#but well. men being whores and making poor life choices while women are right about everything <3

[tibby]

THE SAW FRANCHISE (AS RANKED BY MY FOLLOWERS) → #3. SAW IV

↳ “Are you there, Detective? If so, you are probably the last man standing. Now, perhaps you will succeed where the others have failed. You think you will walk away untested? I promise that my work will continue. You think it's over just because I’m dead? It's not over. The games have just begun.”

[uelden]

Vanity Fair interview translated

Just a side note before the actual translation; I don't know why, but instead of reporting the full questions and answers in full as she should, the journalist decided to report only summarized fragments of what Måneskin said and patch these fragments up into messy clusters. She also worded a couple phrases in a very confusing way (and yes, she's fully Italian). In short, she did quite a poor job, so the final shape of the interview is not that good. I didn't expect top-tier journalism from Vanity Fair but ffs. You'll see what I mean.

I translated it as it is, adding just a couple footnotes to give you insight on Italian pop culture references.

Translation under the cut

Måneskin: "Different from whom?"

by Lavinia Farnese, 09 June 2021

"True justice is being judged for what you do and not for what you are." The ones who are convinced of this are Damiano, Victoria, Ethan and Thomas who, by being the emblem of a generation that is finally free, refuse labels and conformism. In life, in love and on the stage. Where, maybe precisely because of this, they're winning everything

With the still unexpected (first place at Sanremo Festival) and the incredible (triumph at Eurovision) in their eyes, Måneskin are on the sofa of the house-studio they rented - to resume writing songs and rehearsing them - like you are after a won battle: lying in a calm and unreal silence, alert and a bit irreverent, happy.

In the garden there's the tennis table and the pool, the light of summer when it's starting and calming the country all around, and it filters inside from the large windows, and it goes onto the shining black of Ethan's hair, which blends with Thomas' eye shadow and the butterfly he has tattooed oh his naked forearm, which completes the picture of Victoria's golden crucifix hanging between neck and tank top and ends on the black nail polish of Damiano's stretched hands.

It's a human fresco, a Theatre of wrath [translator's note: "Teatro d'ira"] - to call it with the title of their latest album, a platinum record already - where their flaunted 20 years of age, their irregular femininity and virility are grown into proud and challenging custom, a pop glam rock generational manifesto of hard-earned liberties in a finally-unconditional expression of the self.

To watch them from any angle and from another age is to think that a great love will be born in those who'll understand: this new way of being in the world, the true and sovereign realm they hold where "diversity=exceptionality", the power of the artistic and cultural revolution of which they are healthy carriers in establishing in all lyrics and gestures the right to live according to one's own nature past the "people (who) talk, the people (who) unfortunately talk, and don't know what the fuck they're talking about." [tn: "Zitti e buoni" lyrics]

We go where we're afloat, where the air isn't gone. [tn: journalist's own variation on "Zitti e buoni" lyrics]

Miley Cyrus says hi – The numbers of a phenomenon

"The streams of Zitti e buoni are growing by the second, and they bring us above Muse, at the top of English charts, twelfth in the Spotify Global Chart. Followers almost tripled, in the post-Rotterdam period (from 1,4 to 3,3 millions, ed.) Contagious and universal folly: t-shirts and merchandising sold out in 10 minutes. Like the records, the tickets for a tour that keeps adding dates and expanding over geographic maps. They're contacting us even from some festivals were The Rolling Stones went." Thomas

"After the pretextual controversy over cocaine that France built against us, later disproven by my drug test, some graffiti popped up in Spain depicting me as a “No drugs” poster guy. Some tweets made us laugh: "Congratulations, Italy! I've never been more certain that four people have had sex with each other." Miley Cyrus started following us -You're great. -You guys are greater." Damiano

From the garage to the stars – Story of a flight

"It was only 2016, and we played in restaurants, in the streets, in via del Corso. Damiano without even a microphone, Thomas' guitar with wonky strings, Ethan was drumming on a cajón. During Rome highschools' sit-ins (Kennedy, Virgilio, Mamiani) we had our first confirmations and half-hours of celebrity, playing among those who criticized us and those who went "wow they're really cool." One of the rare times when they would have paid us – 50 euros each – we gave the money to the next band in the lineup so that they would make us play in their spot, later in the day, when there would have been more people. We had already realized how things worked. Visibility mattered more than money. And we still think that." Victoria

The intimacy of rock – Choice of a genre

"Music allows us the miracle of extending to others some very personal and private topics, sometimes even difficult and thorny ones. They are and they remain deeply your own, but at the same time they become a confession that reaches a wider audience, and in this passage that is alike a delivery, they find a place in you as well, a processing of them. You overcome them, you accept them. One second it's something aggressive, the next it's a ballad. Cathartic». Damiano

Against panic – The stage as therapy

"I've suffered a lot from anxiety and panic attacks, it's an issue I've worked on thanks to a psychotherapy course, my friends and my family. Playing helped me in not letting myself be paralyzed by my fears, not making myself limited in my private and professional life. I've learned to accept, to live with this side of myself. I don't hide it. I don't feel ashamed of it." Victoria

Analysis as necessity – Relying on someone saves you

"This belief that only madmen go to the psychologist is a widespread ignorance. No-one's born learned. [tn: common Italian saying] And it's often hard to understand the very reason why we're here, let alone the origin and direction of our desires. It's a long and legitimate journey towards lucidity, a kind of backing to become transparent." Damiano

Being out of our minds – But different from them [tn: "Zitti e buoni" lyrics]

"When you feel a strong passion towards something that is not a canonical job but an artistic language, that already puts you on a level of anomaly, which is not superior or inferior to other people, but it puts you in the position of the one who breaks the mold and also works at a loss, the one who sustains great risks while trying to do something that who knows if it will take you anywhere. "Why do it if it doesn't pay?". You want to give this dream of yours an aesthetic, but it becomes "You're dressing so weird! You must be gay!" - now that I'm 22 I laugh about it, but when I was 17 it had an effect on me, too." Damiano

The beauty of uniqueness – Of believing in it and defending it

"And I mean, at the end of the day if we're all different it's not because we want be alternative but because, really, no-one is the same. Justice is being judged on what you do and not what you are. Justice is equality, respect, beauty." Ethan

Fluid sexuality – Pride is freedom

"Heels for men that like themselves in them, kisses among ourselves, we have an open, extended mind, and we're proud of it. The horizons become vast, past the oppression of conservative families. With the information on the web knowledge becomes greater and with it the possibility that minorities will be less and less minorities, because the majority will be less of a majority. This way we'll make insults and bullying grow quieter. If social media get to a village of 50 souls and reveal to a girl who's afraid of the dark that someone has felt her same fear, then there's no reason to give a name to that fear, to mark it with labels which also limit and restrict. Definitions always had this effect on me. You shouldn't even consider the gender when judging someone, let alone their orientation." Victoria

Sexism – A culture to be dismantled

"Emma [tn: Emma Marrone, Italian singer] drops the bomb: “At Eurovision when I was there they massacred me for a pair of shorts, while they said nothing to Damiano – bare-chested and in heels.” The easy judgment against women is more fierce, constant, debasing (if I have a lot of sex I'm cool while Vic is a whore, where I show myself strong I'm a leader while Vic is despotic and a pain in the ass who reached success because she's hot.) As a male I'm privileged, the abuse I get is not comparable to those a woman has to live through, the comments over my aesthetic are centered only on my aesthetic and don't insinuate anything about my professionalism and my competence, while women are victims of this kind of thought in a systematic way. It happened though to find myself standing with a woman who while pulling me to herself to take a selfie, started licking my face out of the blue... I mean, what the hell do you want? Who asked you? Consent exists, and it's due." Damiano

Grow yourself – The only commandment

"To me conformism is the opposite of education [tn: could also mean "politeness"] and is the asphyxia of expression. I fortunately never endured heavy bullying, heavy enough for the the judgement of others to change me. But the mold of the small crumbs of bullying I got and of the kind of aggression that scars is the same. If I'm a kid who dances and likes dolls you have to let me do what I like. I was a kid who wanted to keep his hair long and played with Barbie. As a teen, my friends looked at my hair: " You have to find a girl with short hair to be at your side." My grandparents took away my dolls: "Stop it, they're not for you." Ethan

"When I was six I was already sick of them, the distinctions between masculine and feminine. I've always had strong ideas about how I wanted to be. I refused things that were typically defined as girly, and all around me they mocked me because I went skateboarding, I played soccer, I didn't wear skirts, I was giving myself the chance to be as I wished. I endured it a little, I suffered a little, but I had courage, and now thanks to that courage I know that I could have gotten even much more hurt, otherwise I would have left to others the most important choice: the one about myself." Victoria

Love in progress – Music, girlfriends

"I've been married to music for the last 20 years. I can't wait to celebrate our golden wedding anniversary." Ethan

"Everyone makes their own experiences, sometimes it goes well, sometimes it goes wrong, but it's always not anybody's business." Thomas

"When I first felt feelings and attraction towards a girl it was a bit disorienting because I had never had the courage of going beyond the limitations I had put for myself. For society being heterosexual is the norm and so you often define yourself in that way automatically, depriving yourself of the freedom to live many shades and faces of love. Once I overcame the initial insecurity of having to call into question my certainties I've lived my sexuality in a very natural and free way, as it should be for everyone." Victoria

"I had paparazzi at my door every day and night. So, after four years of relationship, I revealed her name. I still have paparazzi at my door every day and nigh, but at least I don't have to hide anything anymore." Damiano

The worth of the group – Phenomenology of protection

"The true engagement though, the true family is among ourselves, our band. We've believed in it since day zero, even before we called ourselves Måneskin (Moonlight in Danish), even before Ethan drew a giant moon on the flier for the first concert we ever did. We share everything, even the pain for the tragedy of Seid Visin, who committed suicide at 20 because of racism. [tn: I think the journalist asked them their opinion about Seid Visin's death, which was a current events topic in Italy, and then pasted it syntaxically in the middle of Thomas' answer, which was not a great move] A group is what we all should be: stay united and not back down an inch in the face of oppression that is generated by a distorted view of diversity." Thomas

I'm not of the right age – Like Gigliola [tn: Gigliola Cinquetti won Eurovision with her song "Non ho l'età", which means "I'm not of the right age"]

"Before you the only one who won both Sanremo and Eurovision on the same year was Cinquetti (1964). If there's anything I feel I'm not of the right age for? No, honestly no. Maybe having children. Regarding children I'll be honest: I'm not of the right age." Damiano

Having touched the sky – The fears that remain

"We're more than inside the dream, we're in the conquered dream. When you fly high there's the risk of plummeting and hurting yourself, but we'll work hard not to end up like Icarus, who burns his wings with the sun. Everything is in our hands. And this - a bit pretentiously - reassures us rather than scaring us." Damiano

[cosmiccandydreamer]

Stability Chapter 14

*****The ending to Stability is here! Stay tuned for the ending in the finale coming "Tranquility" WARNING THIS CHAPTER DEALS WITH CHILD LOSS. Sorry if it's a spoiler, but I wanted to warn y'all. *******

"Wake the fuck up, you piece of shit!" Otis was jerked awake by the loud sound of Wydell screaming in his face and kicking the foundation under him. He adjusted his eyes and found to his horror and he was tied to a chair. They were back at the house in Ruggsville. Looking to his side, he saw his sister and Spaulding in the same situation. Wydell backed away from him, taking a massive swig from his whisky bottle before slamming it back down on the table.

The trio was tried on chairs and shown other pictures of the victims that they had recovered. This was a small amount that you could not shove in the trunk of your car as evidence. Wydell was in a drunken haze and rage. Vengeance had overtaken him; the idea that he was the hand of God sent here to cleanse the earth has consumed him. He held up a picture in front of Baby's face asking her if she remembers the girl in the picture; he then turns to show Otis, "not so attractive after we pulled her out of your little torture shack.” Otis laughed darkly " I tried that bitch to my bed for a month, busted her wide open.”

Wydell spits on the ground next to him in disgust. "Well, he's a little memento for your time together" " that bitch was mine," Baby spat out, "stupid whore" Wydell suddenly grabbed the staple gun he had placed on the floor next to the table and, to Otis and Spalding's horror, stapled it to Baby's stomach. The men exchanged looks of anger, panic, and worry. The love for their daughter and sister and the fact they were helpless to her pain was torture in itself. "Which one did you say you busted open again? This one, right?!" Wydell then grabbed the second photo stapling it to Otis's chest. The sharp pain shot thru him, and he grew angrier.

"Alright, alright, now that I got everyone's attention, I have one more picture to show y'all, and now I'ma need y'all to make sure you take a good look, and I mean a good look…" he took another swig off his whiskey and reached down to grab another picture. "Now I've been looking for this little lady, and now I hear she goes by the name Kitty driftwood, which is a dumbass name if you ask me, but her government name is ( y/n y/last name )."

He held up a picture of you taken at the hotel as you were loading up the car. Otis froze in his seat, and his palms become sweaty and hot. He swallowed as his throat became tight; you looked scared in the picture.. lost and alone. He did this to you, and he made you go on without him; he thought it was the right thing to do now, he's not sure. "Ringing any bells for all of you? Hmm"? Wydell asked, holding your picture in front of Baby and Spaulding. "I've never seen that bitch before," Baby spat. "I don't know who she is.” " What about you, Otis? She seems to be going by your last name.. any idea about why that would be?" Otis silently cursed you for being so casual with his last name. He was glad you didn't use your real name, but any association with them was problematic. "She might have been some Stockholm syndrome bitch who got away, I don't fucking know," Otis replied, trying to steady in his voice.. "you expect me to remember every whore that comes thru the door," he scoffed. Wydell chuckled. "I would expect you to remember your wife, Otis" Otis straightened himself a bit more, looking at Wydell in the eyes but not responding. His heart was racing now.. how much did he know about you.. "now see, at first, I thought she was just some poor soul that got turned around and was lucky enough to escape your freak show. That was until my men started to see her more and more with you clowns. And one of the men overhead her introduced herself as Kitty driftwood. I did some digging, and that's not who she is at all. She's the only survivor of the San Diego massacre. You may not remember it's been a long time, but she seems to have started a life of some sort out here after the death of her family." Wydell shifted through the pictures clicking his tongue. Otis knew about your past; he got curious one day and dug into your public records years ago. He wanted to see if anyone besides your father would come looking for you if you were to join the family. He realized you didn't remember everything that had happened back then and didn't want to bring up those memories for you.

"Why are you telling us all this?" Spalding asked, "what you do with her? What are you going to do with us? Stop playing these games, goddammit!". "I'm so glad you asked," Wydell replied, taking another drink. "so when I got word of a girl matching this description, I had my men trail her; I met up with them close to the Mexican border and decided to go check out if this was the same Lil lady. Now I expected her to be a shit ball bag of ugly in person, if I’m honest. I mean running around you all one can only expect," he chuckled " So you can imagine my surprise when I pulled over her car and saw she was a pretty little thing," he whistles " I thought about taking her out of the car and doing a little strip search myself." Otis felt his face get hot; he was becoming angrier than he's ever been. He twisted his hands in the bound rope on the chair; his breathing became more erratic. "Oh, you don't like that, huh? The idea of someone taking your woman and just having their way with her? Ironic isn't it, so I pull up, and we have a little chat. I ask her to get out of the vehicle". Baby looked over at her and saw his eyes had become dilated with rage. "You better not of hurt my sister," she said, her own eyes stinging with the tears that started to fall, "you son of a bitch".

"Now see what I did here," Wydell said, pulling up the chair closer to Baby while she whined and tried to look away from him. Otis just stared at him, his rage building and building.. he wasn't one to get anxious, but this was causing him extreme anxiety. "I prayed, I asked God to tell me what to do next because when I saw her beautiful (y/e/c) with sadness and fear, I felt I had a choice to make, Well I decided to give her a chance to come to the righteous side of glory with God. so I asked her to step out of the car, she did slowly with her arms up as I asked. She looked warm in the face and asked if she was alright; she said she was fine, just the heat was getting to her and her baby.” “Baby? Is she with a child? Oh my god, OTIS!” Baby yelled, looking over at her brother and father. “Otis, did you hear? You’re going to be a daddy!” a giant smile appeared on her face despite the situation they were in. A child, what a miracle. Otis was quiet, and his expression blank; a baby? No wonder she was so sick, no wonder she looks so worried and so scared. He finally spoke with a calm and collected tone, “where are she and my child?”. He looked at Wydell in the eyes and waited for an answer.

He took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it before answering, blowing smoke in their faces.” when I saw she was with child, I knew it was your Otis, I saw it in her eyes when she looked at the picture I held up of you. This means this was a 50/50 chance of being a miracle baby, a child of God, or a spawn of the devil. I decided to give Mrs. driftwood a chance to renounce her sinful ways with your freak show; tell me everything I want to know, and I would provide safe passage for her and her unborn child.

"I'm not going to ask you again where she is." Otis said his patients running thin "where the hell is my wife and my child?"

"I'm the one telling the story here, so I'm going to need you to be patient," Wydell said. "She stood there in the blistering heat next to her car, her hands up in the air. I told her to relax, put him down by her side, and we're just going to have a chat. I couldn't get over how beautiful she was. I had it in my right mind to take her then in there just like you had taken all those innocent women at your disposal."

