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turtle-babe83 · 3 years

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Contest winner @shadow-ninjas , here is your prize, a sexy Donnie story just for you!

😱😱😱

So yeah, this took me entirely too long to get posted. I doubt anyone even remembers the contest 😂😂 Sorry about that and I hope this is good enough to make up for it my friend. 💜

Donnie x F!Reader

Donatello knew bringing you along on patrol was risky. He worried that he may be putting you in danger. He feared that you wouldn’t be able to keep up. He planned for every possibility save one: YOU. He didn’t suspect that his tiny, sweet girlfriend had such a deviously naughty side to her.

The team had split up for the first part of patrol, under orders from Leonardo to reconvene in one hour at a set meeting spot. You had waited until some distance was between the brothers before you pounced. Donnie had been peering through the windows of an old building to check for gang activity, when you goosed him. He jumped and squeaked while you giggled uncontrollably.

“Y/n, sweetheart, I’m on patrol. Please refrain from your shenanigans,” he whispered sternly.

You gave him your most serious look and nodded briskly. He raised one suspicious brow ridge, before returning to the task at hand. You waited one beat, then two, and then-

“Ahhh!” Donnie yelped, as you leaned over and blew on his neck.

He whirled around and grasped your shoulders, keeping you at arms length. You couldn’t suppress the smirk playing on your lips as he sighed in exasperation. You knew the moment his eyes fell on the undone buttons at the top of your shirt, as lust sparked in his gaze. Straightening your shoulders, you pushed your bust up and out, watching his pupils dilate as he focused on the swell of your breasts. Donnie cleared his throat and tugged you up against him.

“Well, I guess since you won’t behave, I should let you get a little bit out of your system, hmm?” he muttered against your lips, giving you no time to answer.

His mouth was always so overwhelming. So large and consuming. You loved it. And his tongue, oh dear lord, it did such delicious, shivery things to wherever it tasted you. You kissed him back, eagerly, urgently, grasping his bandana tails and holding him close. Thoughts of him had been plaguing your mind all day, distracting you from your job, keeping your panties moist. It was only fair that he give you some relief from all the built up tension. As he pulled away, you followed, trying to capture his lips once again. Pushing you back gently, he chuckled.

“Damn, what’s gotten into you, love?”

You stamped your little foot in frustration.

“The problem is that you are not ‘getting into me’ right now,” you pouted.

Donnie eyed your crossed arms and tried to process what you were saying. Surely, you weren’t suggesting-

“There’s gotta be someplace to fuck around here.”

Yep, that was exactly what you were suggesting. Donnie took a quick look around. There was no one else in sight. Mentally, he kicked himself. Surely, he wasn’t thinking of entertaining this idea? He was working, protecting the city, and if Leo found out, he’d be in the Hashi for sure. But then you looked up from under heavy lashes and licked your lips, and he was done for.

“Fuck.”

He grabbed your hand and ducked around the back of the building to a door he knew had a broken lock. Sneaking in was the easy part. Finding a spot clean enough to indulge was a bit harder. Deciding that time was being wasted, he dug in his backpack till he produced a hypothermic blanket. It would have to do. He spread it on the floor with a flourish. When he turned back to you, you were playing with the next button on your top.

“I don’t care about this shirt, so please feel free to do with it what you will. And by that, I mean rip it right off,” you grinned.

“You don’t have tell me twice,” Don smirked right back as he grasped the front and jerked, sending buttons popping off and flying everywhere.

You toed off your tennis shoes and divulged of your bra as he worked on pulling your pants and undies down. Now that was something he would never tire of. Pressing his snout to your mound, he sniffed and took a delicate lick.

“Lay back,” he instructed, guiding you down onto the silver blanket.

He wasted no time, sitting between your legs and hoisting them over his shoulders as he lifted your lower half to meet his face. Straight to the clit, he flicked the tip of his tongue furiously as your keening cries echoed in the empty building around you. His tongue dipped down to lap at your entrance for a second before going right back to torturing your tiny nub. Your gasps and moans were just riling him up more, and when you grasped at his bandana tails for the second time tonight to try and keep him close, something snapped. His tongue swirled and stabbed deep, drawing out your essence and oh fuck, you could hear his loud swallows as he drank you down. Your legs shook and you wanted so badly to roll your hips but this position he held you in prevented that. As your release crested, you whimpered his name like prayer. You panted for air as he gently lowered you back down and left one last lingering lick up your slit.

“Holy hell, Don,” you breathed, “Have I ever told you that seeing you between my legs is so hot?”

He grinned as he wiped his mouth. Standing up, he started to pick up your clothes to hand to you when he caught the frown on your face.

“What’s wrong, dove?”

“Why are you stopping?” you whined, not caring how needy you sounded.

“Baby, we gotta meet back up with the others. If we get caught, my ass is going to the Hashi. Maybe you as well,” he chuckled.

You pulled out your sultriest smile. Donnie froze. He knew that look well.

“Are you saying I’m not worth it?” you purred, tone low and threatening.

He gulped. Don knew a loaded question when he heard one. Oh, you were trouble with a capital T. He debated with himself and glanced at his watch.

“We’ve got five minutes until we’re late,” he muttered.

Then he looked back down at you, all spread out for him, asking to be fucked.

“Oh fuck it. Let’s do it,” he relented, unfastening his pants and pushing them down, just far enough to free his quickly hardening length.

You made grabby hands at him, eager to feel him inside. He quickly lined himself up and after hooking his arms under your knees to hold you open, he slid in deep. You hummed happily at the fullness. Donnie worked up a strong rhythm, and every thrust shot a jolt of pleasure through your core. Donnie leaned forward for a messy kiss, trying not to lose momentum, but desperate for the contact. You each panted into one another’s mouths as he began to move faster and harder. As another orgasm crashed over you, you belted out a string of curses to make a sailor blush. Donnie barked out a laugh that was cut short by a groan as he began to cum as well. He allowed your legs to fall and rolled over to the side of you to keep from crushing you as he caught his breath.

“You little minx,” he murmured, with a chuckle.

You both took a moment to stare into the other’s eyes, when a crackling sound came from Donnie’s radio. He sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. As he leaned over for one more kiss, his cell rang. He was surprised to see it was Raph instead of Leo, so he answered and put him on speaker so he could get his pants pulled up.

“Hey numb nuts! For a genius, ya ain’t too smart sometimes,” he grumbled. “Check yer radio before ya get busy next time, eh? We don’t need ta hear that shit.”

Donnie’s eyes went comically wide as he checked his comm, and sure enough, the button was stuck. His brothers likely heard the entire escapade. Your face began to turn red as realization hit you.

“Oh my god,” you gasped.

Mikey’s voice piped up over Raph’s end of the line, “You already said that like a million times, Angelcakes. ‘Oh my god, Donnie, don’t stop! Right there!’”

Needless to say, you both ended up in the Hashi, and you made Donnie triple check the radio every time from there on out.

💜

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little-ligi · 3 years

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Gwaine and 19 (Mayhem)

Ahhhhhhh!! Thank you Nony!! The words Gwaine and mayhem can only mean one thing - tavern brawl!! Have at it, Gwainey boy! 😂🍻

To say it is mayhem would be putting it mildly. What is actually happening is complete and utter chaos. Pandemonium.

Gwaine punches the man in front of him, straight in the nose, feeling the crunch of cartilage under his knuckles, then pulls his elbow back to whack the man who’s coming up behind him. There’s a grunt and that man is down as well.

Adrenaline pours through Gwaine as he pivots, jumps over a table and smacks the guy pushing Elyan to the floor over the back of the head. He collapses on top of Elyan and Gwaine shoves him off to pull his friend to his feet.

“Thanks,” Elyan says wryly. “Next time you invite me to the tavern” – he stops to duck a tankard that had been thrown their way; Gwaine catches it and lobs it back – “I’ll think twice about joining you.”

“Spoilsport,” he jokes.

Another man runs at them and Gwaine turns from Elyan, catching the approaching man’s shoulders and head-butting him as hard as he can. The man sags down to the floor and Gwaine staggers backwards. Elyan catches him and yanks him down behind a table as a stool hurtles through the air where a second ago their heads had been.

Gwaine is still seeing stars, his vision blurring and swirling. Why does he always head-butt people? he asks himself. Why is that his instinctual move? He shakes his head, trying to clear the ache, and Elyan seems to be asking him the same question, but he doesn’t have time to reply.

A swift kick sends them both tumbling to the floor. Elyan leaps up again, ready to fight, his fists a blur as he jabs a fierce one-two into the man’s stomach. The man reels back, doubled over, and Elyan shoves him away, sending him tripping over a chair leg and sprawling to the flagstones, sending another couple of brawlers lurching to the side to avoid him.

Gwaine gets to his feet, rubbing a hand over his forehead. He puts his back against Elyan’s and surveys the room. Every single patron of the tavern is part of the brawl. There’s kicking and punching and shouting, left, right and centre. Gwaine can’t even remember what started it – although the dice and spilled coins over the floor seem like an indication. The barmaid is standing on the bar, her face red and her fists balled as she screeches directions to the fighting men.

“Punch him!” she shouts with a stamp of her foot and the two men wrestling beside the bar both swing a fist at each other. One goes down to a peal of clapping from the barmaid and the one left standing turns to find his next opponent.

Gwaine.

He dodges the first punch, sending a glare up at the barmaid as she continues to root for his opponent. He sidesteps a third man entering the fray, just as Elyan is pushed back against him and Gwaine uses his friend’s falling momentum to send him careening into the man in front of him, knocking him to the floor. The barmaid cheers, evidently switching to Gwaine’s side now that he is the winner of that particular scrap. He reaches over and gives the hem of her skirt a tug, holding his hand out towards the row of tankards dangling from hooks over her head.

She pulls one down, fills it quickly and passes it to him with a saucy wink. Gwaine takes a swig before Elyan snatches it as he scrambles back to his feet. Elyan hurls the contents of the mug over the next man to come towards them, and Gwaine pouts as the man slaps his hands over his eyes.

“That was mine,” he complains to Elyan, who just shrugs and pelts the tankard in an over-arm throw at someone behind Gwaine’s back. There’s a yelp.

A ridiculous battle cry echoes out behind them and then Gwaine finds himself in a headlock. Elyan is pushed backwards over the bar and the barmaid is screaming again. Gwaine tries to stamp on his assailant’s feet but the strong arm around his neck is wrestling him down to his knees.

“Hey!” There is a particularly loud shout and for a second the mayhem pauses as everyone turns to look at the door.

Framed in the open doorway, his biceps bulging as he lifts his hands, is Percival. He’s wearing his red knight’s cloak because he has barely taken if off at all since Arthur gave it to him; he’s so proud of being a knight.

The arm holding Gwaine loosens enough for Gwaine to wrench himself free as Percival starts walking towards them. All around the big knight men are dropping their fists, pulling back from fights and standing awkwardly to look worriedly at Percival. Amazing the power of a good red cloak. Well, that and the impressive biceps.

He hooks a hand over the bar and drags Elyan back up to his feet and over to this side of the bar, steadying him and brushing the front of his clothes down with one big hand. Then gives the man currently backing away from Gwaine a steely look. The man whimpers and scurries away. Gwaine smirks.

“I’ll get these two out of your hair,” Percival says politely to the barmaid, giving her a smile and a bob of his head. The woman practically swoons. Then he turns to his friends.

“Merlin warned me about this,” he mutters, hoisting Gwaine’s arm over his shoulder – Gwaine is almost lifted off the ground because Percival’s shoulders are much higher than his own.

As Percival drags him past the bar, Gwaine manages to snag a tankard, miraculously unspilled, and lifts it in a mock toast.

“To an evening well spent,” he laughs, taking a long swig of ale. “What’s life without a little excitement?”

Elyan snorts and punches Gwaine hard on the arm.

