you sure nobody will be watching the house?"

I stopped just shy of the front door. "As far as this world is concerned, the Duarte family were massacred almost twelve years ago. No one is looking for us anymore, and no body is bothered about this house." I nudged the door open, groaning as it went. "There are things I should like to retrieve, if they're still here." "I'd follow you to the ends of the earth my dear, lead the way." He followed me inside, creeping as if he could somehow wake the ghosts that remained here.

The carpet was ripped up, presumably taken when the police came to investigate the murders. Still, though, a muddy brown stain remained and the floorboards in the vestibule. The sight turned my blood to ice and a cold sweat bead on my upper lip.

"Jude," Cardan tests, his hand grazing my shoulder blade. "What is it?"

I remembered the day Madoc took us, the day he made that stain. I remembered my white converse skidding in the blood, my legs too short to step entirely over it. "I- it's just hard. Being here, it makes it harder to pretend it all away. Let's just get what we came for and go."

I stepped over the stain and moved on through the house. In the lounge the TV was gone, the sofa was charred as if it had been set alight, soot crept up the wall behind it. On the chimney breast someone, probably an edgy teenager, had sprayed a pentagram, dripping and red. I moved on to the kitchen, noticing the notch in the door frame and another dirty brown patch on the floor. I looked out of the window, into the back garden. Our old swing set stood unused, the chains rusted orange, creaking gently in the autumn breeze. I turned to see Cardan sat on the breakfast bar.

"So this is a mortal kitchen."

"You've been to Vivi's apartment, you know what our kitchens look like."

"It's strange to think of you living here. Before all the... stuff happened." He spoke so softly, I could hardly hear him.

"It's stranger to be back." I left the kitchen and made my way upstairs. I had the best chance of finding what I came for up there. "You can wait here, if you want." I called back to him. He shook his head and jumped down off the island.

"No chance."

I pushed open the door I remembered to be mine. The sight sent another shiver through me. The room has been preserved, almost untouched. There drawers were still open, with the clothes we left behind. The bunk beds, made up with Peter Pan and pink floral sheets. "Mine was the bottom bunk, I used to be obsessed with Peter Pan. Sword fighting, pirates, fairies... I guess some things never change."

"Taryn had the flowers, I'm guessing."

"Like I said. Some things never change." I made my way over to our old bookshelves searching for my sister's favourite book. "Taryn would never like to admit this, but she always wanted to be a homemaker. My mom bought her this Tumtum and Nutmeg, I got the first Harry Potter book instead- which is also about magic-"

"I know, I've read them." Cardan said, surprising me out of my nostalgia.

"You've read them?" My mouth was agape, a shocked laugh at the back of my throat.

"The magic is somewhat rudimentary, I mean using wands? But I did cry in book seven." He seemed confused by my obvious shock.

"Okay, we'll discuss that on the way home. Anyway, I thought it would be nice to return her old copy, you know? For the baby shower." I shoved the book into my satchel and made my way towards the bedroom door. "Let's go."

He caught my arm. "Do you not want to stay? Take back some of your old things?"

"It's painful being here, with everything that happened here." For the first time, I realised how strong my husband was. "I do not know where you find the courage to sit in the burgh everyday, where your family was murdered. I am so sorry."

He shook his head. "You are my family. I don't need to dwell on that anymore."

We made our way out of the house, on the front lawn I took one final look at my old family home and sighed. "I can forget this now. I think I can do that." Cardan kissed me softly on my forehead and smiles.

"I think I saw some ragwort by the side of the house. I'll be right back."

I nodded and he turned and jogged away. I took the opportunity to look around the street I used to play on, the cracks in the asphalt, the weeds on the sidewalk, the girl across the street running out of her house...

"Jude?" I was startled out of my trance. "Jude Duarte?" She called.

"No, sorry." I panicked.

"Liar."

"You have the wrong perso-"

"So you're Taryn then?" I knew the girl. Or rather I used to know her, twelve years ago. A lot had changed since then. "I know it's you Jude."

"Jude Duarte is dead." I lied. "So is Taryn and so is Vivienne. They all died."

"Bullshit." She furrowed her brow and pursed her lips together.

Cardan strode around the corner, clutching a fistful of ragwort stalks, "Jude, are you ready to ride?" It was moments like that which made me remember why I used to hate him.

"Sorry, Jude Duarte is apparently dead." She called to him as she smirked at me. Cardan looked to me, visibly confused.

I sighed. "It's Rosie, right?" She grinned again and nodded. "Okay, Rosie, we were never here. "

"I knew he didn't kill you." She yelled. "I knew it! Everyone said I was crazy but I knew I saw him take you."