Otis flinched in his chair, attempting to reach towards the sheriff. "I swear to satan if you touched her"

"Or what?" Wydell laughed, "You're not in the position to make any threats but calm down. I didn't feed my devilish temptations." He took another drag of the cigarette. "No, what I did was I told her that at this very moment, the compound where your merry band of freaks was hiding was being raided and that there was no way out of this. I knew who she was. I knew what she'd been through, and I told her that she doesn't want a life where she's just running cooperate with us, and we'll see what we can do for her. The moment I looked into her eyes, I knew she was not going to give you freaks up. She shook her head. I don't know what you're talking about and bit her lower lip. I decided at that moment that I was going to leave it up to God. I asked her to turn around and put her hands on the car. She did, then I pulled my knife." He pulled out a giant hunting knife and laid it on the table. The trio didn't speak collectively, waiting for the following words out of his mouth. All three of them were frozen in fear. They all loved you and felt powerless in the situation for themselves and what possibly may come next. "See, I walked up to her, and I said that this seed you're carrying now if it's the spawn of the devil you know I can't allow that to pollute this world any further, but this could also be one of God's children who am I to make that decision? And she looked back at me and asked what I mean, And so I got my knife, And I showed it to her, and I said, you know whatever happens next is up to God, and I stabbed her in the stomach. " As soon as those words left his mouth, Baby started to scream, "liar, you didn't lie you wouldn't stab a pregnant woman, lies you're just trying to break us, Otis doesn’t listen he's lying" Spalding spat a bunch of insults at the sheriff. Otis remained catatonic in his rage. He was so angry that he couldn't speak. He couldn't move. He could barely breathe.

The sheriff then pulled out a photo and said, "now I'm not saying I killed her, and I'm not saying it killed the baby. All I'm saying is I used my hand to be an instrument of God, and if God wanted the baby to survive, then that means it was a child of God. If it passed away well, then it was the spawn of Satan; either way, that is what happened" He slowly slid a photo of you on the ground clenching your bleeding stomach. "You should have seen the surprise on her face when I put out the Polaroid and snapped the photo of her." Baby cried and screamed; giant tears were falling from her beautiful blue eyes, Spalding still angry, throwing insults at the sheriff. Otis finally looked up, and in the most profound, most demonic voice anyone had ever heard, he quietly said, "I will watch you die. I will tear your soul apart.” Wydell stood up and grabbed a large nail from the table. “Don’t know how you’re gonna do that with your hands nailed down!” suddenly, he slammed the nails into his hands, nailing him to the table. He screamed in horror and agony at what had just taken place. Baby looked over to her brother, feeling helpless to his pain, when suddenly she felt her ties being loosened and she was free, “ you’re free to go, Babygirl, now run along run!!!!”. Wydell screamed in her face laughing; she took off toward the door; she didn’t need to be told twice.

As she ran towards what she thought was freedom, he started to pour gasoline all over the house, engulfing the once wonderful home that you all shared. As the flames lifted around them, the two men struggled to get free. The sheriff went after her, shooting into the air and taunting her as he chased her. One of the bullets hitting her in the leg and causing her to fall, but just as he thought he would have her meet her maker, tiny appeared, saving the day by breaking his neck. If it weren’t for this gentle giant, everyone would have perished in the fire. He was able to save everyone. Unfortunately, he chose not to come with the trio.

Otis took off towards the highway. He knew in his heart that you weren't dead. He would have felt it. Your connection was too strong but still, in the back of his mind, what if you weren't what he would do? He knew that he would set the world on fire that much would be for sure, but he could not fathom a reality with you, not by his side. He drove fast and faster towards your designated meet point. Nothing could stop him now except for the mountain of the police officers blocking the highway entrance. He looked over at the trio, and with a collective nod, they raced toward the police guns blazing. They had come this far, and nothing would stop them. Nothing would keep Otis from you; he pictured your face in his mind as he drove, the smell of your shampoo when he buried his face in your hair, the sound of your laugh. He had to try and get to you. There was a rain of gunfire that engulfed the vehicle. They didn't get far. Eventually, they all were stopped from the blood loss and the bullet holes they were taken to the hospital. He had failed you again.

Otis is right, though. You survived the encounter; what the sheriff didn't know was the ritual, The ritual that you all had done every Halloween, the ritual that you sacrificed souls so you could live on and become immortal through luck. This meant that if you were faced with a situation such as this, the universe would conspire to assist you all. Unfortunately, you were not pregnant during your last ritual. As you clenched your bleeding stomach, you pulled yourself into the vehicle. You were able to pull yourself into the vehicle and speed off as soon as you saw Wydell in the distance. You drove and drove until eventually, your vision got blurry, and you passed out. Somehow your car has come to a stop and ended up in a small town just on the Mexican border. A sweet couple pulled you out of the car and patched you up. The idea that you lost your child destroyed you and broke your heart. The blood loss was too much, and you miscarried. Pulling yourself together, you searched through your items, found one of your fake IDs, and headed toward Mexico, not before stopping into Brownsville to check and see if a particular person was still here.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Three Gates - on ao3 (for content warnings check Ao3) - on tumblr: pt 1, pt 2

- Chapter 3 -

It seemed, to Meng Yao’s surprise, that there were in fact people like that; it was only that they were all apparently surnamed Nie and lived hidden away in a fortress deep in Qinghe, probably for the good of society.

Sect Leader Nie – known fondly to one and all as Lao Nie, an informality he encouraged – was at least more thoughtful than his son, insisting on a number of tests before he’d accept the child was his, which as a bit more in line with Meng Yao’s expectations. But even before the doctors had been called to check Meng Shi’s pulse he had already been listening without recrimination to Nie Mingjue’s excited plans about where they would stay and where the child’s room would be, and had only the mildest of criticism regarding his son’s decision to sell all his things to buy a Yunping whore to bring back to Qinghe.

The Nie clan, Meng Yao decided, were weird.

But not in a bad way – when the doctors confirmed that the date of conception was around the right time and that the child would more-likely-than-not have a gift for cultivation that his mother lacked, Lao Nie nodded and permitted Meng Shi to cross his threshold as an official concubine.

Not even a mistress! Official!

Sure, Lao Nie could divorce her if he wanted, but the mere act of marriage gave Meng Shi – and by extension, Meng Yao – security that they’d never had before, the right to many things they’d never had before: a solid foundation in the world for him, a married woman’s hairstyle and a place to be buried for her.

Meng Yao had worried at first that he would be reviled by Nie Mingjue’s mother as a bastard at best - a concubine’s baggage from before the marriage, infringing where he should not be; there were a thousand stories describing exactly what legitimate wives thought about people like that - but it didn’t take long for him to see that there was no other woman in Lao Nie’s life, excluding only his second-in-command who already had a wife of her own.

“Your mother died?” Meng Yao asked Nie Mingjue, his mind already spinning with the possibilities – having Meng Shi get officially named first wife was probably out of the question, since that would start gossip regarding the possibility of disinheriting Nie Mingjue, but if his mother could fill the position even a little, then maybe in the future…

“She’s gone,” Nie Mingjue corrected, and it took a while before Meng Yao understood that Nie Mingjue meant gone as in vanished or missing, not as in dead. According to the gossip, his mother was either a goddess or a rogue cultivator, but either way she hadn’t stayed much longer than a year or two past the time of her marriage to Lao Nie, with Nie Mingjue having been left to more or less raise himself ever since.

No wonder Nie Mingjue was such an open-minded idiot, believing in airy principles rather than rock-solid reality, Meng Yao thought, heart flush with fondness. He’d never had a mother to teach him any tricks.

Not that Meng Yao minded. On the contrary, he appreciated the benefits of that open-mindedness: for the first time in his life he had robes made of sturdy and comfortable material, finer than anything he’d owned before, with proper shoes made to fit him; he had teachers in all the subjects a gentleman should know, as much meat as he could ever want to eat, and even a room of his own, with a proper bed and a lock on the inside. All the things he’d ever envied in others were now suddenly within his grasp.

It was heady stuff.

Meng Yao was happy.

And then he went to his mother’s rooms after the first week to tell her of his adventures and saw her contemplating the crib in the side of the nursing room with a neutral expression that might as well be a frown.

He shivered a little and went to her side. “It won’t be necessary now, will it?” he asked hesitantly.

Meng Yao had never doubted his mother’s cunning before, but...well. It was only that Nie Mingjue was so looking forward to having a brother – Meng Yao was in some ways a brother, too, of course, or at least a shidi, but he was of an age that made him more of a friend so it apparently didn’t count – and had spoken so many times about the fun they’d have with a baby that they’d be able to teach everything they knew that Meng Yao had temporarily forgotten that the baby wasn’t going to get to live.

“I will decide what’s necessary,” she said, and that meant it probably was. Poor baby. “Your job right now is to get yourself a comfortable spot here that you can maintain even if I’m thrown out, you understand me? What you’re doing with Nie-gongzi is good. His father indulges him beyond reason; if you make him love you, he will fight for you to stay no matter what happens.”

Meng Yao secretly thought that, in all honesty, getting Nie Mingjue to love him seemed a bit too easy a job.

He’d already tried to play his mother’s tricks, to make himself seem nice and accommodating, the sort of brother any many would love, but Nie Mingjue had seen him at his most bossy and capricious when he hadn’t known that it would made, and it was a bit late to recover the original impression now. And yet to his surprise it didn’t seem to matter, when Nie Mingjue was puzzled and even concerned by Meng Yao’s gentle and submissive behavior rather than enchanted by it, and when he eventually reverted back to something more natural just to make him stop prying. 

No, it didn’t seem to matter at all. Meng Yao was pretty sure that Nie Mingjue was already ready to die for him if need be.

Maybe not die. He shouldn’t think such things, especially not around his mother – especially not with Madame Nie gone, with Lao Nie’s next heir in Meng Shi’s belly and her eyes speculatively set on his bed.

“I’ll make sure of it,” Meng Yao promised, thinking that his mother’s fear of the abandonment of men was for once a good thing if it meant she hadn’t yet started thinking of how only a single child’s life stood between her sons – including her new son – and all the power and riches of the Nie sect.

He’d never thought to scheme against his mother before.

He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to do it now, but…that poor baby.

Poor Nie Mingjue, too.

So Meng Yao went back to Nie Mingjue, but instead of doing what his mother wanted and earning his love – he had Nie Mingjue’s trust, and that was all he needed – he instead whispered in his ear about how happy old Lao Nie seemed to be with a woman by his side, pointed out his smiles when Meng Shi served him at dinner or asked to rearrange a room with some new decorations she’d found in the market.

“I mean, it makes sense,” Nie Mingjue said, his voice a little doubtful but not too much. “Even if she wasn’t his choice, she’s his responsibility, especially now, and it’s better if they like each other. What’s your point?”

“I’m just saying –”

“Oh, come off it, you never just say anything. You’re my brother! If you’ve got some thoughts, just tell me, and we’ll work on them together.” He laughed at Meng Yao’s shocked expression. “I’m not much of a scholar, but even I know that brothers are better off when they scheme together, rather than in parallel or against each other. What is it you want to do?”

Meng Yao weighed his options and spoke: “After the baby’s born, you and I should take care of it so that my mother and your father can spend more time together.”

“Is it that you’re worried about being cast out if they don’t get along? It won’t happen –”

“No, no,” Meng Yao said quickly, though he was, a little, and anyway it certainly was a good excuse to use. “But wouldn’t it be nice to have more brothers?”

Nie Mingjue was easily convinced, as always. “Maybe even a little sister!”

“But you can’t have new babies if you’re taking care of the old one,” Meng Yao continued, twisting truth a little and counting on the fact that Nie Mingjue didn’t seem to know too much about children or child-bearing. “That’s why we should take care of the baby ourselves.”

“Won’t we be too busy?” Nie Mingjue asked. “We’ll have lessons and classes and training –”

There was, Meng Yao conceded, an awful lot of training to do at the Nie sect.

“– while your mother will be resting and able to spend more time with the baby. And feed it, too, though maybe we should talk to someone about getting a wet-nurse to help her out…maybe a nanny goat as well…”

“A wet-nurse is a great idea,” Meng Yao said encouragingly. The less dependency they had on his mother for things for the baby, the better, and most especially when it came to the baby having enough to eat. One of the other women at the brothel had had a baby die from hunger once, when she stopped producing milk but lacked the money to buy a replacement. “But really, think about it – you said yourself that it’d be nice if we could teach the baby things.”

He pushed it as far as he could, and the heavens obligingly did the rest by giving his mother a difficult last few months – not so difficult that he felt afraid that he’d lose her to the birth, not with all the Nie sect’s expensive doctors fluttering around, but enough to exhaust her, and Nie Mingjue was convinced by the need to lift her burdens where he hadn’t been by more practical arguments.

And so little Nie Huaisang, when he was born, spent his first month of seclusion carefully guarded by his attentive brothers, and was then spirited away to their rooms the second they were able – it wouldn’t save him from the winter, Meng Yao thought with satisfaction, but it might save him from his mother.

His mother – their mother, now, but really still his mother – knew what he was doing and allowed it with an indulgent look, which he’d expected; after all he was her precious A-Yao, child of her youth and dreams, and as long as the mistake wasn’t fatal he was allowed to make one here and there.

And Nie Huaisang was a mistake worth making.

Meng Yao had taken a while to think so – he’d started out less than impressed with the baby, which was little more than a fleshy blob, capable of nothing but crying and emitting noxious bodily fluids, but Nie Mingjue had loved Nie Huaisang on sight, treating caring for him as a different type of training, and he’d been so enthusiastic that Meng Yao had gotten a little carried away by it. And after a while he discovered that Nie Huaisang would only settle down if he was there, if he helped, and that went to his head, leading him to preen like a peacock with pride (though it was good that Nie Huaisang eventually calmed enough to permit Nie Mingjue to assist before Meng Yao collapsed of exhaustion)…

All of a sudden it was real.

Nie Huaisang was his brother.

His real brother, a brother by blood – another child of their mother, small and clever and cunning like him, another who would stand by his side and make her proud, to show the world that they were more than just what she had been.

(He’d say that Nie Huaisang could help him beat anyone who said a bad word about her, but Nie Mingjue was doing a good job of that on his own, pretending all the while that he wasn’t doing it at all. As if he could keep a secret.)

Meng Yao was happy.

But then - 

Then it was winter.

The first little cough came during one of the classes on politics Meng Yao shared with Nie Mingjue, both of them writing their answers with delicate calligraphy – well, delicate and refined for Meng Yao, while Nie Mingjue’s brushstrokes were forceful yet elegant. Nie Mingjue didn’t notice the cough, absently hoisting Nie Huaisang a little higher in his non-writing arm, but Meng Yao was immediately frozen, thinking of what his mother had said.

He probably won’t survive his first winter.

Nie Huaisang was born in the late spring, which meant he was only half a year old when the winter came – some protection, but not much, and he was as weak as Meng Shi had predicted. The Nie sect had doctors aplenty, and Lao Nie spared no expense in getting medicine for his second son, but Meng Yao constantly worried that it wouldn’t be enough.

When Nie Huaisang continued to sicken, those soft little rasping breaths ringing in Meng Yao’s ear, he even started to wonder whether his mother really had done something after all, even though she knew he wanted Nie Huaisang to live, and he hated that he even thought it. And yet, he wondered...

His mother visited her sick son a few times, fewer than Nie Mingjue would like and more than Meng Yao wanted, and she had a good face for concern, full of gentle worry, good enough to fool anyone but her firstborn. Meng Yao overheard her crying once and was puzzled, only to understand when he heard Lao Nie comfort her that she wasn’t to blame, and that she wouldn’t be thrown out even if the child did die.

There were fewer visits after that, the purpose achieved.

(Meng Yao loved his mother, and knew she loved him – child of her heart that he was – but sometimes he thought he could almost hate her, too. It was a thought he’d had before, hidden deep in his heart, but only now that he knew there was more to life than her did he actually allow himself to think it.)

Nie Mingjue didn’t quite understand why she was acting the way she was, and Meng Yao determined in his heart that he never would. He might be younger in years than the boy he’d started (after a great deal of pressure and sad eyes like a lost puppy) to call his da-ge, but he was older in spirit. Perhaps if he were older, if he’d suffered more, he would resent Nie Mingjue’s carefree nature and the heart he wore on his sleeve, so easy to hurt and speaking of a lifetime of having not been hurt, but he was still young and all his dreams had come true – it was easy enough to shrug off the innocence and earnestness that, if he’d ever had it, he had lost it long ago.

It didn’t matter.

What mattered was the sleepless nights Nie Mingjue spent tending to Nie Huaisang, shoulder-to-shoulder with Meng Yao, persisting even when Meng Yao fell asleep; the way Meng Yao would always find a blanket covering him if he had, the way Nie Mingjue scolded him to eat while forgetting his own meals, the way he hide his tears for the times he thought Meng Yao couldn’t see or hear because he didn’t want to burden him –

“He’ll always be weak,” the doctors said, examining Nie Huaisang’s too-thin too-small frame, shuddering with coughs. “His muscle tone is low, his cultivation base unsteady…”

You might as well give up and try for another, they meant, and Nie Mingjue heard it as clearly as Meng Yao did.

And just as Meng Yao did, he refused to listen.

Where Meng Yao smiled at the doctors and thought of revenge, Nie Mingjue bristled and shouted, cursing them with as wide a vocabulary as he knew – wider, now that he had made Meng Yao’s acquaintance, than it had been before – and chased them away as frauds and liars.

And just as Meng Yao started to lose hope, Nie Huaisang turned a corner and got better.

“I don’t know if I can do that again,” Meng Yao said, staring with tears in his eyes at his little brother’s rising and falling chest, unhindered by any obstruction. “Next winter…”

“Next winter he’ll be older,” Nie Mingjue said, and wrapped an arm around him. “And so will we.”