If you liked this pretty please send me more prompts! Here is the list of prompts!! Just give me a number and a character and wheeeeeeeeee.... I excitedly write a little thing like this! (which turned out to be a bit less little than I meant it to be!) Thank you for the prompts list @whumpster-dumpster!!

#bbc merlin fanfiction #gwaine #elyan #merlin fanfic #ligi writes #tavern brawl #gwaine being gwaine #mayhem #whumpster prompts #thanks for the prompt!#send me prompts #ask prompt #love you nony

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lumassen · 3 years

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I was in the mood to write a drabble cause I haven't written one for so long. It's snowing outside as I sat and wrote this on my lunch break, and yes I know it's February but here's a Christmas themed drabble lmao

Family Feud

Finland, Sweden, Sealand, Ladonia (1k words)

Timo and Berwald get into a yearly competition over who has the best Christmas decorations. Peter and Axel are the real adults here, despite being children.

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"If it's war he wants, then war he'll get."

Peter glanced up from his iPad as his Dad muttered from where he was standing by the window.

"Is it just me, Peter, or do those new lights around the garage seem brighter than ours?"

Timo continued, raising his voice a little now to address his son, who with an exaggerated eye roll tossed his iPad to the side and slid off the couch. Once at the window beside his Dad, who was standing stiff as a soldier with his arms folded tightly across his chest as he glared at the house across the street, Peter shrugged and shook his head slightly,

"I guess they do, yeah." He admitted, not even flinching when Timo stamped his foot and his brow furrowed.

Peter was more than used to this by now.

"Well we'll see about that. C'mon, get your shoes and coat on, we need to catch the store before it closes." Timo said as he waltzed out of the living room, and Peter let out a heavy sigh before trudging after him.

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Berwald watched from the upstairs window as his opposite neighbour furiously scraped the snow from his car with a triumphant gleam in his eye.

"Ha, that'll teach him." He laughed a little under his breath as he watched Timo yank the frozen door open and bundle his son into the back seat of his little red car before stalking around to the driver's side.

"He's only gonna out do you again, Dad. Just admit it, Timo's better at Christmas decorations than you."

Berwald turned to stare at his son, Axel, incredulously as he appeared next to him at the window, his face drawing into a frown,

"Ya think? Well let's see how he can compete with three sets o' string lights, a house-front projector and a real pine needle wreath."

Turning his back on the window and leaving the bedroom, Berwald left Axel watching Timo struggle to start the engine of the car. Part of him wished that it wouldn't start, and so by putting an end to his Dad's oh so tiring annual Christmas decoration war with his neighbour, but eventually the car started and Axel watched as Timo backed out of his driveway and took off down the street.

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"Don't you think it's a bit much, Dad?"

Peter said the next morning when he woke up to find that Timo had been up since the early hours of the morning assembling the latest addition to their front yard that they'd bought yesterday at the hardware store.

He stood in the open doorway in his pyjamas and watched as Timo put the finishing touches on the huge, illuminated Santa's Grotto style arch that now stood at the end of their garden path.

Timo's laugh was breathless and borderline hysterical as he clambered down from the step ladder and proudly made his way toward the front door.

"Don't be silly Peter, of course it's not! It looks great, don't you think?"

Looking between his son and the new Christmas arch, Timo grinned from ear to ear and ignored how his head was beginning to pound from lack of sleep and not enough caffeine.

"Anyway, it's not a big deal. I think it looks lovely. Let's get you some breakfast and ready for school."

He kicked his boots against the doorstep to get the snow off them before hurrying inside into the warmth.

"How about pancakes?" Timo offered once the door was closed and his coat was off. Peter took a moment to ponder the suggestion, tapping a little finger to his chin,

"Only if I can have chocolate spread." he bargained, casting his Dad a puppy eyed look that not even he could refuse.

"Okay, chocolate spread it is."

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The first thing that Berwald saw when he stepped out of the house to leave for work was the gaudy new Christmas decoration that his neighbour had assembled overnight.

It was bright, too bright, a twinkling mass of bright red and green lights and plastic candy canes that were at least three feet tall. It was tacky, tasteless and Berwald knew that he could do better.

"Woah, that's cool." Axel said as he joined his Dad at the door and shrugged himself into his coat.

"Really, ya think so? It looks like something you'd see at the mall in front of a cheap Santa's grotto." Berwald muttered as he stepped aside to let Axel out of the house and locked the door once he was out.

"So… you're gonna be late picking me up tonight then?" Axel teased as he cast his Dad a knowing glance while he made his way over to the car.

Berwald rolled his eyes, not a fan of how his teenage son seemed to be able to read him like an open book these days,

"I won't be late, I just might need you to wait for a couple of minutes." He said as he unlocked the car and slid into the driver's seat. When he looked over at Axel as he fastened his seatbelt in the passenger side he saw a great big smirk on his lips.

"It's fine, I'll just get the bus home. And no, I'm not gonna help you assemble whatever silly new Christmas decoration you buy. I've got homework to do."

To this, Berwald didn't have a response, and so he just started the car and pulled out of the driveway without so much as a word and cast daggers with his gaze at the stupid Christmas arch in Timo's yard as he passed.

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

By the time Christmas eve came around, Timo had had to switch energy providers to get a cheaper tarrif once his electricity bills had started to skyrocket, and Berwald had suffered three power outages after too many decorations plugged into his mains caused a shortage.

The outside of both of their houses were covered with hardly an inch to spare in decorations, flashing lights, inflatable snowmen, and in Timo's case, an animatronic penguin on a sledge that he'd managed to convince his friend who worked at the mall to let him borrow.

Taste had long been forgotten, and eventually it had turned into a competition as to who had the most decorations.

"Seventy three, seventy four, seventy five. Only Seventy five! Ha, we won!"

Berwald bellowed once he'd finished meticulously counting the decorations on Timo's house. Axel took his eyes away from the TV for a moment to watch as his Dad stood at the window, then jumped as he gasped dramatically.

"No! No no no no!" He cried as he fled from the living room and flung the front door open. Axel leapt up and followed him outside, the snow quickly seeping through his slippers and soaking them through,

He watched with an open mouth as Berwald dashed across the road just as Timo was bringing a huge LED Santa sleigh complete with all 8 reindeer from his garage.

"That only counts as one decoration, ya know that right?" Berwald called over Timo's picket fence as he leant on it,

"No it doesn't, it counts as nine. 8 reindeer, one sleigh." Timo corrected him, matter of fact, as he continued to haul the heavy decoration out from his garage.

"But they're all attached to the same plug, that… means…" Berwald tried to argue, but his words died on his tongue as Timo held up the wiring of the decoration. In his fist was a bundle of wires, and 9 individual plugs, one for each part of the decoration.

"Sorry, what did you say? I couldn't hear you over the sound of me winning this year." Timo knealt down to flip open the cap on the outdoor electricity outlet that he'd had installed years ago when he first moved to Sweden with his son so that he could plug in his one little snowman lawn ornament. Had he known back then that it would soon turn into an annual competition with his neighbour then he would have had twenty more installed.

"That doesn't even make sense!" Berwald flapped, not willing to accept defeat although he knew he'd been beaten.

His heart sank as he watched Timo's smug grin widen across his lips as he plugged in the first reindeer, but only for it to quickly disappear when a huge spark blew out from the outlet, knocking Timo onto his back and causing the lights down the whole street to suddenly go out.

All traces of rivalry temporarily forgotten, Berwald pushed open Timo's garden gate and ducked under the Christmas arch as he rushed to help him up, fumbling in the darkness.

"Timo, you okay? Where are ya?"

Timo groaned as he sat up, slightly winded from colliding with the cold ground but otherwise okay.

"Here, Ber. I'm fine." He said as he got up, then was momentarily blinded as a torch light shone onto his face.

"Dad? Are you alive?" Came Peters timid voice, and when Timo looked past the torchlight he could see the outline of his son, and Axel by his side.

"Yes honey, I'm alive. The decorations aren't though." Timo said through a sigh, then took hold of Berwalds hand when it was extended out to him and hauled himself to his feet.

"How are we gonna have our Christmas dinner now? The oven will have gone out with the electricity." Axel deadpanned, causing both Timo and Berwald to realise the extremity of what a power outage on Christmas eve meant not only for them, but for the entire neighborhood.

"Shit…" Timo cursed, and Berwald cleared his throat,

"I've got a generator in my garage. Should be enough to power my house for a couple hours - minus the decorations. Do you two, uh, wanna spend Christmas dinner with us?"

Berwald offered, barely able to see Timo's reddening face in the darkness.

He thought for a moment, looking between Peter and Axel, then to Berwald,

"As long as you still acknowledge that I won. I did have more decor-"

"Dad!" Peter interrupted, shooting his Dad a warning look that was even more threatening than any 12 year old should have been capable of from beneath the darkened shadows of the torchlight,

"Okay, okay. Fine. I'm happy to call it a draw this year. No winners, no losers. Deal?"

Extending a hand out once more toward Berwald, Timo looked him dead in the eye until he sighed and accepted the truce.

"Deal. Now let's go inside before the rest of the neighbours come out."

#aph finland #aph sweden #aph sealand #aph ladonia #hetalia #hetalia drabble #sufin #hanatama family #aph nordics #hws Nordics #hws finland #hws sweden #my writing #sorry if theres typos i wrote this in an hour on my phone

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keelywolfe · 4 years

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FIC: Pet the Kitty ch.2 (spicyhoney standalone)

Summary: Edge does not resent that his cat is utterly shameless when it comes to Stretch. (He just wishes he could do the same)

Notes: This was supposed to be a oneshot but achirding had a thought and it became chapter 2! Based entirely on their idea, please enjoy!

Tags: Spicyhoney, Lemon Goodness, Rough Sex, Yearning, Jealous of a Damn Cat

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Read it on AO3

Read it here!

~~*~~

Edge lay back on the sheets, panting, legs clumsily sprawled apart and one arm dangling off the side of the bed. His long fingers grazed against the carpeted floor, the sharpened tips catching as he tried to convince his wits to gather themselves back together in a coherent fashion. Slumped next to him, Stretch was much the same or at least Edge could pretend that his gaspy breathing was not only from exertion. If they were both equally overwhelmed, then there was no winner, was there, no matter what Stretch’s sly grin said.

The radio was on and playing cheerful pop music, a feeble concession to his neighbors, and Edge had long since moved the bed against an unshared wall where the thump of the headboard wouldn’t earn any irritated shouts or worse, glares in the hallway on the way down to get his mail.

Edge shifted again, grimacing as the linen beneath him clung clammily to his bones. They would need washing again, he noted absently, the sheets. Damp with sweat and other various fluids, heavy with the cloying scent of magic tangled in sex, spicy-sweet. Black sheets, the color not chosen for its aesthetic but for its tendencies to hide stains and purchased more recently than Edge wanted to admit. Before Stretch, his sheets had been simple and utilitarian, simple white cotton washed once a week with hot water and strong detergent. It took less than one night with Stretch to convince him that those would no longer suit. Once Edge found himself inviting Stretch over to put the bed to regular use, he’d gone for something a little more pleasing. It was well worth the price of a higher thread count when they slid against his bones as he was dragged across them, knees and elbows digging in as he scrabbled to brace himself or the achingly sensitive rub of his sacrum grinding into the softer linens. Sheets that hid a multitude of stains and were gentle against bones? More than worth the price.

Sex with Stretch was not what he’d expected when they first started this. For one, for such a lazy shit, he had more stamina that Edge would ever have expected and that blasted, obnoxious attitude of his was much less annoying when coupled with a sly grin and a tongue that was clever with far more than silly puns.