"Wait, you saw what happened?" Cardan asked. "You were there?"

"I called the police!" She continued to yell. "You left your bike at me house and I was returning it, I saw that guy take you. Sorry who is this guy?" She pointed to Cardan.

I turned to look at him and realised how strange this must've been for Rosie. Cardan, as beautiful as he was, did not look human. I had dressed him in sneakers and jeans but of course he hadn't concerned himself with disguising his pointed ears or his uncanny features, this was supposed to be a quick trip- in and out. Not to mention the fact that for all intents and purposes, to Rosie I was dead and had been for more than a decade. I looked back at Rosie and sighed.

"Would you like to come in? My folks aren't home, but I have some lemonade in the fridge." She asked sweetly. "I have some videos from when we were kids, if you want to see?"

There was a pang in my chest, a deep yearning to look back in time. But the thought of spending more time here with Rosie and seeing who I could have been coiled around that longing.

"We would love to." Cardan answered for me, taking my hand and following her across the street.

***

Rosie knelt next to an old VCR, feeding it an even older VHS tape. The label on the back of the cassette read Rosie and Duarte girls 2008. 2008? The year we were taken. The TV static dissipated and kicked into life, showing grainy footage of an orange summers day, brown lawns and tanned kids in shorts. The first few seconds of footage primarily consisted of Rosie's dad trying to figure out if the camera was on, that was until I heard a familiar voice; like something pulled from a forgotten dream.

"Mark, the red light is on. It's recording." The camera snapped up and I saw a man. The scruff of his beard and the chestnut brown of his eyes, the slight auburn of his hair catching in the August sun. I I grabbed Cardan's hand and squeezed.

"Jude?"

"That's... uh that was my dad." I said, lump catching in my throat. He squeezed my hand in return, his thumb rubbing gently circles against my skin.

I saw a girl, twin to my younger self sat on the grass with a young Rosie, pulling daisies from the grass and lacing them together, coronating each other with flower crowns. Taryn of course. Then of course there was Vivienne, a few years older than us but an eternity younger than I could recollect, sat under a shady tree. She wore the same disapproving then as she always had, as if she had never taken it off.

"I swear you're in this one Jude. Just wait a minute." Rosie mumbles, fast forwarding through what she must've thought was the most mundane memory, I didn't want to miss a thing. She pauses a rewinds it for a second. "You're going very fast, blink and you'll miss it."

For a moment, I didn't understand what she meant. Until I heard my father cheering and my mother screaming in horror. "Jude! Pull the brakes!"

There I was, a blur peddling faster than my little legs had ever gone before, or since for that matter. I flew down the street on my purple bike, which at the time I had insisted I was tall enough for, before crashing into my neighbours trash cans and flying over the handle bars. I landed in a heap on the floor, blood pouring out of my nose, my knees and elbows skinned and covered in gravel. The camera fell to the floor as Mark, Rosie's dad, ran over to me. My parents caught up a second later, picking me up and dusting me off. My mother fussed over me, pulling a Kleenex out of her pocket and dabbing my nose, but I pushed passed them and picked up my bike.

"I'm going again. I will jump over the trash cans." I couldn't help but laugh, some things never change.

***

We spent the afternoon and most of the evening in Rosie's living room, pouring over childhood memories. Cardan howled watching myself, Taryn and Rosie performing a dance routine to Wannabe by the Spice Girls, trying to convince our parents to let us have another sleepover.

"Jude still can't dance." He said, trying to catch his breath.

Rosie watched him cautiously, still unsure of what to make of him. "So, why did you never come home?" She asked tentatively. "I mean I always thought I saw you at the mall or in coffee houses or one time at a pool I think, so you I know you could come back but you never came home."

I thought about it for a moment before answering. "Where I've been, well where my sisters and I have been, is different. We had to change to survive. If you saw what I was truly like now you wouldn't have invited us in." Cardan watched me try to explain myself, engrossed. "Honestly, I am happy where I am. I made something of my life! But being here and seeing how things could've been for me... it makes me feel homesick but for life."

"Life sick?" She whispered.

"Exactly."

"I still have your bike." She grinned, sensing I didn't want to answer any more questions.

"Her what?" Cardan asked. I shot him a look that I hoped told him to shut up.

Rosie led me outside, she wandered into her garage and pulled out my purple bike, still scuffed with a flat tyre, but it was my bike.

"Take it home with you, wherever that is now. But come and visit us sometime, I want to prove to my folks that I'm not crazy."

I wheeled my bike up the driveway and out into the cool night air, turning back one final time to wave goodbye to my old friend. "Can you make her forget?" I whispered to Cardan.