Perhaps it was that that drove Nie Mingjue to pick up his saber a full two years before he rightfully should have received it, claiming a truly fearsome blade as his own if only he could master her, and after nearly a year of hard work he did. He named her Baxia, and Meng Yao thought of a creature strong enough to carry a mountain on its back – but it was of Nie Mingjue he thought.

(His own saber, he decided, would be named Chiwen, and like him it would draw evil away from others, taking it all on himself and swallowing it into his belly where it could rot him through and through if it meant that those he loved most would remain untainted by it.)

[fuchsiagrasshopper]

Contending the Flame IV

Author’s Note: Hope everyone had a safe and fun Halloween! Not much else to say here as we start to delve deeper into Ivar and the Nuns new relationship and the two different worlds they come from. Thanks as always for being so awesome!

Pairing: Ivar x Reader

Word Count: 2217

Warnings: Language, Master/Servant dynamic 

His brothers had kept a close eye on Ivar since acquiring his new thrall. He still played at the leader of their army, but he had refrained from shutting them out of power entirely. Any chance they had at lending a commanding voice they took. Hvitserk's strategy of giving their little brother a distraction was paying off.

The changes in Ivar's behavior were minuscule. Only Ubbe and Hvitserk took notice. It was the same when they were children when someone would give a new gift to Ivar. It would be a stretch to say he was happy, but his vengeance had quelled. For the moment it was enough, and they could focus on securing lands for their people while Ivar was preoccupied.

It was strange for a thrall not to be seen waiting over their master's every whim, but it seemed Ivar wouldn't permit you to leave his quarters. The other slaves they had acquired tended to him during meals, and when he walked the streets with his guards, you were always absent. Ubbe walked alongside Hvitserk contemplating this.

"What do you think he has her do for him?" Ubbe wondered aloud.

Hvitserk's brows puckered in thought. "Don't know. I can't imagine they have much to talk about, and I know the one thing they aren't doing."

"What do you mean?"

"C'mon, think about it," Hvitserk jested with a smirk. "I suppose that must make him a good fit for her. She'll remain a virgin after all."

Ubbe latched onto Hvitserk's arm, pulling him to a stop as he gave him a harsh look. "Those are dangerous words, brother. Remember Sigurd. I don't want to see another brother dead because of Ivar's fragile grasp of his anger. He has poor sensibilities when it comes to that matter. It's unfair, but it's not his fault."

Hvitserk shook off Ubbe's grasp and rubbed a hand at the back of his neck. "Right, that was stupid. I do pity him, though I don't think he'd want it. Who knows how he'll be when we start having families of our own."

Ubbe grunted. "He'll probably resent us, more than he does already. I think I understand why he keeps her away from everyone. Besides our mother, no one has ever taken to Ivar's company outside of obligation or familial bond. He's lonely."

"And it's not as if she can refuse," said Hvitserk. "But she's a Christian. That's got to account for some strife between them."

They continued on their way towards the center of the city. Food was beginning to run scarce, and it seemed the Saxons were holding steadfast on starving them out. While Ivar was willing to take their army to its limits to play Aethelwulf's game, Ubbe and Hvitserk were devising their own plan to negotiate land. They just needed a little more time. Many things rested in the hands of the nun, as unaware as you were.

"I just hope he hasn't harmed her," Ubbe said while they passed through the market.

Hvitserk looked grim, a heaviness settling on him that had replaced his usual cheer. "Ivar did always break toys. We have to hope that Christian isn't as weak as she looks."

ooOOoo 

You were growing accustomed to your new station. As a woman, it was your lot in life to suffer, and you took your new situation as a test from God. The heathen, Ivar, he had made no bid to harm you. That wasn't to say he was good company to keep. He had taken to trying to instruct you in a handful of words and phrases of his language. Some of the words were difficult to form with your accent, and when you mispronounced things, he would grow irritated and throw things at you. Uttering dark curses in his tongue, you were certain he had insulted you as well, but it was better than a flogging. 

At night you continued to pray, your back to your master, and the words spoken only in your head. You were sure they reached God, even without a rosary in your grasp or the piety to kneel. In your heart, you struggled to keep hope alive. If this test was to be your final judgment from God, its purpose remained clouded to you.

It was late when Ivar returned, and you had remained awake for his arrival. You now slept when he did, short and inconsistent hours of the night, only to be woken before the dawn. He did not rest well. Be it from his duties or pain you could not say, but he never faltered from exhaustion. This pattern must have been his usual routine, life at war.

Ivar's eyes sought you out the moment he came through the door, and you returned the stare. He had only just started walking in his new contraptions, a set of iron braces that he had created from pride. His determination to walk was admirable. You had never witnessed such a fighting spirit before, and you were certain it was a blessing from God.

"Something you wish to say?" Ivar interrupted your thought, a scowl on his face from your lingering gaze on his legs.

"It is a good thing," You said while rising from your corner of the floor. "I believe God has blessed you."

Ivar snorted, blue eyes rolling at your absurdity to insinuate such a thing. He took a slow seat on his pallet of furs and started to remove the braces. "Really, and why would that be?"

"You are not the first cripple I have met, but you are the most assiduous."

You could see him test out the word for himself, a lack of understanding passing over his face. "I'm not sure what that means, but I like how it sounds."

"You have an unrelenting heart. Strong-willed and resolute in your goals. I find you impressive."

He halted what he was doing, and took a long, considering look at you. "I've been this way for as long as I can remember. It is the way if I am to be seen as a true Viking to my people."

"So there are others like you?" You asked as you approached him with careful steps.

"There are not many cripples among my people, no. A child born with a deformity such as mine is left to die. I would have been if not for my mother. She was softhearted, and couldn't bear my loss."

You didn't want to have any strong sort of feelings towards your captor, but to learn that he had been left to die as a helpless babe engulfed you in sorrow. "It isn't wrong for a mother to feel pity for her child," You murmured, showing how distraught you were by such a story. "You don't sound grateful for her mercy."

Ivar's face hardened at your sentiment. "Mercy is for Christians. I would have done the same as my father. I loved my mother, but there are days I resent her for her choice. Her gifts failed to foretell the agony I would endure at the hands of compassion."

"What gifts?"

"She was a Vülva, a woman seeress of our people who has visions of the future."

You frowned at such a concept. "That sounds like sorcery to me."

"I forgot your people fear magic and witchcraft," Ivar said in a teasing tone. "My mother would have hated you. She was too steeped in the beliefs of our own people to have care about your sensitive notions of God. My father would have liked you though."

You blushed at the idea of such a great man holding you in favor. Though you didn't hail from Wessex you had heard the stories of the Viking King who fought for Mercia and befriended King Ecbert. "King Ragnar? Why do you think that?"

"He was often amused and curious about your God. Maybe you would have reminded him of Æthelstan, his Christian monk." Ivar resumed the task of taking off his braces, wincing in pain whenever a particular part pinched or pulled at his legs. "Here, come help me with this."

Startled by such a request, you moved with haste and uncertainty. Ivar showed you which parts to unclasp, and you would mimic his actions with a gentler touch, stopping entirely when he would let out any sound of discomfort. You were certainly slower at the task than if he completed it himself, but he seemed to enjoy watching you work over him, and you were grateful for the distraction. 

"What about your family? Where are your mother and father?" Ivar asked while leaning back on the strength of his arms.

"They're both dead," You said, pausing only a moment to collect yourself before continuing on his braces. "I was born in Rendlesham, in East Angles. My mother was a whore, and I never knew who my father was as a result of that. When she died, I was orphaned to the streets until the church took me in. Being of such low birth standing, I turned to the church as my ray of hope."

You could feel Ivar frowning at you, but you did not waver. "Did you not want to be something more than a nun?"

You breathed a laugh. "Such as what? Saxon women are not allowed to be warriors."

"Yes, but isn't there a way you could have improved your situation?"

"No," You said bluntly. "Blood is everything. Those who are of Royal standing will always be in power, and through marriage, their line continues. The best I could have hoped for was a marriage to a farmer, and he would have to have been a poor one. I would have raised his children, and likely died young from childbirth."

"I see now why you're a nun," said Ivar. When you chanced a look up at him, he appeared troubled by your story. "Those Saxons in power are greedy. They keep all for themselves and give nothing back. What chance is there of an honorable death for those forced to live a life of poverty?"

"If you die without sin, you go to Heaven. We have no need for honor."

"A life without sin," Ivar hummed. "As if any man is capable of such purity."

"A Priest is," You argued back. "It takes a nobleman to obtain such a pious position in the church."

"Is it noble for these men to keep silver and gold in their churches while children run through the streets, no better than dogs?" Ivar had sat forward, his eyes emboldened with the wrath of a demon. "I have seen your noblemen of the cloth, and they died screaming the same as any sinning heathen of mine."

You lost your balance, falling flat on your bottom as you gazed up at Ivar in terror. "What did you do to them?"

"The things I've done to your priests," Ivar paused, a calm washing over him. "It would make Loki grin."

The suffering of your people seemed to fall down on you like a star collapsing from the night sky. When he spoke, you could almost forget that Ivar was your enemy, but he had now made it clearer than ever where the line in the sand was drawn. You were just a slave, a Christian slave, and how soon would it be before he tired of you? You did not wish the same fate to befall you as it had for the priests, whatever it had been.

"I have not dismissed you," Ivar tutted when you began to walk away to your corner, unaware yourself that you had begun to do so. You craved distance from him, even if it was only a few feet away. 

At first, he tried to manage his composure, calling you back with his voice deliberately even. When it became clear that no amount of coaxing on his part would work, he started yelling in his language. That word came up again, 'Ólaug'. It had been peppered into a number of your one-sided conversations. If he had tried to brand you with a new name, you would refuse. He would not take who you were. 

Your fight ended with him throwing one of his crutches at you. It landed just before you, and you were able to contain your flinch. Ivar scoffed at your non-reaction and threw himself back onto the furs. He had finished disrobing and gave you the courtesy of his back, which appeared to be covered in a new etched design each time you saw him. Matched against your own untainted skin, it was a reminder of how different the worlds you came from were.

When you were sure Ivar had fallen asleep, you moved to get under your own thin pile of wool blankets. They were scratchy and held none of the warmth of the furs, but it was not the worst sleeping conditions you had ever weathered. That night you prayed for the lost Priests, and for God to take away your suffering. You didn't see a way out of your situation, but if God acted through you, you were certain to find your answer. Content to keep faith in your heart, Sister Mary Catharine slept, ignorant to the matter that Ivar was awake and watching you.

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[the-other-art-blog]

Fanfiction link: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13777126/1/Serendipity

The discovery of something beautiful without even looking for it.

Youngest CEO Laurie Laurence has been going all over the best galleries on the East Coast, only to find the perfect pieces in a modest gallery in South Boston...and something more.

For @peebleoddle

Boston, Massachusetts

“Sir, we’re here,” the chauffeur announced.

“Thank you, Arthur,” Laurie said. He quickly checked his hair on the rear-view mirror and stepped out of the car. He greeted the door attendant politely and went straight to the elevator. His apartment was the penthouse, of course, so it took a while. He checked his messages.

His art consultant was already waiting for him. Laurie had been trying to acquire new pieces for his collection, but everything felt variations of the same. The more contemporary art he saw, the more he hated it. He grew up in his grandfather's house, where it was full of antiquities and traditional art, but that was obsolete now, at least for the Bostonian high society. He didn't want to hang a Rembrandt either, but something in between would be nice

“Taylor!” He called the man waiting in his minimalist living room.

“Laurie,” The other man, not older than him, walked to him, hugged him, and tapped his back twice as men do.

“Please, tell me you find something,” Laurie pleaded.

“Actually, I think I did,” he answered, showing Laurie pictures of the paintings he just visited. Laurie sat next to him on the sofa. He grabbed the photos and studied them. This is it. These are the paintings he had been looking for. They were perfect, just the right combination of tradition and modernity. They were full of movement, color, and… sensuality. Nevertheless, what attracted him the most was the theme. Most of the paintings represented musicians and dancers. Although there were also couples and very intimate scenes, family scenes.

“Where did you find these?”

“A gallery in South Boston. You told me to look everywhere and here it is.”

“This is great.”

“I agree.”

“So how many of these can we buy?”

****************

“He bought them all?! No way.”

“Just finished talking to him. He’s going to send someone to pick them up.”

“I... I can’t believe it. Who was it?”

“His art consultant is the one who closed the deal, but let’s see… Theodore Laurence...” Sam looked at Amy who was thoughtful. “Do you know him?”

“Oh my God, yes. We went to school together. His grandfather owned this huge company...”

“That he now owns,” Sam said as she looked at the computer and Amy went to see the screen too.

“Yep, that’s him.”

      A few years ago...

“   Everyone ready!?” Professor Brown hurried up the students. “Amy!”  

  “Everything looks good,” sixteen-year-old Amy came up to his side holding a thick file. “The costumes fit, the setting is working. We’re ready for the costume rehearsal.”

  “Great. Let’s do it.” With that said, Amy and the professor/director sat in the middle of the seats expecting to be pleasantly surprised. Instead, their faces reflected complete disappointment. To be fair, most of the cast was doing a pretty decent job. The problem lied in the male lead. Damn it, Amy thought.  

      Laurie finished preparing his drink while he waited for his new collection to arrive. He wanted to put one of them in his apartment.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said to the employees bringing the oils.  

“Laurie,” Taylor entered behind them. “There’s someone here who wants to know you, actually she says she already knows you.”

“Hi, Laurie.” Amy entered the apartment. Taylor made a sign and went to follow the employees, leaving the two of them alone. “I'm sorry, I practically ambushed your friend... You probably don’t remember me.”

“Ummm… no. Of course, I do. Amy March, St. Claire High School.”

“That’s right.”

“What brings you here?”

“Well, seeing as you bought all of my paintings. I thought I could thank you in person.”

“You… you painted that… Amelia C.M.”

“That’s me.”

“Wow. I can’t believe I didn’t connect the dots before.”

“It’s alright.”

“Come, let me offer you a drink.”

      “I can’t believe it!” Amy rushed backstage. “Ah, Theodore Laurence. Just the man I was looking for. Seriously?” She asked, seeing as he flirted with a junior. The girl left.  

  “I go by Laurie.”

  “Whatever. What the fuck is wrong with you! You haven’t memorized your lines!”

  “Relax, I will get them,” he dismissed her.

  “When? You should know them already? The play is in a week!” he shrugged. “I mean it, Laurie!”  

  “Alright,”

  “This might be a simple thing for you, but to a lot of us, this is important. And you’re the male lead!”

  “Jesus, you’re so uptight,”

  “Why did you audition if you weren’t going to do it right?”

  “I need the credits, okay! I’m a senior!” He admitted, visibly ashamed. “Director Harrison says that if I don't get them, I won't graduate next summer. My grandfather would kill me. I've already been accepted at Harvard.” Amy rolled her eyes. It didn't impress her at all. Everyone knew rich boys like Laurie were always accepted, they just have to show their last names and it was done.

    “So, you’ve done well… this place is fantastic.”

“Thanks. I… actually have to thank  you  for part of it...”

“I’m sorry?”

“Well, remember when you helped me with the play. You really made me think a lot about my life choices… It took me a while to realize that you were right. I was a low-life and a...”

      “Man-whore?!” Laurie exclaimed.

  “You heard me,” sophomore Amy stuck to her words.  

  “Wait, does everyone describe me like that?”

  “Uhh… some would be nicer, and there are some girls really upset with you, but overall… that’s the main idea. You’ve built quite the reputation.”

  “Huh,” Laurie said. He expected to be called a flirt, lady’s man, womanizer, but man-whore! That was harsh, even for him.  

  “Look, whatever you do with your free time and your… body, is your business. I mean seducing women, drinking, and wasting money wouldn’t be my first choice, but… it’s your life.”  

  “Uh, excuse me? I might not belong to your class, but some from mine do talk about you.”

  “It’s not the same and you know it. I have dates, real relationships."

  “Why do you care so much?”

  “Because you have everything! Laurie, you have more money than I could ever think of, you are such a talented pianist. Honestly, if you're doing this for credits, I think it’s a shame the orchestra wasn’t enough. And...and that face. We could have used that for the drawing class,” they both blushed. “My point is you have everything right in front of you, from the moment you were born. The least you could do is take advantage of it. Not everyone is as fortunate as you are.”

  “Please, doesn’t St. Claire cost a lot? Your family is able to pay for that, you can’t be that poor.”

  “I have a scholarship and an aunt. She likes me and she’s willing to pay my tuition.”

  “Shouldn’t your sister, one of them, be in my grade?”

  “Jo. She’s in public school. She likes it better and she hates Aunt March. Meg is already planning her wedding and Beth prefers being homeschooled. We all are where we want to be.”

“Sounds good.   You think I’m a talented pianist?”

  “Please, you know you are. Not the best, but you hold second place firmly.”

  “The first place being...”

  “My sister Beth. She’s a genius.” She said proudly. “I have to go,” she announced after a message arrived on her phone. “Listen, the story is great. I’m sure if you give it a try, you’ll find it charming and the lines shouldn’t be that hard. You still have a week, make the best out of it. Professor Brown won’t give you the credits if he thinks you didn’t work hard enough. He’s already regretting casting you. It’s up to you to change his mind.”

    “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, you were right.”

“I know.” There was a silence for a couple of seconds, only them looking at each other. “So, what became of your life after high school.”

“Harvard. International business, internships. Finally, my grandfather trusted me enough to retire and left me the company to run. You?”

“I went to study art in Florence, I came back and started painting. I was able to afford my own gallery a year ago. And you just help me get the milestone of selling all my paintings. So… thank you for that.”

“My pleasure.”

“If I may ask, what made you do this? I mean… I know you're rich but… what made you think you wanted all?”