Sex with Stretch. Words that Edge would never have imagined putting together in a sentence that included himself, but if he’d ever managed to put aside his disbelief long enough to consider it, he would have pictured himself as the one in charge. Taking control, guiding their sexual calisthenics to the foregone conclusion. But from their very first time Stretch trod right over the very idea to pin Edge down, his slim fingers bracketing Edge’s wrists like cuffs of bone and keeping them there until he’d crudely teased out a first orgasm with nothing more than the subtle, rhythmic pressure of his knee.

Thus far, he’d dominated every one of their encounters and even less believable to him was that Edge found he liked it. Fuck that, he could at least be honest with himself in the privacy of his own mind; he loved it. Loved being able to lie back and hand over the steering wheel to someone else, his usual iron need to command shoved firmly into the backseat while he could only shudder with bliss, writhe against his expensive sheets and take what was forcibly given to him in hitherto unknown delight.

If there was any minor complaint, it was only the increase in his laundry and…ah. Well. There was one other issue.

Edge felt the faint brush of soft fur briefly against his dangling hand and then Doomfanger leapt on the bed, her loud baby cry demanding attention as she butted her head rudely against Stretch’s bare hip.

“hey, there, pretty miss.” Stretch automatically reached down to pet her, scratching the delicate points of her ears as she began to purr loudly enough that Edge could feel the vibration through the mattress. Edge bit back the entirely unreasonable demand for that easy affection to return to him. The faint ache at his pubis, the disjointed feel of his hips and knees was a fair sign he’d just gotten plenty of attention, not to mention his very recent memory of Stretch’s tongue curling wetly against his cunt. Driving into him as Edge tipped his head back and stared unseeing at the ceiling until he could no longer bear it. Closing his sockets achingly tight, his hands scrabbling desperately over Stretch’s skull and leaving behind faint scratches as he arched up and came.

He’d had all of that not even a half hour ago and he refused to be jealous of his damned cat, even when Stretch cooed to her about being a pretty girl while he struggled to his feet. His knees seemed to still be unsteady and Edge bit the tip of his tongue against asking Stretch to stay at least long enough for his joints to settle.

Pathetic to quibble about the aftermath. He’d gotten what he wanted, Stretch gave as good as he got and took what he wanted from these…sessions. Whatever else he wanted was as nebulous as the night sky Stretch liked to watch with the others, their telescopes set up in the backyard as they went over star charts and internet pages, and Edge sometimes brought them hot chocolate and snacks, listened to Stretch’s teasing laughter and silly puns, and it made some emotion clench in Edge’s chest that felt almost the same as seeing Stretch being so gentle and sweet to his cat.

Doomfanger made a sound of displeasure as Stretch stopped petting her to skin into his pants, the waistband already drooping enticingly down his pelvis as he hauled his hoodie over his head and hid the exposed bone. Something rattled in his hoodie pocket and Stretch reached into it with one hand, gripping beneath the cloth. He coughed faintly and looked ill at ease as he said, “oh, uh, by the way, i brought you something.”

That made Edge blink in surprise. Presents certainly weren’t a regular occurrence, past the one time Stretch brought a sackful of Chinese takeout with him, both of them slurping delicious noodles and fried rice right from the waxy white containers, and when Stretch finally pushed him down on the sofa, his kiss tasted of orange chicken and soy sauce, rich and ridiculously delicious.

This was no cheap offering. The box Stretch pulled out of his pocket was long and narrow, bearing the mark of a local jeweler. He held it out wordlessly and Edge tugged the sheet carelessly over his lap before he took it, his fingers trembling faintly as he lifted the lid to see the contents.

A collar.

All the heady anticipation rising in him deflated, draining out of him like water through a sieve. It was a lovely collar to be sure, obviously handcrafted and the leather precisely stamped with a delicate skull motif surrounded by ornate curlicues and shapes. Dangling from it was a gold tag etched in flowing script, a single word, his own name, ‘Papyrus.’

Lovely, yes, but it was difficult to stifle his rising disappointment. Of all the gifts in all the world that Stretch could give him, it was something for his cat.

Ridiculous, he told himself savagely. It was a gift and certainly a pricy one, and he was not about to let Stretch see any ingratitude for it.

“It’s lovely,” he admitted, and he could only helplessly admire the way Stretch lit up, his odd uncertainly brightening into dazzling glee.

“yeah? i was hoping you’d like it, i…i wasn’t sure,” he laughed a little unsteadily, “i spent a lot of time thinking about it, you know?”

“Of course I like it,” Edge assured him. He hefted it in one hand, admiring the dark leather against the paleness of his bones. It was certainly excellent craftsmanship and if its intended audience wasn’t likely to fully appreciate that, then Edge could certainly do it in her place.

“good, that’s good, ‘cause i was thinking—” Stretch trailed off as Edge pulled Doomfanger over, ignoring her plaintive meows as he slipped off her old collar, a basic affair from the local pet store, and carefully fastened on the new one. He noted grudgingly that the dark brown leather looked even better against her wheaten fur. She twisted in his hold, tail lashing as she tried to see what he was to do to her, and Edge soothed a hand down her spine as he adjusted her new adornment.

He frowned, tugging at the collar. It slid far too loosely, he could easily fit three fingers or more beneath it and the buckle was on the very last hole. “Hm, it’s a little big.” He glanced at Stretch and his face was falling into dismay, his previous delight fading. Edge added hastily, “Of course, it shouldn’t be a problem to add another hole.” Or three, honestly, the creator should have asked for a better measure before he made it. It was a shame to see any shoddiness in such lovely work.

A hectic flush was rising in Stretch’s face, a bright mottled orange against his cheekbones and Edge cursed himself for bringing it up. He could have had it adjusted without saying anything and instead he’d made Stretch self-conscious about his gift. “I love it,” Edge said, trying for reassurance.

From the way Stretch flinched, his attempt was miserable failure. “…great. yeah. that…that’s great.” Stretch ducked his head and ran a hand over his skull, slim fingers clattering softly over the bone. “i’m glad. um. i guess i better get going.”

It was peculiar to see him so discomfited and uncertain, especially here in his bedroom. Stretch fairly oozed confidence whenever they were together, and Edge let that dominance wash over him every time with the force of an ocean wave, trusting enough to give himself over to Stretch’s control.

Trust, yes, he trusted Stretch in a way Edge never had another, and a renewed sense of guilt filled him for making Stretch think he didn’t like his gift when honestly Edge never expected any to begin with. Edge wasn’t particularly skilled in seduction in any sense of the word, but this time he made an attempt. He gently pushed Doomfanger aside despite her offended yowl of protest to lounge back on the messy sheets, stroking a hand down his femur in generous offering as he tried out a purr of his own, “Are you sure?”

Pale eye lights flicked over his bare bones lingeringly, tracing his femurs, his pelvis, the scarred bones of his ribs, only to falter at the level of his chin. Stretch only stepped further away, towards the door as he stammered out, “y-yeah. see you later.” And with that, he turned abruptly on his heel and walked out, closing the door quietly behind him.

Edge sighed and flopped back again without any pretense of eroticism, dragging the comforter over his suddenly chilled bones. Fanger took that as an invitation of sorts, picking her way delicate across the sheets to settle into Edge’s covered lap. He stroked her soft fur and tried to push aside his unreasonable upset. It certainly wasn’t her fault Stretch gave her a present. It was still difficult to even believe. A present for his damned cat, even if it was a lovely one. Edge rubbed his knuckles against Fanger’s throat where the purring vibration met the collar, fingered soft fur and leather. When he touched the delicate tag, it tinkled against the bare bone with a bell-like chime. Absently, he traced his name with a fingertip, the delicate, curling script flowing across glimmering metal. His name.

His…name…

A flashbulb went off inside his head with a near blinding pop and Edge was scrambling to his feet before he even fully understood, snatching clothes haphazardly from the floor and hopping on one foot as he struggled to pull up his trousers, already calling a frantic, “Wait!”

The pavement was cold against his bare feet as he dashed outside and Edge paid it no mind, jogging out to the sidewalk to look down the street. The sidewalk was empty, hardly a surprise, Stretch wasn’t about to walk home when a quick shortcut would do. He stood there uselessly in rumpled trousers, his unbuttoned shirt hanging open and his hands dangling emptily at his sides as he groaned aloud, a frustrated, wordless growl. He was an idiot, an absolute fool, and—

“looking for something?”

Edge whirled around with a gasp, his soul pounding. Stretch was leaning against the side of the building, a cigarette in hand, and the sight of him, slouched down in that ridiculous hoodie of his and a curious, lopsided smile curving his mouth did unreasonable things to Edge’s soul.

“More like someone,” Edge said. He took a step closer and hesitated, assaulted with vague uncertainty as he asked, “That…that wasn’t for my cat, was it.”

That smile widened teasingly, “dunno, it did look pretty good on her.”

Edge swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. “Stretch—”

He shrugged and took a drag off his cigarette, exhaling a perfect smoke ring that drifted towards Edge, hovering briefly over his head in a nicotine-tainted halo. “guess it’s for whoever you think should wear it.”

An offer and a compromise in one, giving him the choice. As if there was one. Edge licked his teeth, their sharp points prickling lightly against his tongue, watched Stretch watching him, that slow, sinuous movement crackling in his darkening eye lights.

“Come put it on me?” Edge asked hoarsely.

“i can do that, kitten,” Stretch said, only his voice was the one purring, titillatingly rough, shivering its way down Edge’s spine. He tossed his cigarette aside and stepped forward, his touch cool against Edge’s suddenly overheated face as Stretch cupped it in both gentle hands and kissed him.

-fin

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus

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rumbelleshowdown · 4 years

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Author: Tick-tock Dearie

Prompt: Not what I meant.

Group: C

The Setup

“You and I both know that is not what I meant!” The rising pitch of his darling wife’s Aussie accent was a sure indicator of trouble, and Mr. Gold found himself feeling a bit smug that, for once, it wasn’t directed at him. Of course, that left only one other person who could possibly be the subject of Belle’s righteous ire, and he wondered what sort of mischief their son had been getting up to.

“But mooommmm…” Gideon’s multisyllabic whine carried down the stairs.

Gold shook his head, grimacing. It was a rookie mistake. Belle was far too savvy, and had spent far too many years dealing with Rumplestiltskin himself, to be swayed by novice tactics. Puppy-dog eyes, whining, and foot stomping were powerless to sway her, and their son knew that as well as he did. Frankly, he expected more from the offspring of a master manipulator (thank you very much) and a mother who was too clever by half -- an observation made with nothing but respect and adoration.

“You prooomisssed!” Gideon cajoled. “You said I could choose anything I wanted to do if I got an A on the math test!”

“Anything in Storybrooke, Gideon!” Belle retorted, clearly exasperated. “Miniature golfing at the Enchanted Forest Cafe, or go-karts at Storybook Village and a trip to Any Given Sundae afterwards…”

“But we do those things all the time!” He protested, working up a truly petulant tone that only meant Belle would dig her heels in harder. She would never deign to give in when the boy wasn't even bothering to persuade her with impeccable logic or the signature Gold charm. “I thought I could pick something extra special!”

“Oh, you’re being extra alright!”

The two of them came clattering down the stairs, still sniping, and Gold realized it was only a matter of time until they would drag him into the argument. Belle would rightly expect backup, and Gideon would turn those limpid, doe-eyes on him, eyes that reminded him so much of Baelfire, and he would be lost -- caught between Scylla and Charybdis, for certain. Ducking quickly into the kitchen bought him time and distance.

He wondered what Gideon had asked to do. Knowing his son’s flair for the dramatic, it was probably a dirigible ride in the Land of Untold Stories, reindeer sledding in Arendelle, or something equally outrageous. However, Belle’s refusal to honor what was clearly a deal -- a Gold standard -- was a serious matter, and he wondered if perhaps there was more to this little mystery than met the eye.

He intended to find out.