"Why?"

"It'll be too hard to leave if she knows I'm still out there." I sighed. "There'll be questions, people will think she's lost the plot."

"No." He placed his hand on the small of my back. "You deserve to be remembered."

[kruemel8]

I was thinking the exact same thing! The bottle he's holding at the beginning looks so much like intro, so I thought he was teasing it as a product that will 'pave the way' to the new product, so to speak. But then again, I think it looked different in the shot of him spraying it on himself so it could very well be a new fragrance after all. I don't mind whatevers product it is, really. The promo is so fucking good he could sell me shit in a plastic bag at this point!

It looks a little bit more rounded I think.

[dove-da-birb]

My Makeup

People seemed interested, so this is a post of my makeup. I didn't include everything I have, as I have more moisturizers, setting powder, setting spray, and brushes. So yeah.

My favs will be bolded.

I use makeup for expression purposes; makeup has no gender babes.

People who seemed interested; @eynnwwyjth, @krenenbaker, @twistwonderlanddevotee, @silvers-numberonefan

Eyeshadow Palettes

Palette; Fierce by Nature from Morphe (I think it's out of circulation now)

1st Row; Trance, Consume, Frenzy, Power Play, Savage, The OG, Disrupt

2nd Row; Temptin', Flame Game, Ferocious, Come Alive, Major Hottie, Stun Wild, Embers

3rd Row; New Flame, Ball of Fire, Red Alert, Make Believe, Unstoppable, Explode, Hot Contents

4th Row; Domination, Full Blast, Ignition, Mesmerize, Inferno, In Command, Hypnotic

5th Row; Stamina, Warning Label, Combust, Outta Control, Smolder, Jolt, Smoked Out

Palette; Oh Boy by Morphe (out of circulation too I think)

1st Row; Hendrix, Derick, Benji, Maddox, Alexander

2nd Row; Jacob, Wyatt, Timmy, Carter, Liam

3rd Row; Max, Kai, Austin, Mace, Blake

4th Row; Bentley, Jax, Chris, Jonah, Oliver

5th Row; Paxton, Knox, Eli, Jace, Daniel

I only really have it to have a neutral palette just in case I need to do something more business or formal.

Palette; 18 Hit Wonder by e.l.f

1st Row; Supreme, Vibrant, Moss, Peachy, Quartz, Pave

2nd Row; Velvet, Electric, Evergreen, Solar, Heat, Candy

3rd Row; Royal, Shade, Element, Summer, Penny, Danger

I also use this to do some dorm-inspired makeup; plus look at that rainbow.

Single Eyeshadows (also blush and highlighters but I use them as eyeshadow too)

Starting at the top left;

Dito Galaxy Shade in Mars

Autobalm Day2Night in Lombard ST

Wander Beauty in Bouquet

Kaleido Cosmetics Skin Blush in Primadonna

Bottom row, left to right;

Nomad Cosmetics Desert Sands

Araceli Jalisco Eyes in Tequila

Estate Dew Me Baked Highlighter Powder in Lit

inmo cosmetics velveteen dream shadow in Kween Bee

Ciate London blush highlighter in Pinch Me

All from IPSY; why did they keep on sending me gold eyeshadows?

Foundations & Moisturizers

Left to right;

Camelina + Strobe Luminizing Primer (I use it as a highlighter)

tarte Maracuja Tinted Hydrator in 10N Fair Neutral

ColourPop Pretty Fresh Foundation in Light 40N

Formula 10.0.6 Thirst No More! Moisturizer

I mix the two shades together, but it also depends on the season. I don't wear foundation very often, so yeah.

Clear Lip Stuff

Left to right;

Bath & Body Works Pumpkin Cupcake

(Malin + Gotez) mojito lip balm

Ciate London Watermelon Burst Hydrating Lip Oil

Jersey Shore Cosmetics Watermelon Moisture Rich Hydrating Balm

Bath & Body Works Champagne Toast Lip Gloss

Lipsticks

Left to right;

e.l.f Sheer Matte Liquid Lipstick in Bright Poppy

Lottie London Slay All Day in Fleek

melt in rebound

Burt's Bees Tinted Lip Balm in Sienna Rose

e.l.f. Sheer Slick in Dragonfruit

bellapierre cosmetics Mineral Lipstick in Envy

Liquid Eyestuff

Left to right;

L.A. Colors Eye Marker in Blue

Covergirl Exhibitionist Lash Enhancing Liquid Eyeliner in Matte Black

Wet n Wild Mega Volume Mascara

item Lid Glaze in Lunar Drop

Kokie Profesional Crystal Fusion Liquid Eyeshadow in Polaris