“I just saw exactly what I’ve been looking for. You have no idea, I send Taylor to look everywhere. I don’t fancy myself as an art expert, but I’m tired of seeing splashes of paint on a canvas. There’s something very special about your paintings. I love music, you remember that. And they just feel warm. This place could use that. And they have soul.”

“Would you like to make my marketing campaign?” she joked, although it wasn’t a bad idea. They shared a laugh.

“So umm… I don’t remember you playing music, you have a lot of it in your pieces.”

“My sister Beth died a few years ago while I was in Europe and I… I think she would like them. It helps me feel like I have her close to me.” She didn’t know why she was being so open to him, but it felt good.

“The best pianist!” He remembered. She smiled and nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

“You don’t sign as Amy March.”

“This might sound a bit strange, but I'm trying to make a name for myself. My family name is known in Concord and now that Jo is a best seller… I just don’t want everyone to see my painting and say ‘oh that’s Jo March’s sister’. She's in New York but her books are semi-biographical so...”

“I understand. Ever since I step in as CEO, I feel like everyone is comparing me to my grandfather.”

“I love my sister!”

“Yeah so do I, my grandfather I mean.”

“I just don’t want to live under her shadow.”

“Right.” Laurie felt the need to move the conversation. He didn't know what this was, but he liked it. Amy was gorgeous, she definitely aged well. She was already beautiful when they met in high school, but now she carried much maturity and that smile... And if she could create such captivating paintings, then she was more talented than he ever imagined. Back in school, she was always in the art class. He remembered her bossing the props team for the theater class. She had good taste, everything looked good. “I want to put one in the living room. Maybe you can help me decide.”

“Sure.” She followed him. Whatever this was, she definitely didn't want it to end.

[oskea93]

My Heart Has a History (4)

I couldn't believe I agreed to show up.

I watched as scantily-clad women walked around as men followed them like dogs after a bone. In a way, I felt kind of overdressed seeing as I was the only female that had a full wardrobe on. When Jax told me to meet him at this garage/clubhouse, I figured that it was a quiet setting. I thought maybe it would just be the two of us but I figured out that wasn't the case when I pulled up. "You're a little lost, sweetheart." I shifted my attention to a leggy blonde, who like the rest of the women barely had any clothing on. "This is a closed party and it looks like you aren't on the list." I was a little shocked but more pissed off that she would speak to me like that. First off, I had no idea there was a guest list or even a fucking party. Jax simply told me to show up tonight and that's what I did. This was my first time at this place and I found it very rude that she would speak to me in such a tone. "I didn't realize I needed an invitation." I simply said as I crossed my arms across my chest. She placed a fake smile on her face as she set her drink down and walked toward me. "Why are you even here?" I looked her over and immediately felt sorry for her. It was obvious that she was an attention seeker just by her choice of clothing. Her heels were sky high, showing off tan legs that I may or may not have been jealous of. Her skirt was the shortest one I've ever seen in my life and her breast were on full display in the top she was wearing. Not to mention, her face was caked with various cosmetics that looked like a bitch to take off at night. I straightened back up and made eye contact with her once again. "Jackson Teller invited me." Her smile only grew larger as she started to laugh. "Is that a joke, darling?" She stepped closer. "Jackson Teller has all that he needs tonight. There's no room for any wallflowers in Jax Teller's world." "Maybe Jax should be the judge of that." I tried to push past her but she moved every time I tried to dodge her. "I told you to leave, bitch." Her hand pushed against my shoulder, causing me to stumble a bit. I had never been in a fight before but I wasn't going to let some whore push me around. Without even thinking, my fist swung in the air and the girl fell to the floor. It was in that moment the people around us stopped what they were doing and stared as the girl wallowed on the ground. I was a bit shocked that I had hit someone and I kind of felt bad for doing so. I had yelled at plenty of people in the past but there was something about this girl that just set me off.

"What the hell is going on here?" A woman pushed through the crowd. "Ima?" She crouched down to her level and made sure that she was okay. "That stupid bitch needs to be arrested for assault!" I looked at her wide eyed as my anger began to take over once more. "I need to be arrested-" I began to shout. "You're the one who fucking pushed me first! You fucking deserved it, stupid whore!" The older woman helped the blond up, keeping her balanced. Her nose was all bloody as the liquid ran down her chin. "You're gonna fucking pay for this, gash." I narrowed my eyes at her as I began to step closer. I didn't make it very fair when a pair of arms pulled my body against theirs. "Get her out of here!" Jax's voice caused me to jump, realizing it was him who was holding me back. At first I thought he was talking about me since he was holding me down but he was talking about the blonde. I could tell that's not what she wanted to hear as the older woman helped her out of the room. Everyone went back to what they were doing once she was gone, not even caring for her well-being. Jax was still holding onto me as I turned around in his arms. "Sorry I ruined your party." I muttered. "I don't know what got into me to do that." He had a Cheshire-grin planted across his lips as he pulled my body further into his. Within seconds, his lips were attached to mine and I no longer cared about the poor blonde…. I couldn't believe she was still here.

I watched as she walked around, flirting with the guys and showing off the new implants some sucker bought for her. Aside from the new tits, she still looked the same. Long legs for days and a perfectly tan body to match. No wonder she could bed any man she wanted, she was a walking Fembot.

While Jax and I were married, I was certain that she had sunk her fangs into him. She was always around the guys and had to make an appearance at every party they had. I knew that the guys did business with CaraCara and it just so happens that Ima was one of the best in her field. From what I've heard, she could bend in any direction and make any man feel like he was king. I guess people are born with that type of talent.

"Presley." Gemma spoke. I snapped out of my thoughts and turned around to face her. Gemma knew my hatred toward Ima ran deep. When Jax and I first got together, she would egg on the hatred by telling me that Ima was at the clubhouse or that Jax had to go over to CaraCara for the day. I don't know what she was trying to do but she knew it got a rise out of me. "Is everything okay?" She asked, placing a hand on my arm.  I just nodded my head as I handed over Wyatt's favorite toy. "Wyatt left his toy in the car this morning and I know he gets a little fussy around naptime if he doesn't have it." She looked at the toy and then looked back to me. "You came all the way down here to bring a toy?" I looked at her confused. "I already put Wyatt down for his nap and he was fine without the toy." Okay, maybe I didn't come all this way to drop off Wyatt's toy. My plan was to run into Jax, instead of Gemma. I wanted to talk to him about what happened the other night and tell him that Matt was upset about the whole thing. "Is it a crime to bring my son his favorite toy?" I questioned back. She looked right through me and knew I was lying. "Jax'll be back soon." I rolled my eyes as she took the toy from my hands and headed towards the back room. I let out a sigh as I followed her lead. Wyatt was sound asleep on his father's bed, curled into the blanket that Gemma had made for him. His blonde hair was scattered across the pillow, a spitting image of Jax when he slept. Gemma simply laid the toy next to him and gestured for me to lay beside my son. "You look like you need a nap too, darling." She whispered as she took my bag and jacket from me. In a way, Gemma Teller was my guardian angel. There were times where I couldn't stand to be around her but I knew she was only looking out for me. She loved her family with all her heart and had the need to protect them at any time, especially when they’re pregnant. She was like a mother hawk when I was pregnant with Wyatt. I could barely do anything by myself without her being right beside me. She would show up at the shop and help with the orders if I was running behind and made sure that I was always accompanied to the OBGYN. She's still that protective mother bird even now that I'm pregnant with Matt’s baby. I want this little girl to know Gemma and Clay. I want her to know who Jax and the guys are. Whether I liked it or not, SAMCRO revolved around my life. I was married into the club at one point in my life and my son's father was the vice president of the MC. No matter how hard I try, Wyatt was destined to end up just like his father. I knew that from the very beginning. Gemma even pointed it out to me way before I was pregnant. For the MC to thrive in the future, it was up to me to give Jackson a son that could learn the tricks of the trade and follow in his father's footsteps. Just like Gemma gave JT a son, who was now the Vice President of the charter… "Everyone get down now!" I stirred at the sound of a man shouting. "I said get down!" I struggled to fully sit up as the sound of heavy footsteps came marching toward the bedrooms. The door burst open as a man clad in a black swat-team vest pointed a gun in my direction. I instantly wrapped my arms around Wyatt as he cried against my chest. "Everyone needs to be in the main room, now!" He continued to point the gun in our direction. I tried my best too quickly removed myself from the bed, picking up my hysterical son in the process. The guy moved out of the way and followed behind us as I entered the room. Everyone was on the ground, including a very pissed off Gemma. "On the floor!" "She's fucking pregnant, dickhead!" Gemma yelled from her position. Before the man could give any more orders, a blonde headed lady walked through the door. Her nicely pressed pantsuit showed that she was probably the one in charge of this whole fiasco. "Leave her be, officer." The man behind me lowered his gun and stood off to the side. "I need every woman who has ties to SAMCRO to come with me." She spoke. "The rest of you are free to leave." I looked over at Gemma as she was helped up by one of the men. "I'm not going anywhere with you, bitch." Gemma sneered as she made her way over to me. She wrapped her arms tightly around me as she glared at the woman. The lady let out a chuckle, running her fingers through her hair. “Cuff em.”  

[gdelgiproducer]

Speculation about an unusual birth

(Because “‘tis the season” and all that.)

In today’s episode of “Never Ask a Knowledgeable Atheist What He Thinks Really Happened”...

If the story of the birth of Jesus Christ has any truth to it, and if he really was the result of Mary getting pregnant without Joseph’s help, then it stands to reason that somebody had to be the daddy. Being an atheist, I rule out the presence of God, so the question is obvious: is there another candidate? Funnily enough, non-Christian sources from the second century do record an alternate father for the figure we call Jesus. 

Now, granted, those sources were looking to counteract the already-popular “virgin birth” story, and they were often virulently anti-Christian, so they went for the most shameful possible alternatives in that day and age: stating that Mary was either assaulted by, or had an adulterous affair with, a soldier named Pantera, and that Jesus was the result. 

 This was so persistent that it leaked into the Talmud and medieval Jewish writings. Some sources, such as the Toledoth Yeshu, garbled this story a little, combining Pantera with Joseph and giving Mary another husband altogether who abandoned her after the baby daddy’s deception led to conception, but everybody ultimately comes down on 1) there was another father, and 2) his name was Pantera.

Christian Response

Christian apologists have had answers for this story almost since it began. Many otherwise reliable scholars argue that pantera is a pun on the Greek word parthenos (“virgin”) and not a real name; in other words, detractors were making fun of the idea of Jesus being the “son of a virgin” by called him the “son of a panther,” or a lusty animal. But it has zero historical or linguistic basis. As far back as 1906, Adolf Diessmann showed conclusively that the name “Pantera” is a real name, not unusual, and further that it was favored by Roman soldiers, who used it fairly commonly.

Other much earlier sources, Church Fathers apparently unaware of the parthenos pun hypothesis, decided that rather than ignore Pantera, whose story was evidently already very widespread, they’d hide him somewhere in Jesus’ genealogy and claim anti-Christian sources were mistaken. Epiphanius claimed that Joseph’s father’s surname was Pantera, which -- by his own admission -- would preserve the “virgin birth” he himself believed in and still make “Jesus, son of Pantera” technically accurate by that day’s standards. Someone else claimed Mary’s grandfather bore the name of “Pantera.” While either is certainly possible (the discovery of an ossuary with the name “Pentheros” in a Jewish first century tomb in Jerusalem by Clermont-Ganneau in 1891 has given us additional evidence that the name was in use in Palestine by Jews at the time), this smacks more -- at least to this reader -- of two attempts to make a square peg fit a round hole.

At the end of the day, we are left with “Jesus, son of Pantera.” This would be enough by itself, but we even have an existing candidate for exactly which soldier named “Pantera” laid the pipe. (And I say candidate only because the evidence is circumstantial at best; definitive proof does not exist.)

A Grave in Germany

In October 1859, during the construction of a railroad in Bingerbrück, Germany, tombstones for nine Roman soldiers were accidentally discovered. Among them was the memorial marker of one Tiberius Julius Abdes Pantera, a soldier of 40 years, former standard bearer for the First Cohort of Archers, who had died at the age of 62. (Presently, the marker resides at the Römerhalle museum in Bad Kreuznach, Germany.)

The Roman names speak for themselves -- both may have been given in recognition of serving in the army as he obtained Roman citizenship, with the particular significance of Tiberius being that Tiberius was the Caesar on the throne when Pantera was discharged, and so he’d have added the emperor’s name to his own when granted citizenship -- but “Abdes” is especially interesting. It seems to be the Latin form of an Aramaic name. (You know, the language Jesus and his fellow Jews spoke?) According to etymologists, Abdes comes from Ebed, which means “servant of God” in Aramaic.

I know what you’re thinking: “Why would a Roman have an Aramaic name?” Well, a lot of poor Jews and other impoverished men of Near Eastern cultures in that day, who for whatever reason could not find viable alternatives in their native place, would hire themselves out as mercenaries. Sometimes even to the hated Roman occupiers -- after all, if you hung around long enough, you got Roman citizenship and a pension in addition to your wages, which was no small reward in the days of the Empire.

Lending credence to this theory that Pantera wasn’t strictly Roman, according to his epitaph, he came from Sidon, on the coast of Phoenicia just west of Galilee (where, you’ll recall, Jesus is reported to have lived most of his life). More than that, based on the known movements of the First Cohort of Archers, they transferred from Palestine to Dalmatia in 6 AD, and to the Rhine in 9 AD. So Pantera was not only in Palestine at the right time for Jesus to be conceived, but he wasn’t Roman by birth; he enlisted locally, from an area close enough geographically that it’s even more possible he and Mary could have met.

Tiberius ruled from 14 AD to 37 AD. Pantera’s 40 years of service would therefore have started between 27 BC and 4 BC. As Pantera would probably have been about 18 when he enlisted, it means he was likely born between 45 BC and 22 BC. He could have been as young as 15 at the probable time of Jesus’ conception, which is worth noting because, from what we know of Jewish society back then, a boy would have been learning his trade by age 10, engaged at 13 (girls would typically be 12), and married by 14 (girls, 13); precocious and unconscionable by today’s standards, no doubt, but nonetheless the reality.

So... even absent definitive evidence, we have a viable candidate for the baby daddy -- right place, right time, right name, right age for things not to be icky, the kind of background where he and Mary could conceivably have met. But what about the stories of assault and illegitimacy?

Possible Explanations

Well, let’s look at what we know about Jewish culture at the time and speculate a little based on that:

This was a patriarchal culture where, as Fiddler on the Roof puts it, marriage was decided by the papas.

Sex outside of marriage was frowned upon. Shit, women were called whores just for getting divorced. (An echo of this exists even in Jesus’ own Sermon on the Mount, where divorce for any reason other than marital unfaithfulness is considered blameworthy.)

When tax collectors were being excoriated as traitorous collaborators by their fellow countrymen, imagine how much worse you’d get it if you slept with a Jew who went on to become a soldier in the Roman army. Why, the man himself, regardless of any lover or wife, might be disowned, a practice whereby parents considered their child dead and observed the traditional seven days of mourning.

Continuing on that seeming tangent from the last bullet point, if a man died without having children, Mosaic law held that his brother was responsible for marrying his widowed sister-in-law and continuing the family line in his brother’s name. So if a disowned son “died” without having children, well... maybe his brother had to pay for that choice.

Based on that, and sprinkling in a little long-standing Catholic tradition which portrays Joseph as an old widower (bearing in mind that many people in Jesus’ day didn’t live past 40, so even approaching one’s late thirties was considered “old”), I think I have an interesting idea about what went down. 

All of it is speculation. Every single bit of it. But isn’t it funny how it basically aligns with recorded tradition, even in the Bible and apocrypha, when you strip out the supernatural elements? (Okay, that’s a little strong, but, I mean, it’s not a huge stretch. It lines up.)

My Interesting Idea

Meet Miriam. a young teen by today’s standards. Like any other young teen at any time in recorded history, she’s a force of nature, with hormones and with emotions so powerful they shock even her. (Healthy teenage development can look pretty irrational. A minor annoyance can turn into an emotional earthquake that knocks everyone in the house off balance. Not much has changed.)

Meet Ebed. Maybe he and Miriam have known each other their entire lives; maybe he’s new in town and just cute enough to catch her eye. He has ambition. He feels he isn’t destined to stay in some obscure backwater, and he wants to make something of himself. More than that, he’s hungry. But odd jobs aren’t cutting it. If he puts his foot forward to betroth Miriam, her father will laugh in his face. In their time and place, marriages are arranged, and he has nothing to offer.

If anything, Miriam’s father is more interested in his older brother, Yosef, a widower. Being a tekton (often translated as “carpenter,” but more accurately a stonemason or architect) making decent money from Herod and Rome reconstructing Palestine in their image, he’d be a sound choice for her future. So she wants the brother, big deal -- what say does she have in the matter? It’s the same family. She’ll see him all the time!

One day, Ebed -- whose name I’ll remind you means “servant of God” (those Christian mystics do say the Lord works in mysterious ways, don’t they) -- visits Miriam with his usual flattering words. She knows something’s up. He tells Miriam that he’s found a way out, a way to make his mark on the world, but while it can provide for the two of them, it will expose them to shame and disgrace forever, and there’s even less chance her father will think their betrothal is a good idea. Namely, he’s joining the First Cohort of Archers. Knowing what this will mean for their relationship, even though she has known no man in the biblical sense (which makes her reluctant at first), she ultimately accepts a “proper goodbye.” Unfortunately for Miriam, in her time, place, and circumstance anyway, she was left with a reminder of his love. And the minute she knows she’s pregnant, she runs off to hang with her cousin, who just got pregnant herself under equally unusual circumstances. Running to visit a cousin in the same shape? Sounds like someone who was scared, or needed advice or time to think about what to do.