“Rumple…” Belle stormed into the family room, expecting to find him in his favorite chair with a book and a glass of whisky, his usual Saturday afternoon diversion. Gold peered from the kitchen, watching. “Rumple! I need you to back me up here. Rumple?”

“Papa!” Gideon followed close on her heels, arms flapping wildly. He pulled up short, nearly colliding with his mother. “Papa, Mum is being totally unfair!”

“Gideon Rumplestiltskin Gold!” Belle exclaimed, spinning to face her towering son with chin raised and arms akimbo, fists planted firmly on her hips. Her beautiful blue eyes flashed dangerously, and watching her nostrils flare in annoyance sent a particular thrill straight to Gold’s groin. Gods have mercy, but she was magnificent. He resisted the overwhelming urge to drag her upstairs and spend the rest of the afternoon with the stereo cranked up and their bedroom door locked. Now is not the time, Gold.

“I’m not being unfair. You are taking advantage of the situation, and I really don’t appreciate your tone, young man.”

Gideon stood with shoulders hunched, hands thrust into his pockets. He scuffed at the carpet with the toe of his shoe in the most classic, woefully aggrieved, pre-teen stance. Gold could tell he was fighting back the urge to roll his eyes. A wise choice, he thought, since the alternative would surely result in sudden death -- or worse.

Deciding the boy didn’t stand a chance without his help, Gold took a deep breath, adjusted his trousers, and strolled leisurely from the kitchen. He remembered to feign surprise at finding his wife and son at odds in his normally peaceful home.

“Gideon! Belle!” Pretending he hadn’t heard a thing, he leaned in to give Belle a chaste kiss, and reached over to tousle his son’s hair. Belle crossed her arms, and Gideon ducked away, scowling, but Gold steadfastly refused to acknowledge the obvious standoff.

“How are my two favorite people?” He inquired, beaming innocently at them.

They sprang immediately to action, gesticulating wildly and talking over each other in their haste to garner his support.

“Mum said we can do anything I want if I got an A on my math test…”

“Gideon is being completely over the top here... It’s a math test, not the whole quarter grade…”

“Now she says we can’t go to the Apex in Boston to play Laser Tag! I’ve been wanting to go for sooooo long, but she always says no! It’s not fair!”

“Gideon, it’s a four hour drive!” His wife’s exasperated tone belied the calm reason she was attempting to exude. Belle paced to the window and back, fidgeting with trinkets on the mantelpiece, moving them about uselessly, and Gold felt a creeping suspicion steal over him.

“We had a deal!”

Gold noticed how his wife’s eyes wouldn’t exactly meet his while she chewed nervously on her bottom lip, two of her most obvious tells. He’d spent a lifetime sussing out desperate souls, and he knew one when he saw one. In a flash of understanding, he realized why Belle was refusing to take Gideon to Boston for a simple afternoon of Laser Tag -- and it had nothing at all to do with the length of the drive.

His darling Belle was a terrible shot.

Belle, his lovely wife, beloved mother of his child, was nothing if not ruthlessly, mercilessly competitive. Her suggestion of mini-golf would have given her a clear advantage, being as she was damn good at mini-golf, better than either he or Gid. Even go-karting, though Gideon had the brash advantage of youth, his mother was cutthroat. Gold himself had taught her to drive, and he’d seen her cut off old ladies in downtown Boston without a backward glance. Belle might pretend to be a magnanimous winner, especially to support Gideon, always encouraging and helping him improve, but Gold knew how badly it got her hackles up to lose at anything.

Laser tag was different. Gold was a crack shot, and he’d been teaching Gideon to shoot everything from BB guns to crossbows since he was a tyke. Belle would have trouble hitting the broad side of a barn with a rocket launcher.

Gold smirked inwardly, deciding this was a perfect time for payback over last weekend’s family Scrabble debacle. He’d be doing the laundry and the dishes for two whole weeks because of a stupid word he was still pretty sure she had made up. Milver. Not that he minded doing chores -- it was the principal of the thing.

“Oh? Well, I have some business in Boston,” Gold offered, waving a nonchalant hand. He willfully ignored the tiny stamp of his wife’s foot, and the almost imperceptible narrowing of her eyes. “We’ll take a leisurely drive down the coast Friday after school. I’m certain I can arrange to conduct my business on Saturday morning, be done by noon, and have the rest of the weekend for family adventure. Laser tag and all. How does that sound?”

He gave Gideon a wickedly conspiratorial grin that his son returned eagerly, nodding.

“Please, Mum?” He was nearly bouncing on his toes. “Papa agrees!”

Belle drummed her fingers on the mantel, and tiny fingers of dread danced up his spine to tickle the back of his neck. He knew he would pay dearly for this egregious breach of parental unity, but he was already busy hatching a plan to beat both his wife and the son who was a natural born scholar and athlete. At twelve, Gideon was already a full inch taller than him and quickly outstripping him at everything. Truly, Gold couldn’t be prouder of Gideon or his precious, wee family, but then again, neither would he pass up an opportunity to beat their sorry arses in a little friendly, family competition.

“Maybe I had plans this weekend, darling,” Belle bit off through clenched teeth, glaring daggers at him.

“Oh, come on, sweetheart.” He gave his wife a similarly conspiratorial grin and a wink, assuring her he had a plan to help her win. “A deal’s a deal. And we Golds always honor our deals. Right?”

Belle’s lips quirked into a reluctant smile, and she gave him an appraising look before nodding. “Very well, if your father is willing to make a weekend of it…”

Their son began dancing around, whooping like a banshee, and Gold caught Belle’s tiny, secretive smile just before she started giggling and hugging Gideon.

#rumbelle showdown 2020 #rumbelle fic #Round One entry #author: tick-tock dearie

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crimsoncityhq · 4 years

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The fall solstice is only days from breaking over the Crimson City. Heat is a rare commodity to the residents of Chicago, so they part with it bitterly every year at the annual End-of-Summer Festival. The season goes out with a bang and the rumble of food trucks every summer as patrons waltz their way down the Chicago art walk, indulge in all things saucy and boozy at the Chicago Bourbon and BBQ Festival, get in touch with nature at the Chicago craft beer tasting at the zoo, and shop at the Chicago flea market littered with street merchants from all over the country. Of course, the real selling point every year is the annual Chicago bar crawl, which sweeps guests through Cook County’s best bars, like The Pint, Rousseau’s, Cataleya, Wolves and Skyfall Bar. To attract more customers, each bar, restaurant, and club—even what goes on behind—will be steeply discounted for the ultimate occasion.

And if you’re a little territorial, don’t sweat it—no metal detectors will be necessary at the End-of-Summer Festival. Who would want to ruin all this fun, anyway ?!

Part I of the End-of-Summer Festival begins at 7:15 P.M. CST and will conclude on TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 15 at 7 P.M. CST. You may continue your non-event threads through the event, however we ask you don’t post any starters unless they pertain to the event

Under the cut are plot slots you may claim for this event; just send your preferred slot to the main. Plots slots are a first come, first serve basis.

We’re going to allow each person to choose two plot slots for two characters max .If there are any leftovers, we’ll let members know when they can sign up for thirds. Please try to pick one pertaining to your character and plot with those that take the other spots.

You’ll notice that some of these plots are public, so feel free to have your character react to them/ notice them even if they aren’t happening directly to your character. However, if something feels like it happened privately to another character, please check in with their Mun to see if it’s okay for your character to know.

To be clear: these are not the only things that happen to your character during this plot drop and you are more than welcome to cook up your own trouble.

1. IRA EVANS talks BIRDIE MENDOZA into taking five shots in under ten minutes. Now, it’s up to IRA EVANS to lug BIRDIE MENDOZA to each location on the bar crawl. Good luck—we hear they’re sloppy.

2. [LINCOLN ROSSI ] is having trouble finding their way out of the parking garage when they find [ CHARACTER D ] drunkenly screaming at an intoxicated [ CHARACTER E ]. [ LINCOLN ROSSI ] decides to guide them back to the party before they get lost.

3. [ EDIE JAMES ] accidentally drops a ten instead of a one into the tip jar while watching a street act. They awkwardly remove the tip but later get mugged by [ CHARACTER G ] and [ CHARACTER H ] who had watched the whole thing.

4. The Pint is running a promotion that promises six months of free drinks if you can outdrink two other people. [ LAVRENTI VASILE ], [ ANTON VOLKOV ], and [ ATTICUS MERCER ] compete to win, but the competition turns into drunken chaos very quickly.

5. [ VIOLET MADDEN ]is selected to go onstage and perform a duet with [ CHARACTER M ]. They end up sharing a heated moment over the microphone and head to the nearest restroom to talk.

6. [ AUTUMN DAWSON ] accompanies [ MARCEL WALSH] to the craft beer tasting at the zoo. [ MARCEL WALSH ] feeds the goats in the petting area before getting mowed over by it. [ AUTUMN DAWSON ] tries to ward the goat off from the sidelines while [ MARCEL WALSH ] returns to their feet to make their escape.

7. [ OAKLEY BUTLER ] is showing off their artwork at the art walk. [ LEONID 'LEO' VASILE ] buys a piece and tries to scam it a few booths down. [ OAKLEY BUTLER ] busts them after a civilian buys the piece of artwork for triple the price. The confrontation is no bueno.

8. [ DIAMOND WASHINGTON ] has been texting [ CHARACTER S ] the whole entire event thinking it was an [ CHARACTER T ]. [ CHARACTER S & CHARACTER T ] meet up at the rendezvous point and [ DIAMOND WASHINGTON ] must sort this miscommunication out.

9. TYSON KANE uses a random dating app and schedules a blind date with [CHARACTER V].

10. [ CHARACTER W ] ‘accidentally’ sets a booth on fire, and now owes [CHARACTER X] the money for their artwork.

11. [ NADIA JAMES ] crashes into [ MARISSA ATKINSON’s ] car when trying to park. They have an altercation in the parking garage.

12. [ JUNO SONG ] is seen drunkenly trying to serenade the penguin exhibit to Gangsta’s Paradise. [ ADELAIDE HASSAN ] records the whole entire thing for ‘information purposes’ later.

13. [ CHARACTER C1 ] accepts a small baggy containing a questionable substance from [ CHARACTER D1 ]. Later, [ CHARACTER C1] runs into [ CHARACTER D1] completely convinced they are being chased by a murderous peacock. Bougie Thankskilling, anyone?

14. [ ARMANDE IVASHKOV ] & [ CHARACTER F1 ] stand in line to get into Cataleya, while [CHARACTER G1] tries to convince them to smuggle in [ SMALL ANIMAL OF CHARACTER G1’S CHOOSING ].

15. [ EMMA BARTLETT] finds a trashbag full of cash with a note that seems to be in a binary code. [ CHARACTER I1] catches [ EMMA BARTLETT’s] silhouette & comes over to inspect.

16. ROSALIA LEON trying to escape from their date, runs right through the doors of Gentile Fille. They collide with [ CHARACTER K1] that was there for the same reason.

17. [ CHARACTER L1 ] finds themself in a pickle when they end up with the primates. Their panicked whispers gain the attention of [ CHARACTER M1] & [ CHARACTER N1] to help them get out of the exhibit. While the primates descend upon [ CHARACTER L1], Helen Branch Primate House will never be the same. [ CHARACTER N1] stops helping because they’re too busy laughing.

18. [ CHARACTER O1] misses their date’s ass, and smacks [CHARACTER P1’s] ass instead. It causes [ CHARACTER P1] to swing a fist, but they hit [ CHARACTER Q1’s] throat instead causing them to start choking.

19. [ KATERINA VASILE ] is mistaken for [ EMMA WATSON ] by [ CHARACTER S1] that won’t stop bugging them for an autograph.

20. [ RAFAEL GONZALEZ ] hides their weapon(s) before they go into The Pint. [ BARNABY EATON] trips over the weapons and keeps them.

21. [ CHARACTER V1] tries to convince [ CHARACTER W1] that they saw strange lights in the sky. They start arguing if it was helicopter lights or UFO’s.

22. [ SILAS HALE ] mistakes ANAIS "ANNIE" WASHINGTON for someone else, and pulls them into a kiss in front of the crowd at Eden.

23. [ DARREN MURPHY ] grows impatient waiting for their BBQ food order, but doesn’t realize [ ASLI DEMIR ] hijacked the food truck.

24. [CHARACTER B2] drunkenly loses a fight with a street performer. [ CALLUM JAMES ], who witnessed the scrap, helps [CHARACTER B2] to the nearest first aid kit.

25.[ JOSIE LEON] drunkenly confesses their love for One Direction, however [ EZRA WASHINGTON ] misinterprets it as a confession of love for them.

26. [ FOREST DUNCAN ] decides the End-of-Summer Festival is missing some pyrotechnics. They shoot off fireworks in the center of a small crowd and start a fire. [ CAIOLAINN 'CALLIE' WALSH ] is the only one who stays to help them stamp it out.

27. [ ROSALIE "ROSIE" HALLIDAY ] is sitting at a booth being drawn, and [ JESSE VALENCIA ] pays the artist to mess up the self portrait. However, the artist ends up drawing them BOTH together in a romantic position.

28. [ GWENDOLYN "GWEN" ARNOLDS ] is probably the only poor sober soul, and they use this to charge [ JACKSON MARSTON ] to be their DD. However, they both witness when [ GWENDOLYN "GWEN" ARNOLDS’s] car is towed away for parking in the wrong spot.

29. A discounted tattoo shop sits along the art walk and is charging only $20 for a small tattoo. [ ANDREA 'ANDY'PEREZ ] says they’ll pay for it—and dinner—if [ DARCY FAUST ] lets them choose the tattoo. [ DARCY FAUST ] agrees but is horrified to find [ UP TO PLAYER DISCRETION ] permanently engraved on their skin.

30. [ OLIVIA MADDEN ] notices an odd tattoo that glows on someone’s forearm. Several straight lines? Before they can inquire about it, [ CHARACTER O2 ] tackle them mistaking them for being a thief.

31. [ DANICA SINCLAIR ] wins a dancing contest against [ UDORN “YURI” SASIPARN ], but twists their ankle in the process. [ UDORN “YURI” SASIPARN ] agrees to help them along only if they declare them the winner.

32. [ ANTON VOLKOV ] lost a bet with [ KONSTATIN VASILE ] and now wanders the street with a bright pink wig, fishnet stockings, & a clown mask.

33. [ VICTOR 'VIC' VOLKOV ] strikes a conversation with [ IGOR VASILE ] over a piece of artwork. [ VICTOR 'VIC' VOLKOV ] buys the artwork only to find out it was counterfeit from the Art Museum. [ IGOR VASILE ] ends up purchasing the real one. They start to argue which one is the real one.

34. [ CHARLOTTE "CHARLIE" ARDEN] is running a booth at the flea market and notices [ CHARACTER W2 ] pocket something from an adjacent vendor. [ CHARLOTTE "CHARLIE" ARDEN ] promises not to squeal if [ CHARACTER W2 ] works with them at the booth for an hour.

35. [ JESSIKA DELMONICO] & [ KELLEN WASHINGTON ] break out into a paint fight at an abandoned art booth. [ JESSIKA DELMONICO ] is splashed with a neon green paint in the face. [ KELLEN WASHINGTON ] tries to run away, but not before [ CHARACTER X2 ] splashes their back with a brown paint. Did they shit themselves??

36. [ CHARACTER Z2 ] ducks out of the way from a flying object that crashes the window of a closed shop. The alarms start to blare, and before [ CHARACTER Z2 ] can leave the scene they see [ CHARACTER A3 ] about to launch something else.

37. [ TALIA ARSLAN ] eats a bad hot dog from a food truck, and [ DANICA SINCLAIR ] helps them to the nearest bar for a bathroom and a cool drink. [ TALIA ARSLAN ] talks [ DANICA SINCLAIR ] into doing shots when they’re feeling better.

38. [ LEV VASILE ] takes a few healthy tokes of the joint they’ve been saving for an occasion, and [ GENEVIEVE BISSET ] asks if they’re willing to share. They both light up and head on a self-guided tour to the food trucks.

39. [ CHARACTER F3 ] and [ CHARACTER G3 ] get into an argument with [ MATHIAS ATTANO ] after they lose at a drinking game for the third time in a row. [ MATHIAS ATTANO ] has been cheating the whole time and now has to lose [ CHARACTER F3 ] and [ CHARACTER G3 ] in the crowd.

#crimson.event #drugs tw #clown tw

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beckzorz · 5 years

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Well Matched

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader Summary: "You’re sparring with Bucky and putting up a good fight. You let him slam you into the mat, and he puts his hand to your throat. Turns out you like that.” Warnings: language, smut (foreplay, language, light d/s themes) If you are under 18 you should not be reading this.

Grunts, coupled with the occasional snarl. A flurry of kicks, jabs, uppercuts, lowercuts, feet stamping on the mats and once in a while on your opponent’s foot. Controlled breathing, racing heart, tingles of adrenaline rushing straight through to your fingertips as you hook your arm around his elbow and throw him off-balance.

But like a cat, Bucky Barnes seems always to land on his feet.

You break away from him with a pout and wipe your neck with your shirt. A moment’s respite, one you wouldn’t get in the field.

“Most people would’ve been knocked over by that,” you say.

“Sure,” Bucky says, casually. He’s still, relaxed, calm. Hasn’t even broken a sweat. His gray sweatpants are absolutely dry, not to mention slung extra low on his hips. The bastard. “But you didn’t choose to spar with most people.”

“My mistake,” you growl, charging him.

Bucky ducks out of the way. Just as you expected, he circles back to grab you around the waist. You suck in a steadying breath as he lifts you off the ground, slams you on the mat. Your teeth rattle, and you jab your stiff fingers straight at his jugular.

But like a cat, Bucky Barnes always seems to sense you coming.

He elbows your hand aside and puts his metal hand to your throat, his face hovering over yours. A slight pressure, and you’re gasping for air. It’s impossible to breathe, impossible to take your eyes from his face, impossible to move. Bucky’s straddling your thighs, one of your hands caught in his. Your other hand is clenched around his metal wrist. Your vision is fuzzy around the edges as you gape at Bucky, your whole body flaring with sudden, unexpected heat. Blood rushes in your ears. Your thighs clench, and a little moan escapes you.

Bucky pulls back so fast you wonder if he was burned by the scorching flush creeping down your neck.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asks hurriedly.

“No…” You sit up carefully, face flaming as you realize that there’s a dampness between your legs that is definitely not sweat. Bucky’s eyes widen, and you know with sudden dismay he knows exactly what’s just happened.

But he doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t even run away. He inches closer, his darkening eyes darting around the empty gym before settling back on you.

“Of all the people to get turned on by being beaten, I never would’ve expected you.”

You shake your head, unable to form words. Bucky’s stance is all power—shoulders set back, broad; arms curling to display those delectable muscles and the whirring plates of his metal arm; chin lifted with his exquisite jaw on display. He’s closing in on you now, and with a harsh shove you’re back on the floor, his knees pressed on either side of your heaving chest.

Your heartbeat runs a frantic rhythm. You tilt your head back, lips parted, baring yourself to him. Bucky licks his lips and slides his hand up between your breasts to settle back around your neck. You buck your hips up without thinking, your hands flying to his powerful thighs as he bends low over you.

“To be fair,” he murmurs, voice husky, “I wonder if this doesn’t make us both winners.”

You squeeze his thighs and slide your hands closer together until his breath catches and his eyes flash dangerously.

“Careful,” he warns.

“Oh, don’t worry,” you say, smiling innocently.

It’s a reach—your shoulder burns a little—but you manage to run your hand along the outline of his cock until he’s gasping. Then you buck your whole body up and sideways, sending Bucky toppling to the side.

You land on his chest, your knees on either side of his neck and your hand on his throat, laughing breathlessly, hips grinding ever so slightly against his chest.

“Now we’re both winners,” you tell him.

Bucky snorts. He squeezes your ass; you gasp, but you don’t swat his hands away. You just move yourself back until you can feel that delicious hard cock of his between your legs. Until your chest is pressed tight against his. Bucky grinds his hips into yours, and your hands spasm against his neck, tug at his hair. He tilts his face up and just barely brushes his lips against yours.

“How about we take this somewhere else?” he murmurs.

“Oh?”

His grin is wicked. “Winners get to fuck on my bed.”

For HBC’s drunk drabbles! Thanks for hosting loves! @the-ss-horniest-book-club // @buckybarneshairpullingkink @jewelofwinter @chocochipcookieyum

Let me know if you want to be tagged in my HBC stuff xoxo

#hbc drunk drabbles #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x you #bucky barnes x y/n #winter soldier imagine #becca writes

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rebeccathenaturalist · 4 years

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I do some volunteering in my area with the Junior Duck Stamp program. I thought since it's the perfect time to get kids involved in it that I'd make a comic to spread the word! I wish I'd known about it when I was a kid, because this would have been right up my alley. Still, it's fun getting to be a part of the effort now. If you don't want to type out that entire link, you can just navigate to it by clicking http://www.fws.gov/birds/education/junior-duck-stamp-conservation-program.php

I'm still getting the hang of the settings on my new scanner, so bear with me as the image quality may shift and change over the next few weeks. At least the colors are better!

Species portrayed: Giraffe (Giraffa camelopardalis), northern shoveler duck (Spatula clypeata), plains bison (Bison bison bison), northern pintail duck (Anas acuta), harlequin duck (Histrionicus histrionicus), green winged teal (Anas carolinensis), trumpeter swan (Cygnus buccinator), nene (Branta sandvicensis), surf scoter (Melanitta perspicillata), Canada goose (Branta canadensis), tundra swan (Cygnus columbianus), brant goose (Branta bernicla), fulvous whistling duck (Dendrocygna bicolor)

Transcript under cut.

Title: Junior Duck Stamps: Science & Art For Kids!

[First panel: A desk surface with an image of the hydrological cycle, a pot with seedlings in it, a stack of books with a stuffed toy bison on top of it, a small toy northern shoveler duck, a computer monitor with an article about giraffes on it] Conservation education is a topic near and dear to my heart. After all, I started this comic to teach people neat stuff about nature! And I admit other people doing the same in a variety of settings and media.

[Second panel: a series of stamps with various ducks, geese and swans portrayed on them] One of my favorite conservation education programs is the Junior Duck Stamp Conservation Education and Design Program (or Junior Duck Stamp Program.) Created in 1989 by the National Fish and Wildlife Foundation, it officially became a U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service program in 1994. The program combines science and art to educate children about waterfowl and the habitats they rely on.

[Third panel: At the top, a surf scoter duck, Canada goose, and tundra swan sit in a grassy field. Below them, a brant duck is labeled with “broad bill”, Long neck”, “oily feathers” and “webbed feet”. Next to it is a recreation of the National Wildlife Refuge System’s “bluue goose” logo.] The education portion is based on curriculum materials available for free online. They include information on the different species of native waterfowl (ducks, geese and swans), adaptations these birds have to their environment, why National Wildlife Refuges and other protected habitats are crucial to their survival, and much more.

[Fourth panel: a rough sketch of a duck and duckling sits partly covered by a drawing of a trumpeter swan in flight. The drawings are surrounded by a variety of art supplies.] All children kindergarten through 12th grade in the U.S., American Samoa, and U.S. Virgin Islands are encouraged to create art for the Junior Duck Stamp art contest. The national winner gets their art on the following year’s Junior Duck Stamp, among other awards. Sold for $5 each, the stamps help to fund further conservation education through the Junior Duck Stamp program.