(Note that all of the above, once you strip out the supernatural angle and added frippery, is exactly what’s in the Gospel of Luke: a servant of God visits Mary with words of flattery, “tells her she’ll have a child” [I mean, he even says the Holy Spirit will “come upon her,” and don’t criticize me for my dirty mind, men considered it a divine mandate to spread their seed based on the early chapters of Genesis, whether they were consciously setting out to do that or not], she is reluctant at first but ultimately accepting of this “news,” and she immediately goes to visit her mysteriously pregnant cousin. Honestly none of this is especially different from the Bible when you remove your rose-colored glasses.)

While Miriam is off with her cousin Elisheba, her father makes the choice he’d already set his mind upon anyway, especially in light of Ebed running off to join the Romans, being disowned, and permanently taking himself out of the game (as it were): she will be pledged to Yosef. Since Ebed is now “dead,” maybe he can use his word -- the final word -- to persuade Miriam that her marriage fulfills the Law, and her children with Yosef will be Ebed’s. It’s technically not true in the least, but men thank God in prayer every morning that they were not born women and a common saying is that the Law should sooner be burnt than placed in female hands, so she won’t know the difference anyway, and if she shoots her mouth off, no one will pay it any mind, as she’s a woman.

As for Yosef’s feelings on the subject, arranged betrothals are just the way things are done. He knows his brother loved Miriam, and he feels bad, but honoring him by marrying her is what tradition dictates. He’s getting older (at least by that day’s standards), he’s been around the block once; even if he never truly loves this woman, at least there will be someone to come home to.

Word arrives at Elisheba’s: “You are betrothed to Yosef. Get back here. It’s been three months.” Now, what does Miriam do in that situation? Deciding never to return wouldn’t just disgrace her; it would put Yosef in the middle of things and leave a black mark on his reputation. Whatever she feels about him, she knows he doesn’t deserve that. So naturally, with no other choice, she goes home.

Imagine Yosef’s reaction when she turns out to be with child (from, y’know, a “servant of God,” which tradition may later call the Holy Spirit to obscure things), and throws herself on his mercy. I’d say what the Gospel of Matthew (1:18-19) says happened next wouldn’t be exactly inaccurate: “His mother Mary was pledged to be married to Joseph, but before they came together, she was found to be pregnant [...] Joseph her husband was faithful to the law, and yet did not want to expose her to public disgrace...”

Morally torn, Yosef thinks to himself, “The Law calls for her to be stoned, but I’ve already lost one wife to Sheol. If all men call me cursed, that could hurt my chances if I ever put myself on the line for betrothal again. I could break the engagement quietly, but if I didn’t marry her, people would speculate. She might bear shame and disgrace anyway. This isn’t worth the mishegas, for either of us.”

And the angel in him, if you will, won out. Maybe he’d never be what Ebed was to her; maybe he could never ask her to love him. But the child would need a father, and she would need someone to care for her, even if only to cover her shame. Who knows? It could be a blessing in disguise.

In Miriam’s shoes, I’d be grateful. Maybe even have at least four other kids with him down the line (see Mark 6:3).

It’s all just speculation, but what if...?

[budugaapologist]

when you are reading this rant take full offense its 2am here and im mad as hell

fair warning this post is long as fuck and has several arguments pertaining to specific peeves i need to rant about before i go crazy. if you're not interested just keep scrolling it's not hard it's literally the core of social media navigation

you know what? ima say it.

black flag is the best ac game and deserves more recognition than just pirate drinking jokes because:

nearly every named character (sorry burgess and cockram) has development and personalities. cant say that for that many others in other games.

not too much fucking shit to do in it (unlike uhhhhhhhh every fucking other game in the franchise. stop it. i dont need 500 treasure chests in arno's game he already has an excellent revenue with the cafe. i dont need a ton of side quests. i dont need 30+ chests per london burough. i dont need a million question marks on my map. i dont need all of egypt or greece to be littered with shit to do. fuck this.).

unlocking shit is so much easier. edward knows where every treasure chest is and doesnt pay for treasure maps. and literally unlocking shit is so much easier.

base is slept on. its fucking cool. its fucking fun. its fucking useful as shit. its fucking pretty as all hell. fuck you.

good story, fun story, great dlc, relatable story (unless youre some bootlicking cowardly rich cunt) emotional story but not depressing (unity im looking at your ending. origins stop killing children.), satisfying end.

i can do the combat with one hand. you know what that means? i can eat and drink without pausing. i can reply to text messages without pausing. i can pet my dogs and cats while playing.

main character actually has changed by the end of the game a vast amount. motherfucker, edward changed more in his antó mission than ezio did in his trilogy.

if you dont complete all objectives you still have a passing score on the mission. do you know what its like to be raised to only get good grades on stuff and see yourself getting a 60% on a thing thats supposed to be a pass time just because you forgot something.

the naval combat isnt hard you just need practice. also i know the hunter ship sucks in the first mission you encounter but literally drop your sails but hold the wheel. once its in view let go. swim to it. take out the crew. swim back. bada bing bada boom go oneshot the crew. incredible, you're safe now.

legendary ship battles are really fucking cool and my mom doesnt yell at me for killing a giant beast for next to nothing.

the sea shanties and tavern songs slap.

farm animal petting simulator. not forced to kill dogs (ac3, odyssey).

obviously its good if the other games are just gonna copy paste it.

ed's tattoos are sick.

edward is literally the first canon bisexual. he literally says so in game. he literally fucking flirts with blackbeard. he literally was a pirate. why the fuck do you think birate is such an accurate pun.

diving outfit.

thicc.

the female characters dont have titties all over the place. even anne's boobs arent that big, which is good considering she is underage. the same cannot be said for many of the women in ezio's games.

guess who has a solid, interesting, and realistic personality. not kassandra or alexios thats for sure.

he is NOT moved by man pain (ezio, connor, bayek) to carry out his missions. he didn't want to be poor, he wanted to be able to provide for his family. he is just carrying out his dream to sail a ship. when he starts being "good", he is doing it out of guilt and shame on his past self (what, self reflection? someone, teach jacob this term), not because "wahh my girlfriend/mom/child/family died :'(", he wanted to make it up to his lost friends by making them proud and doing what they wished he had done. his regrets are in not being a better friend while mary was alive, not seeking out her killers (guards at fort). thatch's death crushed him, but he didn't thrust his anger on seeking revenge. and the characters that did die? they had personalities and development and were interesting and memorable. i cant tell you shit about cristina.

he is very respecting of women, especially for a white guy from the 1600s. he, as a teenager (under 17 i believe), attempted to save a woman he did not know and had no intentions of wooing (hey um ezio? you literally only were able to save cristina from being raped because you stalked her because you thought she was attractive. like thanks for saving her but uhh am i the only one that finds that creepy?) even though the odds of winning against three older men were stacked against him and he knew they could (and almost did) beat him to death. fuck if caroline wasnt there he would've been killed.

the modern day stuff is an excellent way to separate intense scenes and the little mini hacking games are fun puzzles. oh boohoo desmond isn't there? yes he was, half the things you hack literally give you desmond content.

rebecca's outfit fucking slaps.

from experience, its fun to play even if you dont know shit about the other ac games. pirates are cool and the story is easy to follow, just be prepared to find some of the other endings big letdowns or lots of the other games' missions boring.

is that fanservice that goes both ways but doesnt oversexualize any gender? why yes, it is!

stop reducing black flag to alcoholism jokes like yall constantly fucking do, it has so many other talking points and if you wanna make fun of something maybe choose something that isnt addiction. literally i make fun of edward constantly without pointing out his alcoholism it isnt that hard. if you're gonna make fun of edward for drinking rum when water in the 1700s often wasnt safe and making fun of him when he was depressed (he has multiple other intended self harming behaviors shown in game so no, he wasnt just drinking because its fun), why don't i see the same "wHy is aLL tHe WiNE gONe?" posts for arno? he was an alcoholic too. in fact arno and edward have a lot of the same forms of depression but oh, arno's a more serious character personality wise and isn't a pirate so his grieving isn't as funny.

and like, there are plenty of other things to make fun of with edward that might not make light of alcoholism because no, edward's drinking in the main story was not written to be a joke. here, a list of things i regularly make fun of him for:

this highwaisted man's got feminine hips

there is no reason for him to be that thicc

his bangs are a mess

his hair???? glows???? okay rapunzel.

his tatts that are just lines

actually you know what his tatts in general what do they mean ubisoft what even language are the words on his body in

how this whore opens the bottled messages on the beach. "ah yes, let me put this mysterious item in my mouth. i have no idea where its been. i could very well open it to read a note that says "i pissed on this""

"woman i just met... must respect her.. man i just met... im either going to give you a death threat, tease you, or flirt... sometimes multiple choices will be done......"

i mean he had the full right to be a bastard to walpole on the beach since he did try to be friendly but walpole was being to bitchy and needy. and like them being stranded wasnt edward's fault but walpole was still gonna make him build a ship and there is no reason for edward to trust walpole since after they get to havana he can easily just be like "thats a pirate, hang him." but like. the way he just immediately decides to steal his identity. legend.

why does he just blindly follow older men's orders like that

he trims his beard to a very odd location. i know it isn't a flattering pose but like. look at the underside of his jaw.

"how many references to dog behavior can we put in one character"

phobia of sleeping in a bed

"you saved my life i am eternally grateful."

edward are you seriously arguing with your eight year old daughter about the difference between a boat and a ship

where are your tanlines

how did he not die of skin cancer first

edward probably doesnt have any body hair because ubisoft didnt want his legs to glow in the dark too

look at his marooned outfit. bitch what the fuck is on your shirt. and where are your hair ties.

his dramatic beauty guru smokey eyes

he held that sword by the blade in the single madman quest. wh

anyway, the long run of this is, if you're gonna reblog an edward post from me specifically to make fun of an overused joke, go fuck yourself.

[iliveinmyblanket]

Chapter one: I introduce you to my hoes

"fuck" I screamed, as I faked an orgasm for an Orangists in Holland. 

My name is Valentine Du Lac and I have the attention span of a goldfish. I’m Queen Anne of Austria, the spanish queen of france’s personal but probably not favourite spy (everybody knows that it was Madame D’Artagnan), quite frankly because I am a right pain in her arse. But I’m still often the one she sends out on a missions - no one’s going to care if a prostitute from the Court of Miracles has gone missing. She’s never said that, but it’s implied with the job.

The Job:  I was here to be the orangist’s lover and listen in on his conversations or force myself to listen in. Believe it or not Traditionalists are the most boring people I've ever met, which is funny because I've had to spend hours listening to Lucy Walters who invented the word ditzy. 

I'm gonna just give you a summary of me and Orange dutchman conversation. I forgot his name so I've just been replying to him as "sir" because quite frankly I don't have the attention span to care about man who assassinated some himbo named Johan DeWitt and his brother something deWitt -forgot his name to. I remember Johan because I like the name Johan, oh it's cornelis - see that's why I didn't remember it -what kind of pretentious name is cornelis? 

Anyway my job here was to get information, there was none, mainly because he already assassinated someone so he could stage a coup.

not really anything important. which really pissed me off, Anne really got freaked out by orange dutchman who were assassinating people and also got tipped off that traditionalists were heading to france.

which is bull. 

which is good because I don't ever have to see Orange Dutchman again.

Orange Dutchman gripped my hair, sniffing my neck and whispered, "will I see you again?"

A gave him a soft but fake smile, "of course sir"

No you won't, if you do, I will give you the deWitt treatment.

I smiled, kissed his cheek, and fucked off.

As you can tell I'm not one for too much detail in regards to things I don't care about.

All I am going to say is this is the story of how I and  two other bosses - Dominique Treville and Marie-Cessette Du Vallon; basically saved europe with our strength, swords, witty banter and aided by two himbos named Xandre and Raoul. 

get ready for adventure because we make it look bitchin'.

While I was heading back home, Dominique Treville - the daughter of the captain of the musketeer was also heading over there very quickly after reading a rather scary letter. whilst Marie-Cessette du Vallon already there she too lived at my home but had returned from a meeting with one member of the royal family. she  was now at the tavern with her fellow musketeers - Raoul de la Fare and Alexandre-Olivier D'artagnan. Marie-Cessette was the first female musketeer and one of the best of them.

now technically the home I am talking about is Paris, but you have to look inside further. not at the shiny places, not at the places that appear lively. I mean the place that looks dark, that looks broken. Look into the place that appears to be to be lifeless, but when you turn off the lights at the places that are seen to outshine everything. The place that is broken lights up like the sun.

The Court of Miracles.

The Court of Miracles is said to be the slums, the dirtiest part of Paris. that's according to the richest of Parisians. the court of miracles is the most interesting place in france, full of people of different races, of different accents, different appearances.  the most welcoming place in europe. though the structures were unstable, the society is most happy, most beautiful. see you were never judged for your job, or who you are, or what you did outside - as long as you didn't bring too much of that inside.

My mother moved from england after the english civil war, I was 16 years old, she was a whore just as I am now - puritan england was no place for a prostitute and her  out-of-wedlock daughter. She died a year later of syphilis, leaving a poor daughter penniless. 

So what does a daughter of a prostitute do, when their mother dies.

Becomes a fucking prostitute.

As opposed to non-fucking prostitutes. Years later a dark haired woman, with a blue dress and a black hooded, guided me to the palace and introduced me to the benevolent queen of france. it was suggested that I become her spy as I had caught the eye of many religious and royal officials. a women can never escape the male gaze, so why not use that to your advantage.

Marie-Cessette, whom was was an adventurous, resourceful girl, with a temper, and the first female musketeer. she was opinionated and did speak up when she didn't  agree with the men in her life. it's surprising neither of us became executed for being witches, men do not like being told what to do even if they are being outrageously pathetic. This night, this less than fine night because the sky was fucking pissing itself, Marie-Cessette was leaving a tavern in the court, she wore a white linen shirt, a blue leather doublet with the musketeers symbol (a crown) and black linen breeches with blue boots, and probably something gay like "I am gay" or "if found please return to Anne-Marie D'Orleans" I wasn't there, I'm under the assumption she was wearing that, that night considering that is the musketeers uniform not the “I am gay” part although they should have that as the uniform. Marie-Cessette had brown curly hair (proper curly, not some movie bullshit curly) that was short and tied in a bun.

Her eyes are dark and watchful. she was leaving to go to her uncle Aramis (not by blood but by heart).

Her father is the Musketeer Porthos du Vallon, who grew up in the court. he joined the musketeers when he 16. that was his only good choice out of the thousand terrible options for those born into destitution. That's where he met Aramis and Athos, the three of them becoming inseparable. that's where he met D'Artagnan -Xan's father, actually no he met D'Artagnan when D'Artagnan decided to stir shit up and duel three musketeers in one day. but that's another story, literally another story, literally in another book.

her mother Puce is known as the queen of the court, that means basically giving those in the court food and shelter, kicking people out that are stirring up trouble.

Puce and Porthos never had a son so even though Marie was to inherit the court of miracles crown, she was trained as a musketeer because Porthos wanted to raise one. did Marie get a choice? no? is she happy beating up misogynists? hella.

This girl that fought better than the manliest of men (although I wouldn't actual call them manly) was heading to her uncle Aramis, why? so he could deliver a love letter to Marie-Cessette's lover - Anne-Marie D'Orleans, the king's cousin.

so yeah isn't that like superillegal? yeah, not the homo part, I mean it is a bit. but like not as vibe checking as bedding the king's cousin when she is female.

guys be fucking whoever they want, but girls ArE ToO FrAgIlE aNd HaVE a ROle.

Meanwhile we go back to Dominique.  now Dominique she has had some pretty fucking horrible news.

Dominique Treville was the brunette usually snarky daughter of Treville, the captain of the musketeers. now nothing is snarky, everything for her is humourless. this morning Dominique had received news that  Treville had been murdered by the musketeer Aramis.

which as you can see is definitely not the case, why the fuck would Aramis the himbo who invented the word "straight ally" kill someone who he sees as a father?

he wouldn't.

But a girl who lived in the country with no knowledge of Aramis doesn't know. you probably shouldn't tell her that when she's a holding a fucking knife.

"put down the knife or you lose your neck"

Dominique turned slightly, noticing the blade that sat on her shoulder and centimetres away from her neck, while Dominique was standing over the Aramis who was sleeping

"he killed my father, so I wouldn't be protecting the murderer" Dominique replied agitated, she was in layman's term is done. with. everyone's. shit.

Marie-cessette - who was the owner of the blade had no Idea Dominique had another knife

Dominique batted the rapier away with said knife and pointed it at Marie.

If you want to understand how much of a boss Marie is, well just understand if she were to ever do a DNA test, it would show she's a hundred percent that bitch.  She grabbed Dominique's knife and punched her in the gut, then kicked her in the shins, Marie-Cessette proceeded to pick up her Rapier, as she did so, Dominique ran at her with her knife.

Aramis shot up from his bed and grabbed his rapier, held it against Dominique's neck and then held her in a choke hold.

"cessy, what in the lord's name is going on?" He grumbled sleepily.

Marie-Cessette shrugged and rolled her eyes as if to say that she did not have time for this shit.

"she says ya killed her pa?" she replied, swinging her sword aimlessly around.

"oh he a criminal? let me guess? " Aramis started and turned Dominique around so he could analyse her. "gang?  organised crime. has to be, you are clearly not parisian. too muscly, not pale enough. if I killed your father, then it was for a good reason"

Dominique scowled, bawling her hands into a fist as her nails dug into her palms. her breath increased in a mix of anger and fear.