Want to get your kids or students involved? Get more information at http://www.fws.gov/birds/education/junior-duck-stamp-conservation-program.php

There you can get free curriculum materials for traditional and home school classrooms, as well as important information about the art contest like rules, entry forms, a list of eligible species, and more! You can also contact your state coordinator who can help with more local resources. This includes any volunteers who can visit your classroom and teach kids about the program and contest. Adults interested in volunteering can ask the state coordinator too!

[Fifth panel: A fulvous whistling duck sits on a sign with contest deadlines, with cattails in the background.] JDS Contest Deadlines: February 1 - California, Maryland. February 15 - Massachusetts. March 1 - Maine, Missouri, Ohio, Virginia, Rhode Island, Pennsylvania. March 15 - everyone else.

While the art contest deadlines mark when the art entries must be postmarked, the educational material on the website can be used year round! It’s a great free resource that has taught thousands of kids about our nation’s waterfowl for over a quarter of a century. If you have kids in your life, share the Junior Duck Stamp Program with them today! That website again is: http://www.fws.gov/birds/education/junior-duck-stamp-conservation-program.php

#nature #animals #wildlife #birds #art contest #mine

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diarrheaworldstarhiphop · 6 years

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Two ideas puzzled me deeply as a child growing up in Brooklyn during the 1930’s in what today would be called an integrated neighborhood. One of them was that all Jews were rich; the other was that all Negroes were persecuted. These ideas had appeared in print; therefore they must be true. My own experience and the evidence of my senses told me they were not true, but that only confirmed what a day-dreaming boy in the provinces—for the lower-class neighborhoods of New York belong as surely to the provinces as any rural town in North Dakota—discovers very early: his experience is unreal and the evidence of his senses is not to be trusted. Yet even a boy with a head full of fantasies incongruously synthesized out of Hollywood movies and English novels cannot altogether deny the reality of his own experience—especially when there is so much deprivation in that experience. Nor can he altogether gainsay the evidence of his own senses—especially such evidence of the senses as comes from being repeatedly beaten up, robbed, and in general hated, terrorized, and humiliated.

And so for a long time I was puzzled to think that Jews were supposed to be rich when the only Jews I knew were poor, and that Negroes were supposed to be persecuted when it was the Negroes who were doing the only persecuting I knew about—and doing it, moreover, to me. During the early years of the war, when my older sister joined a left-wing youth organization, I remember my astonishment at hearing her passionately denounce my father for thinking that Jews were worse off than Negroes. To me, at the age of twelve, it seemed very clear that Negroes were better off than Jews—indeed, than all whites. A city boy’s world is contained within three or four square blocks, and in my world it was the whites, the Italians and Jews, who feared the Negroes, not the other way around. The Negroes were tougher than we were, more ruthless, and on the whole they were better athletes. What could it mean, then, to say that they were badly off and that we were more fortunate? Yet my sister’s opinions, like print, were sacred, and when she told me about exploitation and economic forces I believed her. I believed her, but I was still afraid of Negroes. And I still hated them with all my heart.

It had not always been so—that much I can recall from early childhood. When did it start, this fear and this hatred? There was a kindergarten in the local public school, and given the character of the neighborhood, at least half of the children in my class must have been Negroes. Yet I have no memory of being aware of color differences at that age, and I know from observing my own children that they attribute no significance to such differences even when they begin noticing them. I think there was a day—first grade? second grade?—when my best friend Carl hit me on the way home from school and announced that he wouldn’t play with me any more because I had killed Jesus. When I ran home to my mother crying for an explanation, she told me not to pay any attention to such foolishness, and then in Yiddish she cursed the goyim and the Schwartzes, the Schwartzes and the goyim. Carl, it turned out, was a schwartze, and so was added a third to the categories into which people were mysteriously divided.

Sometimes I wonder whether this is a true memory at all. It is blazingly vivid, but perhaps it never happened: can anyone really remember back to the age of six? There is no uncertainty in my mind, however, about the years that followed. Carl and I hardly ever spoke, though we met in school every day up through the eighth or ninth grade. There would be embarrassed moments of catching his eye or of his catching mine—for whatever it was that had attracted us to one another as very small children remained alive in spite of the fantastic barrier of hostility that had grown up between us, suddenly and out of nowhere. Nevertheless, friendship would have been impossible, and even if it had been possible, it would have been unthinkable. About that, there was nothing anyone could do by the time we were eight years old.

Item: The orphanage across the street is torn down, a city housing project begins to rise in its place, and on the marvelous vacant lot next to the old orphanage they are building a playground. Much excitement and anticipation as Opening Day draws near. Mayor LaGuardia himself comes to dedicate this great gesture of public benevolence. He speaks of neighborliness and borrowing cups of sugar, and of the playground he says that children of all races, colors, and creeds will learn to live together in harmony. A week later, some of us are swatting flies on the playground’s inadequate little ball field. A gang of Negro kids, pretty much our own age, enter from the other side and order us out of the park. We refuse, proudly and indignantly, with superb masculine fervor. There is a fight, they win, and we retreat, half whimpering, half with bravado. My first nauseating experience of cowardice. And my first appalled realization that there are people in the world who do not seem to be afraid of anything, who act as though they have nothing to lose. Thereafter the playground becomes a battleground, sometimes quiet, sometimes the scene of athletic competition between Them and Us. But rocks are thrown as often as baseballs. Gradually we abandon the place and use the streets instead. The streets are safer, though we do not admit this to ourselves. We are not, after all, sissies—that most dreaded epithet of an American boyhood.

Item: I am standing alone in front of the building in which I live. It is late afternoon and getting dark. That day in school the teacher had asked a surly Negro boy named Quentin a question he was unable to answer. As usual I had waved my arm eagerly (“Be a good boy, get good marks, be smart, go to college, become a doctor”) and, the right answer bursting from my lips, I was held up lovingly by the teacher as an example to the class. I had seen Quentin’s face—a very dark, very cruel, very Oriental-looking face—harden, and there had been enough threat in his eyes to make me run all the way home for fear that he might catch me outside.

Now, standing idly in front of my own house, I see him approaching from the project accompanied by his little brother who is carrying a baseball bat and wearing a grin of malicious anticipation. As in a nightmare, I am trapped. The surroundings are secure and familiar, but terror is suddenly present and there is no one around to help. I am locked to the spot. I will not cry out or run away like a sissy, and I stand there, my heart wild, my throat clogged. He walks up, hurls the familiar epithet (“Hey, mo’f—r”), and to my surprise only pushes me. It is a violent push, but not a punch. A push is not as serious as a punch. Maybe I can still back out without entirely losing my dignity. Maybe I can still say, “Hey, c’mon Quentin, whaddya wanna do that for. I dint do nothin’ to you,” and walk away, not too rapidly. Instead, before I can stop myself, I push him back—a token gesture—and I say, “Cut that out, I don’t wanna fight, I ain’t got nothin’ to fight about.” As I turn to walk back into the building, the corner of my eye catches the motion of the bat his little brother has handed him. I try to duck, but the bat crashes colored lights into my head.

The next thing I know, my mother and sister are standing over me, both of them hysterical. My sister—she who was later to join the “progressive” youth organization—is shouting for the police and screaming imprecations at those dirty little black bastards. They take me upstairs, the doctor comes, the police come. I tell them that the boy who did it was a stranger, that he had been trying to get money from me. They do not believe me, but I am too scared to give them Quentin’s name. When I return to school a few days later, Quentin avoids my eyes. He knows that I have not squealed, and he is ashamed. I try to feel proud, but in my heart I know that it was fear of what his friends might do to me that had kept me silent, and not the code of the street.

Item: There is an athletic meet in which the whole of our junior high school is participating. I am in one of the seventh-grade rapid-advance classes, and “segregation” has now set in with a vengeance. In the last three or four years of the elementary school from which we have just graduated, each grade had been divided into three classes, according to “intelligence.” (In the earlier grades the divisions had either been arbitrary or else unrecognized by us as having anything to do with brains.) These divisions by IQ, or however it was arranged, had resulted in a preponderance of Jews in the “1” classes and a corresponding preponderance of Negroes in the “3’s,” with the Italians split unevenly along the spectrum. At least a few Negroes had always made the “l’s,” just as there had always been a few Jewish kids among the “3’s” and more among the “2’s” (where Italians dominated). But the junior high’s rapid-advance class of which I am now a member is overwhelmingly Jewish and entirely white—except for a shy lonely Negro girl with light skin and reddish hair.

The athletic meet takes place in a city-owned stadium far from the school. It is an important event to which a whole day is given over. The winners are to get those precious little medallions stamped with the New York City emblem that can be screwed into a belt and that prove the wearer to be a distinguished personage. I am a fast runner, and so I am assigned the position of anchor man on my class’s team in the relay race. There are three other seventh-grade teams in the race, two of them all Negro, as ours is all white. One of the all-Negro teams is very tall—their anchor man waiting silently next to me on the line looks years older than I am, and I do not recognize him. He is the first to get the baton and crosses the finishing line in a walk. Our team comes in second, but a few minutes later we are declared the winners, for it has been discovered that the anchor man on the first-place team is not a member of the class. We are awarded the medallions, and the following day our home-room teacher makes a speech about how proud she is of us for being superior athletes as well as superior students. We want to believe that we deserve the praise, but we know that we could not have won even if the other class had not cheated.

That afternoon, walking home, I am waylaid and surrounded by five Negroes, among whom is the anchor man of the disqualified team. “Gimme my medal, mo’f—r,” he grunts. I do not have it with me and I tell him so. “Anyway, it ain’t yours,” I say foolishly. He calls me a liar on both counts and pushes me up against the wall on which we sometimes play handball. “Gimme my mo’f—n’ medal,” he says again. I repeat that I have left it home. “Le’s search the li’l mo’f—r,” one of them suggests, “he prolly got it hid in his mo’f—n’ pants.” My panic is now unmanageable. (How many times had I been surrounded like this and asked in soft tones, “Len’ me a nickle, boy.” How many times had I been called a liar for pleading poverty and pushed around, or searched, or beaten up, unless there happened to be someone in the marauding gang like Carl who liked me across that enormous divide of hatred and who would therefore say, “Aaah, c’mon, le’s git someone else, this boy ain’t got no money on ‘im.”) I scream at them through tears of rage and self-contempt, “Keep your f—n’ filthy lousy black hands off a me! I swear I’ll get the cops.” This is all they need to hear, and the five of them set upon me. They bang me around, mostly in the stomach and on the arms and shoulders, and when several adults loitering near the candy store down the block notice what is going on and begin to shout, they run off and away.

I do not tell my parents about the incident. My team-mates, who have also been waylaid, each by a gang led by his opposite number from the disqualified team, have had their medallions taken from them, and they never squeal either. For days, I walk home in terror, expecting to be caught again, but nothing happens. The medallion is put away into a drawer, never to be worn by anyone.

Obviously experiences like these have always been a common feature of childhood life in working-class and immigrant neighborhoods, and Negroes do not necessarily figure in them. Wherever, and in whatever combination, they have lived together in the cities, kids of different groups have been at war, beating up and being beaten up: micks against kikes against wops against spicks against polacks. And even relatively homogeneous areas have not been spared the warring of the young: one block against another, one gang (called in my day, in a pathetic effort at gentility, an “S.A.C.,” or social-athletic club) against another. But the Negro-white conflict had—and no doubt still has—a special intensity and was conducted with a ferocity unmatched by intramural white battling.

In my own neighborhood, a good deal of animosity existed between the Italian kids (most of whose parents were immigrants from Sicily) and the Jewish kids (who came largely from East European immigrant families). Yet everyone had friends, sometimes close friends, in the other “camp,” and we often visited one another’s strange-smelling houses, if not for meals, then for glasses of milk, and occasionally for some special event like a wedding or a wake. If it happened that we divided into warring factions and did battle, it would invariably be half-hearted and soon patched up. Our parents, to be sure, had nothing to do with one another and were mutually suspicious and hostile. But we, the kids, who all spoke Yiddish or Italian at home, were Americans, or New Yorkers, or Brooklyn boys: we shared a culture, the culture of the street, and at least for a while this culture proved to be more powerful than the opposing cultures of the home.