"what good reason do you have for killing the captain of the musketeers!" Dominique roared.

The outburst caused a wave of deep silence. Marie's eyes dropped, she dropped her rapier. Aramis let go of Dominique and fell onto his bed.

Marie ran to him, to hold him.

"Treville, he...can't" Aramis cried hyperventilating, "no..he..."

Marie grabbed his face, which was flooding with tears, "don't speak"

Dominique was now fighting a war, either this was rather well planned or Dominique had been tricked. But Dominique was smart, there was no fakery in those tears (it wasn’t a youtube apology video afterall). 

Dominique dropped down, kneeling at the bed looking up at the sobbing man.

"you didn't kill him?"

Aramis shook his head, "he was a father to me, a father to paris."

Dominique banged her fists against the floor, and started to scream.

"who the fuck killed him then!" she yelled and ran out of the housing unit.

Marie started to follow her.

"cessy?" Aramis piped up as she started to exit.

"yeah mon oncle?" She replied solemnly.

"keep her safe, it's the least we can do to honour his memory." He asked her, before lying back on the bed and staring at the ceiling.

"I think she can handle safety on her own." she whispered.

"she can fight I'll admit." Aramis touched an etching on the wall, "but her recklessness will be a burden on her life."

Marie nodded and left the unit. She watched the girl with dusty hair. The daughter of treville was wearing a red corset, a dark, blue dress that fell to her knees, and black knee high boots, she wore a red tricorn hat. Dominique cut angrily up an apple with one of her knives.

"I want to help you!" Marie called.

Dominique rolled her eyes and launched a knife into a pole that was rather close to Marie's head. 

"thank you. " Marie sighed, grumpily. "I said I want to help you, not burden you. so stop being a bitch."

Dominique twiddled the other knife in her hand, "excuse me?"

Marie pulled the knife out of the pole, "you are the one throwing the knife at me. besides my mother, my father, your father helped build this citadel, are you sure you want to honour his memory by throwing blades into its foundations, and insult my family legacy." Marie shouted, despite not caring for family legacy.

"so what do you suppose I do then?" Dominique threw the apple off the balcony. "I'm back to square one."

"not if you let me help you" Marie replied, she flipped the knife and handed it to Dominique, "I'll take you to lieutenant D'artagnan, he can help us."

Dominique let out a deep exhale, and took the knife.

"I didn't get your name" Dominique said.

"Marie-Cessette Du Vallon" Marie held out her hand.

"Dominique Treville." Dominique took it and they shook.

"now let's get you to D'artagnan" Marie said, "oh and pick up that apple, rotten food is how sickness spreads, you heathen."

Dominique was rather sure that was not going to be the last time she was called a heathen.

Now it's for Xan and I's story. We a lot funkier.

[anxietydiaries]

ugh

If only people knew where i came from. They would listen, awaken, broken and beaten.

You'd think that I’d be sitting here thinking about everything, but my head is filled with holes, life with no meaning.

 All that people have ever said to me, but their words don't even matter, you can only learn so much from an idiot, when you think that you know the world as much as the world did.

When you sit there thinking about all of the things that you believe, knowing that life is futile, alone and at ease.

And thinking about whether you're right or wrong, thinking that you have it all. for me, it's more about morality, it's not perfect, but it works, because its raw..

Morality is a non-arguable stance, you can't make’em shift, you can't make em dance. you can't change their mind unless they themselves choose to do so, and experience something that makes the colors change.

Your mind is only something that you choose to change, no one else can do that unless faced with the brave, the active decision to have a discussion is there in one single place. Yet you all argue over the same tired talking points. racism, sexisim, gender, and choice.

when you wake up in the morning, is the first thing you do is think about what you might argue today? Do you think about who you are going to piss off, or hurt, harass, embarrass, or shame?

Do you even consider for one second how your actions can affect someone?

I really doubt it, because you only think of yourself and what you want, and then some. 

What's really funny to me is that there are people who exist that try to do the right thing, saying wise things, yet have all the wrong knowledge. What an anomaly, special, but pointless.

Can you really live with yourself knowing that you believed in lies, and tried to use the past to justify your retarded guise? the past is a poor argument. yet People sit there and say, the past is in the past, and we need to focus on change. the world isn't so black and white and blue and gray.

I know when people say that, they worry more of leaving things behind, but that justifies nothing, than learning from lies, it's the past and they should use that for their future. It’s super annoying. but it's important, its for our overture.

With today's social climate, i hate that people use the past to attack others, yet they never grasp,  using insults to tear someone down mentally and emotionally, how do you live, knowing that damage is overkill? 

while sitting on their computer and phones complaining about the word “retard” and crying on about how its a slur when the term is allocated to the damage of technology.

 You’d really think that people can be more intelligent, but really they're stupid as fuck. It leaves me worried with everything that's going on, and yet people think that the world sucks.

Lack of empathy is a mental illness on earth, yet no one notices at all. We live in a world where people treasure their material possessions to the point of tearing others down. their looks and numbers and “wins” when they're really losses. funny how that that shit never matters. 

Making me sick to my stomach, celebrating someone's death like that, what is wrong with people? well you can fuck off, because the same goes to you, now die with the masses. 

 You know it doesn't matter who you support, at the end of the day the decision will be made and yet you sit here thinking you’re on the throne, when you're really sitting on a pile of graves.

Fuck these people and everything they're about, why do we have to live with so much misinformation and doubt. YOU HAVE BEEN LIED TO, DON'T YOU SEE THAT? i'm a very moral person, so it doesn't add up. 

You think you're invincible, yet get your ass beat, if you have anything to say, you get whipped on the streets. Life ain't so precious when it's that easy, to find death, outside in the beautiful world.

Hiding behind your phones and keyboards, you think you're really brave, when really you're a weakling, smashing windows and vets graves. You're just a fly, easy to kill, but think you move fast when you're caught in your lies, but once your found, people smash you down, and you delete your tweet like you never made a sound. 

HELLO!? the wayback machine is a thing! once it's on the internet, its there for eternity, you cant hide your shit personality, so hold your breath, with your senseless atrocity.

So i suggest one thing, use that brain of yours, the thing in your head! You're not even real, you're dead. because remember, many people have died. but that doesnt matter, because you're selfish inside.

You all cry on about abortion yet you sit there sad and disappointed, your life has no value, as much as the chain around your neck, you're worthless, and pathetic at best. Your useless, you think fucking for fun is worth it, and then once you get pregnant you throw it away like you never even heard it, and then you turn gay.

Stop opening your legs and get a brain you pathetic insect, my life started off on an off beat, and here i am, im finally breathing. Yeah my chest is tight, and i panic every night, but i'm alive and that's all that matters, because my life really does matter. 

At 17, i could have killed myself, i could have died but i choose to think about it, and i'm really glad that i did, because it would have been a waste of my time and my energy to die without clearing my sins.

You think you had it worse? yeah sure thing, everyone's different, but you'll never know somebody's pain, until you learn to SHUT THE FUCK UP AND START LISTENING! its bears repeating, our whole world is glistening.

You're an ant, you're a flea, you're a parasite, living off government money, while you sit and flex on his cumming, you can't take it back and cry in your clean sheets.

Waiting for love, and you still cry, but love never comes, yet you wonder why, you're really alone, and you are the problem. Thinking you're great, when you're really nothing.

You're fat and alone and youre sad, you sit in the dark staring at your hand, wondering why you're alive. “KILL YOURSELF!! DO IT!!! I DARE YOU!!!” all of you peons, so pathetic, YOU'RE SCARED TOO!!! Sitting there fighting over nothing, but fame, and numbers and money.

When will you wake up and realize that world doesn't revolve around you? oh that's right, you're to busy only voting blue. 

the KKK, the liars and cheaters, the only people that you won't even breed with. Don't have kids, don't ever spawn, because its a waste of your time. Go ahead and sit open and bare, you're a wasteland of lies that you always wear. Ears glued shut, mouth wide open, swallowing every bit of jizz he pours in your mouth. 

Do you feel like a queen, a king, or a princess? Oh yeah thats right, that doesn't exist. 

So say my name, you don't know it, because you're a prostitute living off men. They don't actually care about you, they care for your body, you're a walking talking hypocrite. 

How you say? Now let me be clear, you're a pathetic whore living off jeers. It's embarrassing, and pathetic, i hope this make you cry, mostly out of the realization that you have nothing to supply.

The hearts of men are being used, and that's manipulation my guy. You're the worst kind of women if you don't really care, so sit there and take it all in. Because what i'm saying should make it all clear. 

My body my choice but you choose to open your legs.

My body my choice but you choose to say yes. 

My body my choice but you choose no protection, i hope you get a huge staph infection. 

My body my choice, you chose cum inside, and here you are a week later, on your knees, vomit, crying. 

WHAT HAVE I DONE? you cry to yourself, you whored yourself out for just ANYONE.

OH dear little ant, sit back and hear what i say. My body my choice is a pathetic disgrace. 

Hello, im adopted, nice to meet you! im free, my mother did cocaine, yet that's why i am here. If it went any further i could have died, and that'd be it, the end, good night.

But i'm happy to be here, i cherish every moment, knowing that my mother loved me enough to put me up for adoption.

I sit before you, grinning with teeth, knowing that i have a mother and father who love me endlessly. 

I can sing, i can dance, i can read really well, but what can you do? But sit there with your fancy nails.

I've heard everything, the same tired arguments. Its too hard, i have no meny, i CAN'T TAKE RESPONSIBILITY. 

What's it like to learn nothing and be mentally ill? knowing that i am yet one child who sits here eternally bare. bearing my own, taking it in stride, and life bests me from the inside, i keep fighting and breathing and winning, yet here you are, on your knees still whimpering.

oh little ant, you're so sad, i'm sorry that you lost your dad. lets make things better, now give it a think...

you're more responsible for yourself than the universe might think.

But you don't want that, you sit and you pray, wishing and hoping your baby is dead. 

How sad, how lucid, how empty you might be, to be a baby killer, sitting on her knees. 

you know i had a thought, so please hear me out. this wouldn't have happened if you never got out. if you stayed in your mom and lived your whole live, that abortion would have been perfect for snuffing you out, from the inside.

we are human beings, parasites of the land, so take it upon yourself to realize this. MY life could have perished, yet here i sit typing this. What are the words that you think you speak, nothing but blahs, and sighs, and eeps.

“WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO? CRY ABOUT IT?” shut the fuck up bitch, and lie about it. 

you got so much dick in your mouth you can barely speak. thank you cum for brains for letting me speak.

good night. 

[embracetheapocalypsewithme]

Embracing the Apocalypse, Part 23: That the Hill You Wanna Die On?

Oh hell, guys...this was a really hard chapter to write. But it had to be done. Please stay with me here because this story is not over yet!

Summary: Things do not go as planned during Julie and Ted’s interrogation when the identity of Rebecca’s other attacker is revealed.

Word Count: 2,452

Content Warnings (or selling points?): Smut, Negan, Negan being Negan, language, violence, and blood.

Part 1: The Tale of Thelma Facefuck

Part 2: What’s Up, Doc?

Part 3: A Successful Job Interview Begins with a Firm Handshake and Ends with a Salty Surprise

Part 4: A Crack in Everything

Part 5: Sorting Duty Sucks

Part 6: A Faint Whiff of Bullshit in the Air

Part 7: Turn and Face the Strange

Part 8: Poor Life Choices

Part 9: In Which Negan is a Total Jerk

Part 10: No Plan

Part 11: Negan Settles Rebecca’s Hash

Part 12: I know Where That Hand Has Been, Negan

Part 13: Gimme Danger

Part 14: The Loneliest Hours of the Morning

Part 15: Well, Fuck You Too, Kitty!

Part 16: That Escalated Quickly

Part 17: Well Fuck Me Gently with a Chainsaw

Part 18: Shards of Glass

Part 19: Donkey Heaven

Part 20: Morphine Dream

Part 21: Promises to Keep

Part 22: Are You a Killer?

Part 23: That the Hill You Wanna Die On?

Part 24: Keeping Up Appearances

Read on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/8807527/chapters/22959522

Part 23:  That the Hill You Wanna Die On?

The air of the Sanctuary’s basement was thick with moisture that clung to the skin and sank into one’s bones, while the smell of mold permeated the lungs. Chris led Negan through a labyrinth of dim hallways to the furthest corner of this area, where most of the building’s occupants did not dare to venture. Although it had been long since cleared of the dead, walking through the disused space made them feel on edge and in mortal danger somehow. It was here that Chris had taken Ted and Julie for their interrogation.

“Well, fuck, Christopher! That didn’t take you very long, did it?” inquired Negan, with an amused smirk.

It had only been two hours since he and Chris had last spoken when the stone-faced man knocked at his door for the second time that day. Negan has been vague with Rebecca about his reasons for leaving abruptly, not wanting to lie to her outright, but wanting to protect her from the knowledge of the task he was about to undertake for her. In the end, he had simply told her that he had “urgent leadership bullshit” to attend to. Technically, this was the truth.

“Nope,” Chris answered simply, “They weren’t exactly hiding.”

“Where’d you pick them up?”

“Ted was in the sorting room, trying to do some overtime for extra points. Julie was in her dorm room taking a nap.”

Negan snorted at this, “Fucking figures. Girl loves her beauty sleep.”

“Not that she needs it…”

“Christopher! Do I detect a little crush? Who knew you had fucking emotions under that hard veneer?”

“Uh…Not exactly,” Chris replied with an uncharacteristic tone of embarrassment.

“Oh come on! You can fucking tell me! We’re just a couple of guys hanging out. Talking about guy stuff,” he leaned in a bit closer as they continued to walk and strung an arm around Chris’ shoulders, “Want me to describe her tits to you? I’ll do it! She’s got these cute, little-“

“Negan, I’m gay,” Chris said dispassionately, cutting off the man’s lewd description.

“What? Seriously?” he asked, genuinely surprised.

“Yeah. Um…yep. Pretty gay.”

“Well, fuck! I had no idea,” he paused for a moment, “Are all of Rebecca’s friends gay? That girl’s like a magnet for you guys.”

Chris raised an eyebrow, “There are other gay people here?”

“Awe, shit man. You didn’t know?”

“Not at all. I tend not to be really forthcoming with that information. There’s not exactly anti-hate crime legislation in the post-apocalypse and you never know who might want to beat you up for being yourself,” he replied thoughtfully before adding, “Not to make light of getting beaten up. That wasn’t a jab about Rebecca.”

“I know you’re not that much of an asshole! But that’s totally fair. Maybe Rebecca can set you up on a date or something,” he said slyly, jabbing his elbow into Chris’ ribs a little bit too hard and causing the man to wince in pain, “Oh fuck! Sorry…I got carried away.”

“It’s ok. Here we are,” Chris lowered his voice as they neared windowless, industrial door that was flanked on both sides by armed men, “Julie’s in there. Ted is in another room just down the hall.”

“Shall we?” asked Negan

Chris extended one hand hand to grasp the door’s lever while he retrieved the key from his pocket with the other, “We shall.”

As the door creaked open, Negan’s eyes fell upon Julie, who was looking as beautiful as ever sitting on a chair behind a small white table, her eyes shooting burning daggers at both him and Chris.

“Julie. So good to see you again. How the fuck are ya?” he asked in a mocking tone as he and Chris took a seat in two chairs that had been placed on the other side of the table across from Julie.

“What the fuck do you think, Negan? Let me the fuck out of here! I haven’t done anything-“

“Jules, shut the fuck up,” his voice became a hard, blunt object, silencing her tirade, “And don’t fucking lie to me. We already know you got some guys to do your dirty work for you and beat the fuck out of Rebecca. So, let’s just cut to the chase: Who were the men that did it?”

“And why the fuck do you think you ‘know’ that I had anything to do with that dumb bitch getting beaten?”

Without saying anything, Negan stood and pushed his upper body forward while bringing both hands down onto the table’s top with a loud boom, before calmly and clearly articulating his next words while staring the redhead directly in the eyes, “Because the last thing that ‘dumb bitch’, as you call her, heard before she lost consciousness was that ‘Julie sends her regards’. I can’t think of too many other Julies here that would mean her harm, can you?...And while we’re talking about your stupid mistakes, maybe the next time you give a couple of drunks hand jobs so you can ask them to beat someone up so badly that they nearly fucking die, you’ll choose guys who aren’t fucking idiots that tell the victim THE FUCKING NAME OF THE PERSON WHO ASKED THEM TO DO IT AS THEY’RE BEATING HER INTO THE GROUND!”

Julie’s face had gone a bright, angry red and her lips were set in a straight line. She remained silent, still cutting into the men with her stare.

“You’re still not going to fucking talk are you?” Negan said with a twinge of regret in his voice.

“Fuck you, you fucking bastard! I didn’t do anything wrong! You were the one who fucking humiliated me. You were the one who used me to try to feel better about yourself. So fuck you. We’re done here,” she spat before crossing her arms across her chest and settling back into the seat.

“Well. I guess that answers that,” Negan sighed, running a hand through his hair, “But, even though you’re right about me being a bastard, you are wrong about one thing. This is far, far from over.”

With that, he turned to Chris and motioned for the other man to follow him into the hallway. They exited the room together, locking the door behind them before moving a few feet away and out of earshot.

“So, what do you think?” Chris asked.

Negan shook his head sadly, “I was afraid of this. Not only is she not admitting to planning the attack, but she’s not remorseful at all. Fucking psychotic bitch…”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know for sure…but I think we might have to kill her. And I really did not want to fucking do that shit anymore,” he moaned.