Why, why should it have been so different as between the Negroes and us? How was it borne in upon us so early, white and black alike, that we were enemies beyond any possibility of reconciliation? Why did we hate one another so?

I suppose if I tried, I could answer those questions more or less adequately from the perspective of what I have since learned. I could draw upon James Baldwin—what better witness is there?—to describe the sense of entrapment that poisons the soul of the Negro with hatred for the white man whom he knows to be his jailer. On the other side, if I wanted to understand how the white man comes to hate the Negro, I could call upon the psychologists who have spoken of the guilt that white Americans feel toward Negroes and that turns into hatred for lack of acknowledging itself as guilt. These are plausible answers and certainly there is truth in them. Yet when I think back upon my own experience of the Negro and his of me, I find myself troubled and puzzled, much as I was as a child when I heard that all Jews were rich and all Negroes persecuted. How could the Negroes in my neighborhood have regarded the whites across the street and around the corner as jailers? On the whole, the whites were not so poor as the Negroes, but they were quite poor enough, and the years were years of Depression. As for white hatred of the Negro, how could guilt have had anything to do with it? What share had these Italian and Jewish immigrants in the enslavement of the Negro? What share had they—downtrodden people themselves breaking their own necks to eke out a living—in the exploitation of the Negro?

No, I cannot believe that we hated each other back there in Brooklyn because they thought of us as jailers and we felt guilty toward them. But does it matter, given the fact that we all went through an unrepresentative confrontation? I think it matters profoundly, for if we managed the job of hating each other so well without benefit of the aids to hatred that are supposedly at the root of this madness everywhere else, it must mean that the madness is not yet properly understood. I am far from pretending that I understand it, but I would insist that no view of the problem will begin to approach the truth unless it can account for a case like the one I have been trying to describe. Are the elements of any such view available to us?

At least two, I would say, are. One of them is a point we frequently come upon in the work of James Baldwin, and the other is a related point always stressed by psychologists who have studied the mechanisms of prejudice. Baldwin tells us that one of the reasons Negroes hate the white man is that the white man refuses to look at him: the Negro knows that in white eyes all Negroes are alike; they are faceless and therefore not altogether human. The psychologists, in their turn, tell us that the white man hates the Negro because he tends to project those wild impulses that he fears in himself onto an alien group which he then punishes with his contempt. What Baldwin does not tell us, however, is that the principle of facelessness is a two-way street and can operate in both directions with no difficulty at all. Thus, in my neighborhood in Brooklyn, I was as faceless to the Negroes as they were to me, and if they hated me because I never looked at them, I must also have hated them for never looking at me. To the Negroes, my white skin was enough to define me as the enemy, and in a war it is only the uniform that counts and not the person.

So with the mechanism of projection that the psychologists talk about: it too works in both directions at once. There is no question that the psychologists are right about what the Negro represents symbolically to the white man. For me as a child the life lived on the other side of the playground and down the block on Ralph Avenue seemed the very embodiment of the values of the street—free, independent, reckless, brave, masculine, erotic. I put the word “erotic” last, though it is usually stressed above all others, because in fact it came last, in consciousness as in importance. What mainly counted for me about Negro kids of my own age was that they were “bad boys.” There were plenty of bad boys among the whites—this was, after all, a neighborhood with a long tradition of crime as a career open to aspiring talents—but the Negroes were really bad, bad in a way that beckoned to one, and made one feel inadequate. We all went home every day for a lunch of spinach-and-potatoes; they roamed around during lunch hour, munching on candy bars. In winter we had to wear itchy woolen hats and mittens and cumbersome galoshes; they were bare-headed and loose as they pleased. We rarely played hookey, or got into serious trouble in school, for all our street-corner bravado; they were defiant, forever staying out (to do what delicious things?), forever making disturbances in class and in the halls, forever being sent to the principal and returning uncowed. But most important of all, they were tough; beautifully, enviably tough, not giving a damn for anyone or anything. To hell with the teacher, the truant officer, the cop; to hell with the whole of the adult world that held us in its grip and that we never had the courage to rebel against except sporadically and in petty ways.

This is what I saw and envied and feared in the Negro: this is what finally made him faceless to me, though some of it, of course, was actually there. (The psychologists also tell us that the alien group which becomes the object of a projection will tend to respond by trying to live up to what is expected of them.) But what, on his side, did the Negro see in me that made me faceless to him? Did he envy me my lunches of spinach-and-potatoes and my itchy woolen caps and my prudent behavior in the face of authority, as I envied him his noon-time candy bars and his bare head in winter and his magnificent rebelliousness? Did those lunches and caps spell for him the prospect of power and riches in the future? Did they mean that there were possibilities open to me that were denied to him? Very likely they did. But if so, one also supposes that he feared the impulses within himself toward submission to authority no less powerfully than I feared the impulses in myself toward defiance. If I represented the jailer to him, it was not because I was oppressing him or keeping him down: it was because I symbolized for him the dangerous and probably pointless temptation toward greater repression, just as he symbolized for me the equally perilous tug toward greater freedom. I personally was to be rewarded for this repression with a new and better life in the future, but how many of my friends paid an even higher price and were given only gall in return.

We have it on the authority of James Baldwin that all Negroes hate whites. I am trying to suggest that on their side all whites—all American whites, that is—are sick in their feelings about Negroes. There are Negroes, no doubt, who would say that Baldwin is wrong, but I suspect them of being less honest than he is, just as I suspect whites of self-deception who tell me they have no special feeling toward Negroes. Special feelings about color are a contagion to which white Americans seem susceptible even when there is nothing in their background to account for the susceptibility. Thus everywhere we look today in the North, we find the curious phenomenon of white middle-class liberals with no previous personal experience of Negroes—people to whom Negroes have always been faceless in virtue rather than faceless in vice—discovering that their abstract commitment to the cause of Negro rights will not stand the test of a direct confrontation. We find such people fleeing in droves to the suburbs as the Negro population in the inner city grows; and when they stay in the city we find them sending their children to private school rather than to the “integrated” public school in the neighborhood. We find them resisting the demand that gerrymandered school districts be re-zoned for the purpose of overcoming de facto segregation; we find them judiciously considering whether the Negroes (for their own good, of course) are not perhaps pushing too hard; we find them clucking their tongues over Negro militancy; we find them speculating on the question of whether there may not, after all, be something in the theory that the races are biologically different; we find them saying that it will take a very long time for Negroes to achieve full equality, no matter what anyone does; we find them deploring the rise of black nationalism and expressing the solemn hope that the leaders of the Negro community will discover ways of containing the impatience and incipient violence within the Negro ghettos.1

But that is by no means the whole story; there is also the phenomenon of what Kenneth Rexroth once called “crow-jimism.” There are the broken-down white boys like Vivaldo Moore in Baldwin’s Another Country who go to Harlem in search of sex or simply to brush up against something that looks like primitive vitality, and who are so often punished by the Negroes they meet for crimes that they would have been the last ever to commit and of which they themselves have been as sorry victims as any of the Negroes who take it out on them. There are the writers and intellectuals and artists who romanticize Negroes and pander to them, assuming a guilt that is not properly theirs. And there are all the white liberals who permit Negroes to blackmail them into adopting a double standard of moral judgment, and who lend themselves—again assuming the responsibility for crimes they never committed—to cunning and contemptuous exploitation by Negroes they employ or try to befriend.

And what about me? What kind of feelings do I have about Negroes today? What happened to me, from Brooklyn, who grew up fearing and envying and hating Negroes? Now that Brooklyn is behind me, do I fear them and envy them and hate them still? The answer is yes, but not in the same proportions and certainly not in the same way. I now live on the upper west side of Manhattan, where there are many Negroes and many Puerto Ricans, and there are nights when I experience the old apprehensiveness again, and there are streets that I avoid when I am walking in the dark, as there were streets that I avoided when I was a child. I find that I am not afraid of Puerto Ricans, but I cannot restrain my nervousness whenever I pass a group of Negroes standing in front of a bar or sauntering down the street. I know now, as I did not know when I was a child, that power is on my side, that the police are working for me and not for them. And knowing this I feel ashamed and guilty, like the good liberal I have grown up to be. Yet the twinges of fear and the resentment they bring and the self-contempt they arouse are not to be gainsaid.

But envy? Why envy? And hatred? Why hatred? Here again the intensities have lessened and everything has been complicated and qualified by the guilts and the resulting over-compensations that are the heritage of the enlightened middle-class world of which I am now a member. Yet just as in childhood I envied Negroes for what seemed to me their superior masculinity, so I envy them today for what seems to me their superior physical grace and beauty. I have come to value physical grace very highly, and I am now capable of aching with all my being when I watch a Negro couple on the dance floor, or a Negro playing baseball or basketball. They are on the kind of terms with their own bodies that I should like to be on with mine, and for that precious quality they seem blessed to me.

The hatred I still feel for Negroes is the hardest of all the old feelings to face or admit, and it is the most hidden and the most overlarded by the conscious attitudes into which I have succeeded in willing myself. It no longer has, as for me it once did, any cause or justification (except, perhaps, that I am constantly being denied my right to an honest expression of the things I earned the right as a child to feel). How, then, do I know that this hatred has never entirely disappeared? I know it from the insane rage that can stir in me at the thought of Negro anti-Semitism; I know it from the disgusting prurience that can stir in me at the sight of a mixed couple; and I know it from the violence that can stir in me whenever I encounter that special brand of paranoid touchiness to which many Negroes are prone.

This, then, is where I am; it is not exactly where I think all other white liberals are, but it cannot be so very far away either. And it is because I am convinced that we white Americans are—for whatever reason, it no longer matters—so twisted and sick in our feelings about Negroes that I despair of the present push toward integration. If the pace of progress were not a factor here, there would perhaps be no cause for despair: time and the law and even the international political situation are on the side of the Negroes, and ultimately, therefore, victory—of a sort, anyway—must come. But from everything we have learned from observers who ought to know, pace has become as important to the Negroes as substance. They want equality and they want it now, and the white world is yielding to their demand only as much and as fast as it is absolutely being compelled to do. The Negroes know this in the most concrete terms imaginable, and it is thus becoming increasingly difficult to buy them off with rhetoric and promises and pious assurances of support. And so within the Negro community we find more and more people declaring—as Harold R. Isaacs recently put it in these pages2—that they want out: people who say that integration will never come, or that it will take a hundred or a thousand years to come, or that it will come at too high a price in suffering and struggle for the pallid and sodden life of the American middle class that at the very best it may bring.

The most numerous, influential, and dangerous movement that has grown out of Negro despair with the goal of integration is, of course, the Black Muslims. This movement, whatever else we may say about it, must be credited with one enduring achievement: it inspired James Baldwin to write an essay3 which deserves to be placed among the classics of our language. Everything Baldwin has ever been trying to tell us is distilled here into a statement of overwhelming persuasiveness and prophetic magnificence. Baldwin’s message is and always has been simple. It is this: “Color is not a human or personal reality; it is a political reality.” And Baldwin’s demand is correspondingly simple: color must be forgotten, lest we all be smited with a vengeance “that does not really depend on, and cannot really be executed by, any person or organization, and that cannot be prevented by any police force or army: historical vengeance, a cosmic vengeance based on the law that we recognize when we say, ‘Whatever goes up must come down.’” The Black Muslims Baldwin portrays as a sign and a warning to the intransigent white world. They come to proclaim how deep is the Negro’s disaffection with the white world and all its works, and Baldwin implies that no American Negro can fail to respond somewhere in his being to their message: that the white man is the devil, that Allah has doomed him to destruction, and that the black man is about to inherit the earth. Baldwin of course knows that this nightmare inversion of the racism from which the black man has suffered can neither win nor even point to the neighborhood in which victory might be located. For in his view the neighborhood of victory lies in exactly the opposite direction: the transcendence of color through love.