Chris nodded solemnly, “Do you think it’s worth it to talk to Ted before we make a final decision here?”

“Yeah, why the fuck not?” he mumbled and turned toward the second door that Chris had pointed out earlier. The two men strode silently toward the dull-grey metal currently hiding their second prisoner from sight, stopping for a brief moment as Chris found the corresponding key in his pocket. Once the lock had been clicked open, he pushed the door and gestured for Negan to enter first.

The room was every bit as musty and desolate as the rest of basement. Ted sat in the same position as Julie, only he had his head down on the table like a school-aged child during a detention. As they crossed the threshold, his head lifted slowly from its position and his desperate, half-crazed eyes bore into them.

“You’re here to kill me, aren’t you?” he said, not even blinking as they drew near to sit in the chairs across the table as they had with Julie.

“Well, Teddy, that all depends on how you answer a few questions for us,” Negan said flatly, “First of all-“

“Julie asked me to do it,” Ted said with a hysterical twinge to his voice, cutting off Negan’s leading question, “She cornered me in the cafeteria after she overheard me talking shit about that fucking girl. She knew that I hated you both for demoting me to a sorter.”

“Uh huh. And it sounds like she really had to twist your arm to get you to nearly kill ‘that fucking girl’ for her,” Negan’s face twisted into an expression of thinly veiled rage.

“I’m not making excuses. I know what I did was my own choice, and I don’t regret it,” Ted replied.

“You’re fucking sitting here, looking me straight in the eyes, and telling me that you don’t fucking regret nearly murdering a nice, young lady with her whole life ahead of her who never didn’t anything to you? That the hill you wanna die on, Teddy?” although his eyes still held fire and venom in their depths, Negan’s voice was eerily calm.

“Fuck you! She’s nothing but another one of your fucking whores. She fucking seduced you, let you fuck her, and used you to get back at me for disrespecting her.”

“Oh, that’s where you’re wrong, my friend. You couldn’t be more fucking wrong. All Rebecca did mention what a fucking shitty job you were doing in matching workers to tasks, and the rather un-fucking-enlightened attitude you have toward young women. But she didn’t have to seduce me. We weren’t even fucking by that point. Though, truth be told, I kinda wanted to right from day one…” he shook his head, “Why the fuck am I telling you that though. Like you give a fuck.”

“Who was with you?” Chris’ voice startled both men and they jerked their heads toward its sound, “When you beat Rebecca? Who helped you?”

“How the fuck do you know there were two people there?” asked Ted, an anxious expression clouding his face.

“Because Rebecca told us that one of you assholes held her while the other one beat her,” Negan chimed in, “Not a very fair fucking fight, if you ask me.”

Ted sighed, “Ok. I’ll tell you who was with me. But you’re not going to like it.”

“Oh goody! Fucking intrigue. How nice. Go on, Teddy,” Negan said mockingly.

“It was one of your men. One of your Saviors. I think he said his name was Stephen or something like that. I don’t fucking remember. Seems to me that he was still pretty fucking pissed off at you for something you did back in the day with his wife or something. You fucked her or killed her…or both…something like that. Anyway, he didn’t care about Rebecca at all. It was you he wanted to get to. She was just a stepping stone,” Ted’s face cracked with a hard smile and his eyes were glassy.

“Oh fucking fuck!” Negan pushed himself out of his seat abruptly, knocking over his chair, and made his way toward the door.

“What’s wrong?” asked Chris, following him into the hallway and locking the door behind him.

Negan broke into a run as he headed back toward his room, and Chris ran to catch up with him, “One of the men guarding my room this morning. I can’t be sure, but I think he said that his name was Stephen,” he huffed, “I hope I’m wrong, but if I’m not, Rebecca could be in some real fucking shit right now!”

As he and Chris raced through the hallways and stairwells of the Sanctuary that led to Rebecca, Negan noted the people they passed who turned to stare slack-jawed at them, never offering any kind of assistance to what was clearly some kind of emergency. On a normal day, this would have pissed him off, but he was far too panicked to do more than observe his surroundings as he made his way to what he was certain would be a blood bath.

As they mounted the final flight of stairs, the hallway outside of his bedroom coming into view with each step, the first thing Negan noticed was all of the blood. The second thing he noticed was the man lying dead on the floor. His throat had been slit, and it must have happened recently because he had not had the chance to reanimate yet.

“Oh fuck! Fuck!” he yelled, never breaking his stride as he skirted around the growing pool of blood and charging for his room, “Chris, knife him in the head before he comes back!”

Maybe he wasn’t too late. Maybe he could save her.

He arrived at the door, immediately grabbing for the handle and throwing his weight into it, only to be met with resistance. It was locked. As he fumbled in his pants pocket for the key, he listened for sounds of a struggle inside, and was met with nothing but ominous silence.

Once the door was unlocked, he threw it open and allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room. There was blood everywhere, the scent of copper hitting him like a slap in the face. All was still inside the room, and two bodies, each soaked in blood, were in the middle of the floor, just beyond the foot of the bed.

The man’s body lay face up, eyes staring in horror at the ceiling. Blood still bubbled from a large bite wound in his throat, just over the jugular. Negan recognized him immediately as Stephen, the man who he had sent on a quest to retrieve Chris earlier that morning, and who had allegedly helped Ted to attack Rebecca just a few days prior.

Negan’s heart leapt into his throat, he took a step toward the second body. This one was smaller, feminine, and was sitting cross-legged; the upper body slumped slightly over the legs with its arms resting against its thighs. Although the face was obscured by a curtain of dark hair that faded out to the copper of an autumn sunset at the tips, he knew that it was Rebecca.

“Negan, I’m so sorry,” Chris said softly from behind him, he knelt over Stephen’s body and pushed a knife into the center of the forehead, ensuring that it wouldn’t revive.

A cry caught in Negan’s throat and his eyes burned with tears as he crossed the room to kneel next to her. At least she had gone down fighting and had taken the son of a bitch out with her last ounce of strength. He would take what comfort he could in that fact.

She didn’t live as a victim, and she hadn’t died as one either. He extended a hand and gently pulled one side of the hair away from her face to take a look at the damage that had been inflicted on her during the attack.

[moredickpics-blog]

The Dick Pic Generation And Why We’re Still Stupid About Nudity

Millennials are what I call “The Dick Pic Generation”.

We’re the Dick Pic Generation because we have the technology. If the Baby Boomers had the technology, they definitely would have tried.

Instead, Boomers vacuumed up the wealth and polluted the Earth so now the dubious honour of polluting the world with terabytes of our junk has fallen to us Millennials.

But make no mistake, it’s not because of our horned up culture that makes us do it, it’s nature. Older generations, if given the opportunity would have done the exact same thing.

My question is, seeing as how there is this compulsion for humans to be gross, should there really be such an outrage we share pictures of our naked bodies?

To be clear, I don’t mean sending out other people’s nudes, or sending/receiving them uninvited. I mean that people lose their jobs and get tarnished for doing something that yes, is primarily a private matter, but also a deeply human experience: being gross with other people and using what technology we have available to enable that.

There’s plenty of stories of people getting canned for what they put out on social media, and we all more or less understand when you mock a war widow or post a photo of you urinating on a plate of nachos that it’s not something your employer wants reflected on them.

But the same goes for a teacher drinking alcohol, or having sexy bikini pics, or an ex-boyfriend posting their nudes online. And that’s fucking bullshit.

“Teacher fired for bikini pics” came back with over 9 million results on Google. Progress against revenge porn is slow, but ongoing, thankfully. But the attitude is still largely, “well, you took the pictures in the first place, that makes you the idiot.”

Nudity has power because of its scarcity, and because there’s a deep shame forced on all of us to think of it as both precious and perverted. While there are terabytes of naked people floating around the world, and porn is a multi-billion dollar industry, and strip clubs bring in $7 billion in the US alone, there persists this bloody hypocrisy about the naked body or near-naked body.

Let’s understand why this isn’t working.

Sexuality often takes the brunt of cultural hypocrisy. I’m certainly guilty of it. I cringe anytime someone points out “what, we’re all naked under our clothes, we’re all sexual beings. It’s natural.”

Being a bit of a prude, I get it’s a true statement but still operate with the bias that it’s gross to point out. “Come on, it’s natural, it’s natural.”

Yuck. Stop that… Unless they’re hot.

But being open about it is punishable by ostracism not because it’s gross in the same way braiding armpit hair is (come on, it’s natural) but because there’s some deeply fucked up psychology that punishes sexuality. Especially as a woman, you’ll be called a whore in places if you express sexual agency and experience worse if men even suspect it.

It doesn’t change anything though. Our DNA is older than our belief systems. People are sexual, and people are gross. What we should try not to be however, is a hypocrite about it.

As a couple examples, they did a study that found sexting occurs mostly on weekdays between 10am and Noon. On Tuesday specifically.

A study by Drexel University found a majority of teens engaged in sexting without knowing it technically counts as child pornography.

In 2012 the Pentagon had to tell its employees to stop looking at pornography at work. The Pentagon, the monolithic symbol of American military might, had to ask its employees to stop using work computers for porn.

I know exactly what you’re thinking right now, “But Mark, why the penis which is objectively ugly?” Here’s my rule: All genitals are ugly until we want to put our mouths on them. We can’t escape that. We’re not Gods.

If you’re in an increasingly erotic chat with someone and it eventually gets to nude shots of their bum, tits, vaj or cock, it creates excitement and anticipation. It makes you cry out “O Joyous Occasion!” as you rub yourself through your sweatpants (be honest). You get into talking about what you’re into and it’s hot and titillating. That’s hormones and nature, not culture. Ask Weiner. But don’t text him.

But those interactions are about two people who are into it. What about one party who’s unwitting and unwilling about the whole thing?

A survey found 53% of Millennial women have received a dick pic. 24% of the men in that same survey admitted to sending a dick pic without being asked. The survey doesn’t head on address the question “but was it heavily implied it was okay or just totally out of the blue?”

This was my reaction, because dick pics can be contextual in the same way any nudes are. They can be tastefully and appropriately submitted into conversation, or like a ham-fisted joke can be just bad writing and timing.

Well, of the 53% of women who received a dick pic, three out of four say they received it unsolicited and unwanted.

Apparently God’s gift to man is man’s shockingly poor gift choice to women.

In another article on AlterNet, they surveyed seven types of reasons men sent dick pics. These reasons included an exhibition kink or thrill they experienced, or a swelling of pride, thinking it’s what women want to see, thinking it was a cheeky sexual invitation, or doing it for dominance and control, or for positive feedback, or simply because they can because hey it’s magical Internet and we’re anonymous.

Most of these reasons are just sad. Doing it for domination and to stress someone out is just a dick move. Doing it because you’ve been ignored by countless women and just want to get some kind of reaction is, well, sad. It’s sad that guys feel driven to this, and that their loneliness and alienation makes them bitter and resentful. I’m pretty sure this fuels a lot of the misogyny we see today in these Men’s Rights Groups.

Quick aside: In that earlier article linked to about revenge porn, a woman ended her relationship with her possessive boyfriend and he angrily accused her of sleeping with at least three male friends based on looking at her Facebook pictures. He threatened to sell her nudes online unless she was honest about how many guys she slept with.

Ooof.

On the more forgiving side of things, philosopher Alain de Botton says we guys share dick pics to share something vulnerable about ourselves as the genitals can be a source of disgust and shame. By sharing our bodies we are both vulnerable and connected, and because sex is a major fact of life there is something theoretically tantalizing about genital shots.

To artist Whitney Bell, who turned unsolicited dick pics into an art exhibit, sending dick pics is also an expression of power. She creatively robbed the power of those unwanted pictures by turning them into art (more “Piss Christ” art than the Sistine Chapel kind).

Bell believes it’s a way for men to terrorize women, like “screaming at a woman from a car. You’re just doing this because you can, and because the world has taught you that that’s OK.”

This Everyday Feminism article calls unwanted dick pics “sexual assault”.

Then again…

Watch out! Patriarchy!

I frankly think this gives men too much credit. Men tend to be visually inclined, they respond to filth and think others, particularly women, do too. Have you ever looked at personal ads on Craigslist? It’s better than charades at parties. What you’ll find though is both earnest ads looking for monogamous love and depraved ads looking for sex, and both are accompanied by cock shots.

Because, for as many men that are terrible there are just as many that are kinda clueless. Never attribute to malice what you could attribute to lazy, horny, socially inept, one-handed texting.

Men are not smart enough to be cruel enough—most guys anyway. Maybe some men think that perhaps out of a hundred sent dick pics the one person that actually bites and wants to meet up to get some of that sweet dick is worth the ninety-nine who feel violated looking at impromptu genitals?

But what do I know? I’m one in a hundred.

Of course this doesn’t mean there aren’t assholes out there who know it can be distressing for a girl to receive a dick pic and do it anyway. They exist. The Internet exaggerates that capacity, empowering men to be more flagrant and direct with harassment at the same time being anonymous. And there certainly is a power dynamic when one sex has their genitals normalized enough they can send it willy-nilly and the other sex is so thoroughly demotivated they could never send pics of their vulvas or whatever they’re called. Vaginas.

So let’s make a distinction: There’s a dick pic, and there’s an unsolicited and unwanted dick pic. I have never received an unsolicited dick pic and thought “Ooh! Future husband!”

But never say never. I’m open to it, is what I’m saying.

Thousands of people have lost their jobs because their  nude photos wound up on the Internet, and there’s an oppressive and stupid shame that perpetuate this arrangement. Here’s one such list article that basically repeats itself on items 2, 3, 4, and 5:

It Can Ruin Your Career

The Photos Can End Up On The Internet

Or They Can Up In The Wrong Hands

They Can Live On Forever

What articles like this say is that your naked body has negative power over you. But nude photos have only as much power as we give them, and they have been drastically inflated.

We kneecap people’s potentials for what they can do with their lives because there’s evidence they’re naked under their clothes. Nude bodies should not be leverage against their owners.

At least when we ostracize someone for pooping in public there’s actually a good many reasons to. But calling a girl a slut, or believing her unlovable because she has nude photos on Tumblr?

We got here because our sex education was terrible. We weren’t taught human nature properly as a kind of capacity for different beliefs and actions, sometimes at odds with each other. We weren’t taught about biology, upbringing, cultural imprinting and institutional enforcement.

But without that we are far likelier to be worse hypocrites. It’s how we’ve become hypocrites about something that, come on, is natural.

We’re at war with our nature and we’re worse for it. Society is deeply unhappy. Relationships end badly and frequently, antidepressants are prescribed in ever-more numbers.

Lastly I have to ask, what is going to change first though, human nature or our attitude towards our nature?

What do we have power over? Humans are always going to be perverted apes on some level, but we don’t have to be hypocrites.

We have power over our education systems if we choose it, and that’s how we can be less hypocrites about such fundamentally human experiences.

Obviously it’s our attitudes that need to change, as it slowly has been.

In many parts of the world, women can show ankles. Praise God. Women can vote, hold public office, and even marry who they choose. That’s because our attitudes changed.

Cultural change is slow and nebulous, but it’s an aggregate of a thousand interactions and decisions by individuals trending toward sometimes vaguely outlined normatives. We can outline those normatives because we can control our attitudes.

Repeat that five times and send nudes.

[manicmustard-blog-blog]

Mystery Article.  Okay.  It’s not.  It’s about ferret-farming.

Once again it's time for the dreaded monthly article.  The red mist has gathered, a storm is brewing and I'm about to rant about something yet again for the simple fact that I can.  Still here?  Excellent.  But what?  What on earth has mildly irritated me today in such unfathomable ways that it can burst apart the very seams of my normally zen-like wellbeing and provide me with enough internal rage to lay siege to your poor eyes with angry words designed to blast and sunder at your very soul?

Well.  It's actually something I remember ranting about years ago.  So straight off the bat, originality is fucked and flushed down the toilet.  Hey, it's 2017, there are no original ideas left and unless you're contemplating whether or not your hairy and slightly pokey vagina means you have 5 genders or 6, you should really be used to this type of thing right now.  Fine.  You want originality? Try mixing sawdust in with your goulash for an ethnic twist.  Perhaps rag a mountain goat while you're at it and you can drain it's juicy innards into a bowl and mush it up with some dead fermented wasps so that you can tell all your friends how fucking cultured and enlightened you are.

Phew.  Not you of course dear reader.  Just people.  You know.  The other types of people.  Not you honest.  You're special and unique.  Just like Uncle Jeremy told you at Christmas as he gently stroked your knee with a little bit too much enthusiasm.  That's right.  I know.  Everyone knows.

So.  What was my article about?  Oh yes.  Online dating.  Ahem.

Haha.  Well, as many/some/none of you know depending on what day of the week it is, I came out of a long-term relationship a while ago and to be honest have no real interest in getting into a new one right now.  Why? You might ask with quivering lips.  Well, to be honest I'm incredibly fucking lazy and the idea of getting to know another person and having to actually give a shit about them and all their fucking problems and whether or not they approve of my life choices and fucked-up personality is a little bit more effort than I can stand right now.  Plus I've started watching How I Met Your Mother recently and quite frankly I don't want to have to watch it from the beginning cos some girl/bloke/vegetable/marsupial that I'm dating decides that we should start from season 1.  I mean.  I'm willing to make an effort for a potential soulmate that I might spend the rest of my life with, but as with everything in life, there are limits.

But yes, despite my general satisfaction with remaining single for a variety of reasons I won't go into here, (next article already planned, boom) I decided many months ago to create a dating profile (because I'm original as the rest of you salty bastards) and have a look to see what's going to test the waters for when I can be bothered.  So.  What did I find.  Well, hmm.

Now.  I can hear you all thinking at the same time so bear with me a second. You're thinking, "Get over yourself!"  or "Stop being so fucking fussy!"  or "Why am I reading this shit?" (mind-control..) and to be honest you're right in some regards but it's not honestly because of the basic reasons you'd expect...it's because most of the profiles I've read are quite frankly as BORING as my left nut sack and so full of shite that it honestly just makes me want to strangle the next biped I come across.  But why?  Huh?  HUH!?

Well, to start off with.  I get that despite our fantastic age of equality and all that bollocks, men are still expected to make most of the effort by SOME women, especially early on.  But for fucks sake at least bother to fill in the "about me" section of your profile.  Don't just put a bunch of dots or even worse write "lol, I dunno wot to put ere" and expect to get anything other than a fucking troglodyte respond.  Show a bit of your fucking personality.  Unless of course you're trying purposefully to advertise that you're an empty-headed shallow fuckwit with absolutely no opinion on anything besides what you've read others repeat on Facebook.  In which case, well done.

Equally.  For those that actually can muster the powers of their vocabulary and spew forth more than a few words on how shit they are at actually articulating anything past a fucking duckface...I can only suggest that you try to be at least slightly realistic.  For example, don't say three fucking words about yourself and how you love Hollyoaks followed by an explanation of how you won't respond to any men who don't make an effort to come up with proper conversation and have something interesting to say.  Be realistic.  I wouldn't walk up to you and say "mE liKE shIny ROCKS!" while scratching at a nice pile of nearby granite then get all pissed because you don't start quoting Shakespeare in response.

Likewise!  Don't set your profile to "looking for fun and nothing serious" and then spend several paragraphs writing about how you're looking for a soulmate and are fed up with getting messages from bastard men who just want sex.  I get that most dating sites don't have an "I'm bipolar" option nor provide a big flag to point out that you can't work out the basics of setting up your fucking profile.  But either way you're not doing yourself any favours.

Oh and talking about pictures.  Try and have some variety for god's sake. Different situations.  Different environments, something to perhaps portray what type of person you are.  If I see a profile with pics of holidays, backpacking, nights out and a few decent selfies or pics with friends etc, then I can't help but take more of an interest - it just looks a bit more interesting even if it is probably false advertising.  Well done you!  However, if all 8 shots are of the same fucking aforementioned duckface taken from a slightly elevated angle with different filters then just...just no.  Much like the whole "lack of words thing" I mentioned earlier, it kinda makes me wonder what the fuck went wrong in your childhood that turned you into yet another pod person.

Oh and as a final note.  When you're describing who you're looking for - I get that being honest is a good thing, but I've nearly spat my coffee all over the screen with utter amusement and tumultuous glee when I see the occasional profile with a very average girl in it explaining how anybody who is not fit as fuck and over 6ft tall shouldn't even bother messaging them.  Perhaps it would be equally acceptable if I demanded a fucking supermodel with no gag reflex and huge tits that dispense chocolate milkshake when I twist her nipples.  I mean really?  What utter bollocks.  Besides, if I was superfit, ripped and over 6ft, I wouldn't be on a dating website, I'd be selling that shit to rich housewives and buying all the chocolate milkshake that my superhard man-pecs could buy.

So...  Random glimpse into my fantasy of being a male cocoa-whore asides...what else?  Well, nothing really.  All I can say is that when I am finally ready to start dating, I either need to start socialising like a normal person or failing that, lobotomise myself with a blunt and reasonably heavy object.  I'm not entirely sure which one sounds more appealing.

[embracetheapocalypsewithme]

Embracing the Apocalypse, Part 18: Shards of Glass

Be forewarned, this chapter got really dark. I wasn’t planning on going this angst-y, but I assure you all that we’ll come back to the light eventually.

Summary: Rebecca tries to deal with life in the Sanctuary without Negan, but it seems as though not everyone got the memo that they are no longer an item...

Word Count: 2,789

Content Warnings (or selling points?): Smut, Negan, Negan being Negan, language, violence, drama, angst, and hospitals. (This chapter is pretty rough)

Part 1: The Tale of Thelma Facefuck

Part 2: What’s Up, Doc?

Part 3: A Successful Job Interview Begins with a Firm Handshake and Ends with a Salty Surprise

Part 4: A Crack in Everything

Part 5: Sorting Duty Sucks

Part 6: A Faint Whiff of Bullshit in the Air

Part 7: Turn and Face the Strange

Part 8: Poor Life Choices

Part 9: In Which Negan is a Total Jerk

Part 10: No Plan

Part 11: Negan Settles Rebecca’s Hash

Part 12: I know Where That Hand Has Been, Negan

Part 13: Gimme Danger

Part 14: The Loneliest Hours of the Morning

Part 15: Well, Fuck You Too, Kitty!

Part 16: That Escalated Quickly

Part 17: Well Fuck Me Gently with a Chainsaw

Part 18: Shards of Glass

Part 19: Donkey Heaven

Tag List Roll Call: @negans-network​ @unicorn-blood-splatter​ @opheliadawnwalker3​ @lucifers-trash-stash​ @thedeadwalks​ @negans-dirty-girl​ @ali-pennell​ @grab-my-boner​

Read on A03 here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/8807527/chapters/22104002 

Part 18: Shards of Glass 

The week following Rebecca’s return to the Sanctuary was consumed with meetings with the Scavengers to discuss future missions and priorities. The focus had shifted from medical supplies in favour of building supplies and gardening implements. It seemed as though the name of the game was moving the Sanctuary more toward being internally sustainable, rather than a community based solely on scavenging the remaining scraps of a quickly dying world. If they did the job well, Rebecca supposed that they would eventually work themselves out of a job.

The remainder of her time was spent desperately trying to avoid Negan while simultaneously not being able to keep thoughts of him at bay. So far, she had been successful in her first priority. She hadn’t seen Negan at all since returning from the road.

Her nightmares had become more disturbing and constant. Each night found her waking with a start in the darkness of her room, drenched in sweat, unsure of what was real anymore. She began to fear sleep, opting instead to spend her time wandering the fenced-in perimeter of the building into the wee hours of the morning. The night air helped to clear her head and the sounds of the crickets calmed her nerves.

As her sleepless days and nights wore on, Rebecca’s body began to drain of its energy and dark circles appeared under her eyes. She was falling apart from stress and lack of sleep. Chris had asked her several times during their meetings if she was feeling ill. His face was still mostly emotionless, but there was a slight look of concern in his eyes. For a man as stoic as him, this gesture could almost be classified as a dramatic outburst. She assured him that she was fine, and was just tired. She had almost convinced herself of this lie.

On her eighth day back in the building, Rebecca decided to once again to forsake sleep and to leave the confines of her dorm room in order to be outside. Her wrist watch said that it was 11:22pm. As she exited her room, locking the door behind her, she noted that the building was eerily quiet. It was as if the inhabitants of the Sanctuary were collectively holding their breath in anticipation of a storm or a natural disaster.

As she made her way down the stairs to the main floor, she passed a man heading in the opposite direction. She smiled weakly and offered him a greeting.

“Fuck off, cunt,” came the cold reply of the man, hate burning in his eyes.

Normally quick with a sassy quip, Rebecca found herself at a loss for words. She continued down the stairs utterly baffled at the man’s sudden hostility. As she neared the door that lead outside to the building’s main courtyard she spied a group of women standing together and talking. She neared them and their conversation stopped abruptly. The women stared at her out of the corners of their eyes, and lowered their voices to whispers.

It was all too bizarre for Rebecca, who hastily pushed the heavy steel door that lead outside open, the cool air hitting her face. She stood for a moment illuminated in the glow emanating from the building’s windows and spilling onto the ground. The scent of flowers hung in the air, mingling with the smell of dirt and ozone. Maybe there was a storm coming after all.

She turned to the left, choosing to walk to her favourite section of the building’s exterior, a large tree that stood near the fence. She liked to sit under its branches and pretend that she still lived in the forest, rather than the dreary, grey building. Turning around a corner, she strode toward the tree and sat and inhaled deeply, settling into the soft grass, her back against the trunk.

For a moment, she wished that she had brought some of the pot that Negan had gifted her after they had been caught together by Julie the first time. That meeting seemed so long ago, like another life, but she was startled to realize that it had been less than two weeks since that time. Her eyes closed and she tilted her head back so that it rested against the rough bark of the tree. Sitting under the canopy of branches was one of the few moments of her day where she truly felt content and in control.

“Hey, bitch!” the voice that came from directly in front of her was choked with the sound of hatred.

Rebecca’s eyes sprang open as she brought her head back down just in time to avoid being struck by a glass bottle that smashed against the tree trunk just above her, raining shards all around. Her eyes focused on an older man with several days’ worth of stubble encircling his mouth standing a few feet away from her.

“What the fuck!” she cried, staggering to her feet.

Before she could move toward the man, rough hands grabbed her from behind, wrapping themselves around her waist. She struggled against the unseen attacker’s grip, but it was too strong for her to escape. The best she could do was to land a few kicks behind her, but they seemed to do little damage.

“Keep this up and you’ll regret it, you bitch,” she felt the hot, sour breath against her ear as the man spoke. The smell of whisky invaded her nostrils as the man who had thrown the bottle stepped closer.

“I have a feeling she’s going to regret everything she’s ever done that’s brought her to this moment soon enough,” said the bottle-thrower before punching her full-force in her jaw.

Her vision was momentarily blurred and hot pain spread through her face as the blow fell. She screamed in pain and rage before the person holding her pushed her roughly to the ground at the feet of Bottle-Man, who proceeded to kick her in the ribs. Rolling over, she screamed again, this time louder than before.

“Somebody fucking help me!” she called into the night sky, hoping that someone would come to her aid.

“Keep your whore mouth shut!” the second man hissed as he kicked her in the head full-force with what felt like a work boot.

Her vision faded to black for a moment before another kick landed against her ribs, which had likely been broken in the initial blow, the pain drawing her back into reality. Although she didn’t want to anger the men by making more noise, another cry broke forth from her lips before being swallowed by the night.

“Looks like we got a screamer,” one of the men chuckled.

“Does Negan like it when you scream for him, little bitch?” asked the second in a mocking tone, “Is that how you got your fancy new job? By whoring yourself out to him and screaming his name with your legs open? Fucking worthless bitch!”

Rebecca said nothing, but whimpered as she tried to turn herself over in a vain attempt to get to her feet. Another kick, this time to her ass, sent her sprawling into the grass. The men laughed uproariously at this and yet another kick was launched at her other side.

“If she takes a dick like she’s taking this beating, I bet you’re right!” said the first man.

“Well, I don’t think she’ll last much longer,” replied the second, “In fact, I can pretty much guarantee she won’t.”

A final kick was launched at her temple, again from a boot-clad foot. This time her vision stayed dark, and Rebecca gave up all hope of surviving this attack. As her consciousness faded down into nothingness she heard a final comment from one of her attackers:

“Julie sends her regards, cunt.”

 ***

 Following the fiasco with Julie, Negan resigned himself to being miserable and alone for however long it took him to forget about Rebecca. Not only could he not get himself excited enough to fuck another human being, it seemed, but he couldn’t even jerk off without his mind drifting back to the first (and last) time he and Rebecca had sex in the bed of someone’s dead grandma.

He took his frustrations out on those under his command, forcing his planning meetings to run late into the night, much to the disdain of the rest of his Saviours. The longer his engagements ran, the less time he had to sit alone and think about his personal life. It was during one of these marathon meetings that news of what had happened to Rebecca made its way to him.

As the clock on the wall above the door to his office neared midnight, Negan glanced at the men and women assembled around him, noting more than a few yawns spewing from their stupid mouths. The meeting had started at 7:30pm, and while he felt that he could go all night, it was becoming apparent that they would have to adjourn soon. Nearly every set of eyes in the room were glazed over with hostile boredom and exhaustion. Even Mr. Stoic himself, Chris the Scavenger, looked about ready to stand up and flip over the coffee table before storming out of the meeting prematurely.

Negan had just opened his mouth to finally call the meeting to its blissful conclusion when the door to his office vibrated with a loud knock, interrupting him. Eyes widened and heads sprang up as the unexpected noise roused those in attendance from their demi-sleep. Negan stood quickly and made his way to the door, his heart rate increasing with anxiety. The only reason anyone would dare to knock on his door at this hour would have to be an emergency of some sort, and it was pretty damn urgent judging by the loudness of the knocks.

As the door swung open, Negan’s eyes fell to the face of a panicked-looking “Doctor” Krouse, who immediately began to babble at him, “Hi! I don’t mean to disturb your meeting, and I know it’s really late, but something happened out in the courtyard, by the tree, and I really feel like you-“

“Oh for fuck’s sake, man, just tell me what the fuck you want!” his sudden outburst seemed to sober up the frazzled young man standing in the hallway.

“It’s one of your scavengers, Rebecca. I know you had asked about her before, and you seemed concerned about her at the time, so I thought you might want to know.”

“Know what? What about her?” he asked, trying to keep his voice from revealing the million different images flashing through his mind of terrible fates that could have befallen her. Was she hurt? Was she dead? Did she leave?

“She was attacked earlier tonight-“ he started before being cut off by the barrage of questions that Negan immediately began barking at him.

“What? What the fucking fuck are you talking about? When? Where? Where is she now? Is she ok?”

Krouse peered around Negan’s broad form to look at the large group of meeting participants who were currently staring with wide eyes at the scene that was unfolding only a few feet from them. The commotion had woken them up completely, and Negan now had their full attention.

“Uh. I think it’d be better if I answer those questions in private. If you want to come with me, I can take you to her.” Krouse said in a low voice.

The leader of the Saviours nodded, finally realizing Krouse’s hesitation to divulge the information he so craved. Turning to around he addressed the group in a booming voice, “Everybody get the fuck out of my office!”

They simply stared at him, mouths agape. No one moved an inch and the room was filled with a dreadful silence. Negan waited for a moment before bellowing at the group, “I SAID GET THE FUCK OUT!”

As if a starter pistol had gone off at the beginning of a race, the congregation assembled in the office quickly got to their feet and made their way out of the door with looks of terror on their faces. Once the room had cleared out, Negan turned to Krouse, “Well, what the fuck are you waiting for, Doc? Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“Sure,” the man said cautiously.

As they walked through the halls in the direction of the infirmary, Negan remained silent, knowing full well that Rebecca’s condition should only be discussed in private. It was no good to ask Krouse to disclose anything to him in a public place, and he would have been furious if the young man had offered to do so anyway. Whoever attacked Rebecca could be listening, and the less they knew about her status, the better.

The few minutes it took to travel from the office to their destination were torture. His thoughts raced with questions: Was she going to survive? Had he caused this somehow? Would she have been attacked if he had been with her?

Once they had reached the door to the infirmary, Krouse pulled a key from his pocket, “Normally we keep the door unlocked while we’re working, but I wanted to be sure no one came in here. I’ve got one of my assistants sitting with her now,” he explained, sliding the key into the lock. The pair stepped into the room, and Krouse immediately turned around to lock the door behind them, stating that it was “better to be safe than sorry���, a sentiment that Negan agreed with completely.

The infirmary was a large, sterile room containing a number of hospital beds which had been pilfered on various supply runs over the years. Currently, only one bed was in use, and when Negan’s eyes spied its occupant, his heart sank.

Rebecca lay in a sea of white sheets and pillows, her face a rainbow of bruises and contusions. Her eyes were closed, and for a brief and horrifying moment, Negan was sure that she was dead. But as he inspected her more carefully he noticed the shallow rise and fall of her chest, and he breathed a slight sigh of relief before spinning toward Krouse.

“First of all, what the fuck happened to her?” he demanded with his expression full of rage.

Krouse’s gaze drifted down to the floor, “We don’t know. About half an hour before I came to get you, someone burst in here saying that they had found a woman unconscious under a tree in the courtyard. We went out there right away and found her like this,” he lifted his eyes back to meet Negan’s, “Once I made sure she was stable, we moved her inside. But that’s all we can really do for now.”

“What the fuck do you mean by that?” Negan demanded in disbelief, “You’re the doctor here! Fucking help her!”

“There’s really nothing left to do. We don’t know the extent of the damage to her brain at this point. It’s impossible to tell due to the lack of equipment in here. We can only wait to see if she wakes up. If that happens, we can assess the situation and figure out what to do. But whoever did this to her, really did a number on her head. It looks like they took a baseball bat to her…” he trailed off after realizing what he had said.

Negan appeared not to notice Krouse’s final statement. His eyes were trained on Rebecca, a single word running through his head: If.

If she woke up.

If she survived.

If implied uncertainty as much as it did vague hope. He fucking hated that word.

Without speaking, he walked over to a stool that sat next to Krouse’s desk and wheeled it over to the bed in which Rebecca lay. He sat down, his shoulders slumping forward as he watched her silently.

“Sir,” Krouse began, “It’s late. There’s nothing you can do now. We’ll notify you if anything changes, but really you should go to bed and get some rest.”

“Piss off,” were the only words that left Negan’s mouth. His voice was quiet and emotionless in the vast room. Gently taking Rebecca’s hand and giving it a squeeze before letting his hand lay over hers, he marvelled at how starkly the black leather of his jacket contrasted against her pale skin.

“Ok. I’m sorry,” Krouse said stepping back and ushering his assistant out of the room. He paused with his hand on the door as he prepared to exit as well, “I’ll let you have some privacy, but we’ll be right outside if anything happens. Please let us know if anything changes or if she wakes up, ok?”

“Yeah,” Negan replied dully without looking up, “Sure.”