Yet the tragic fact is that love is not the answer to hate—not in the world of politics, at any rate. Color is indeed a political rather than a human or a personal reality and if politics (which is to say power) has made it into a human and a personal reality, then only politics (which is to say power) can unmake it once again. But the way of politics is slow and bitter, and as impatience on the one side is matched by a setting of the jaw on the other, we move closer and closer to an explosion and blood may yet run in the streets.

Will this madness in which we are all caught never find a resting-place? Is there never to be an end to it? In thinking about the Jews I have often wondered whether their survival as a distinct group was worth one hair on the head of a single infant. Did the Jews have to survive so that six million innocent people should one day be burned in the ovens of Auschwitz? It is a terrible question and no one, not God himself, could ever answer it to my satisfaction. And when I think about the Negroes in America and about the image of integration as a state in which the Negroes would take their rightful place as another of the protected minorities in a pluralistic society, I wonder whether they really believe in their hearts that such a state can actually be attained, and if so why they should wish to survive as a distinct group. I think I know why the Jews once wished to survive (though I am less certain as to why we still do): they not only believed that God had given them no choice, but they were tied to a memory of past glory and a dream of imminent redemption. What does the American Negro have that might correspond to this? His past is a stigma, his color is a stigma, and his vision of the future is the hope of erasing the stigma by making color irrelevant, by making it disappear as a fact of consciousness.

I share this hope, but I cannot see how it will ever be realized unless color does in fact disappear: and that means not integration, it means assimilation, it means—let the brutal word come out—miscegenation. The Black Muslims, like their racist counterparts in the white world, accuse the “so-called Negro leaders” of secretly pursuing miscegenation as a goal. The racists are wrong, but I wish they were right, for I believe that the wholesale merging of the two races is the most desirable alternative for everyone concerned. I am not claiming that this alternative can be pursued programmatically or that it is immediately feasible as a solution; obviously there are even greater barriers to its achievement than to the achievement of integration. What I am saying, however, is that in my opinion the Negro problem can be solved in this country in no other way.

I have told the story of my own twisted feelings about Negroes here, and of how they conflict with the moral convictions I have since developed, in order to assert that such feelings must be acknowledged as honestly as possible so that they can be controlled and ultimately disregarded in favor of the convictions. It is wrong for a man to suffer because of the color of his skin. Beside that clichéd proposition of liberal thought, what argument can stand and be respected? If the arguments are the arguments of feeling, they must be made to yield; and one’s own soul is not the worst place to begin working a huge social transformation. Not so long ago, it used to be asked of white liberals, “Would you like your sister to marry one?” When I was a boy and my sister was still unmarried, I would certainly have said no to that question. But now I am a man, my sister is already married, and I have daughters. If I were to be asked today whether I would like a daughter of mine “to marry one,” I would have to answer: “No, I wouldn’t like it at all. I would rail and rave and rant and tear my hair. And then I hope I would have the courage to curse myself for raving and ranting, and to give her my blessing. How dare I withhold it at the behest of the child I once was and against the man I now have a duty to be?”

#racism #Norman Podhoretz #neoconservatism #tw: racism

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laresearchette · 3 years

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Tuesday, October 26, 2021 Canadian TV Listings (Times Eastern)

WHAT IS NOT PREMIERING IN CANADA TONIGHT AMERICAN VETERAN (PBS Feed) BERING SEA GOLD (Premiering on October 31 on Discovery Canada at 10:00pm

NEW TO AMAZON PRIME/CRAVE/NETFLIX CANADA/CBC GEM:

CRAVE TV BOO! A MADEA HALLOWEEN WARM BODIES

NETFLIX CANADA SEX: UNZIPPED

TOONED IN (YTV) 6:30pm: Three kid contestants are put to the ultimate trivia test to prove their Nicktoons knowledge, all for a chance to win up to $1,000 and be declared the big winner.

CFL FOOTBALL (TSN2) 7:00pm: Roughriders vs. Stamps

NHL HOCKEY (SN1) 7:00pm: Flames vs. Devils (TSN2) 10:00pm: Habs vs. Kraken (TSN3) 10:00pm: Jets vs. Ducks (SN1) 10:00pm: Wild vs. Canucks

NBA BASKETBALL (TSN/TSN4) 7:30pm: 76ers vs. Knicks (SN Now) 8:30pm: Lakers vs. Spurs (TSN) 10:00pm: Nuggets vs. Jazz

MLB BASEBALL (SN) 8:00pm: Atlanta vs. Astros - Game #1

22 MINUTES (CBC) 8:00pm

HALLOWEEN FREAKSHOW CAKES (Food Network Canada) 8:00pm/8:30pm (SERIES PREMIERE): Vivian Chan and Zac Young challenge the three teams of bakers to depict a dangerous snake charming gone wrong; each team also must pair their jaw-dropping snake cake with a sideshow sweet treat that has a surprise inside. In Episode Two, the hosts challenge three teams of bakers to design cakes inspired by the infamous fire breather; they also have to make fiery sideshow sweets to accompany their cake displays.

STRAYS (CBC) 8:30pm: Shannon attempts to keep Nikki out of trouble with Uncle Russ and Aunt Peggy; Joy encourages Paul to pursue the arts.

WILD GAME (APTN) 8:30pm: Rich Francis visits the Haudenosaunee community of Six Nations, Ontario, where he's eager to learn about one of the most important food sources harvested on Turtle Island.

MOONSHINE (CBC) 9:00pm: Knowing Bea wants her gone, Lidia packs up to leave; a dark family secret reveals the true origins of the moonshine and forces Lidia to confront her own truth.

VERACITY: FIGHTING TRAFFICK (City TV) 10:01pm: A group of women operate outside the system to end one of the most profitable criminal industries worldwide in one of Canada´s biggest hotspots: London, Ontario.

ICE VIKINGS (Cottage Life) 10:00pm: The pressure mounts; time is money and no fish means no money.

THE ENGINEERING THAT BUILT THE WORLD (History Channel Canada) 10:00pm (SERIES PREMIERE): Two rival rail companies, led by Charles Crocker of the Central Pacific and Thomas Durant of the Union Pacific, stop at nothing to best each other.

#cdntv #cancon #canadian tv #canadian tv listings #22 minutes #strays #wild game #moonshine #ice vikings #veracity #cfl football #nhl hockey #nba basketball #mlb baseball

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frostandbanners · 6 years

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A fools death; a liars glory.

"There is no snow here.." The General groaned as the pushed his regiment across Vol'dun. Each step feeling heavier and heavier as the plated man crossed the terrain, nothing but endless foot prints were left behind them. Eventually, they approached the beach and he rose a single hand to motion them to hold."Take rest here, set up camp as our day light is close to spent." Sitting upon the beach, for once Daelas had been rather recluse with his own people. Distance was needed for him, war had come once again and it surfaced in full tilt. Nothing was the same for him or his men since they pushed into Darkshore. The families of the regiment hugged their significant others, kissed they good bye and cried as they left their children behind. Men and women unified again as soldiers, the dusky falling before him reminded him of that. Soldiers, in a new world to them marching across a desert as they had plenty of time to accept what fates may occur. The fires began to crackle behind him as their silhouettes danced along the gentle tide before him. His eyes became trapped by a lantern surfacing off in the far distance. The closer it had grown, the more dense the General became. Blue and gold decorated the small row boat and the very banner he dreaded to see was plastered on the tiny sail. The lions head facing him again.

Daelas hadn't said a word, he just merely watched it row closer and closer. The silent sound of the tide became the only thing Daelas had heard as he pushed himself to stand. Each frost rune within his palms began to illuminate and the water before his feet began to freeze. The General, the Soldier, and the Juggernaut began to crush the ice as he approached the boat rowing in. The sound of soldiers rustled behind him, torches became lit and his soldiers rushed to the shore line. Without even looking over his shoulder, Daelas rose a single hand beside his head and the men and women stopped in their stride. Watching their General walk towards the boat the unease fell over their features as archers drew their bows, knocking arrows within their line and raising their dead eye gaze to the boat. As the row boat met the ice, it became swarmed and frozen in place. Without a word, Daelas grabbed the side of the ship with a single hand and the crimson eyes looked to the humans upon the boat. None of them seemed to stand out as Daelas sighed to himself. The humans stood their terrified as they all faced the General. Slowly his right hand rose to his side, the moisture in the air began to freeze as the two handed blade materialized within his palm. Gripping the hilt, he spoke in broken common. "You've made a mistake, I don't take hostages anymore and there isn't any changing sides." Raising the sword upwards, the storm he carried unleashed full force as the boat was frozen in place within the water. Shards of ice circled him as he released the swords hilt, only to catch it once the blade was flipped down towards the boat. Within both palms the blade was lunged downward towards the small deck. A loud yell in common was heard and his blade was held inches from the wooden flooring. "Wait!" Echo'd in his face-guard as the crimson visage looked to the man who screamed.

Fate was something Daelas had escaped time over time, and it was something he challenged with the will to die. Glory meant nothing to him, this world was filled with far to many ego's and righteous people; he always refused to follow down that path much like the other Generals that surrounded him. Honor? He didn't believe in honor either, there was no honor in this war; lacking the very aspect of what kept the only light over the Hordes reputation was rather trendy, and Daelas never cared for honor anyways. Honor wasn't respect, honor valued death, honor valued despair, and above all? Honor leaned towards the victory, just like war.. The winner writes the story and the future rules irregardless of how it played out. The only thing that mattered to Daelas was the simple respect he had for soldiers. These wars weren't their own, these wars made them all learn quickly; they were nothing but pawns in a game of hatred that hadn't been on the surface in so long. Even the General was nothing more then a pawn, and he knew this. Respect was the very thing that stopped his blade, seeing the human rogue he let run free and warn his soldiers to retreat so they hadn't known the wrath of General Frostmancer. That very rogue, was aboard this little row boat and he approached Daelas carefully, offering a envelope stamped in gold wax. Releasing the hold from his weapon with one hand, he took the envelope and snarled under his visage. "You're lucky, human." He said with a tone of rage creeping into his broken common. Lacking complete fear, the sword dematerialized and the snow it created drifted along the small row boat. Holding the letter tightly in his hand, he turned on his heel and the ice around the boat began to melt. Walking back down the frozen path as his mouth remained in a snarl. Every time his foot stepped forward, the ice behind him melted and the crimson gaze locked to his soldiers. Waving them away, to go back to their camp while he reached the beach.

As his plated feet sunk into the sand once again, he turned back to the small row boat as he watched them change direction and head back to where ever they had came from. Those wicked crimson eyes fell to the golden wax seal as he began to peel it from the paper it closed. Opening it, he glanced over the letter as he decoded it the best he could. Common was only barely learned by him, mainly by prisoners of war whom grew to not entirely mind his presence; truth be told Daelas was never hard on pow's, a soldier is a solider regardless of faction or race. Respect will always be repeated. Shortly one of his battle mages came to his side, offering a single hand to the letter. "They desire to exchange hostages, a notion of temporary peace. This specific group has decided against the war. As I view it as foolish to even acknowledge the notion, I can't say I desire to see my men and women of my regiment slaughtered for a cause that even I as a General was not informed about until it was to late. There are coordinates with a spell written at the bottom. Portal me there." Hanging his head, the battle mage glanced at the spell. "You don't have to be our martyr anymore, General Frostmancer. We know what we're involve-" Daelas turned to him, cutting his sentence off there. "If you know, then that's an order. Portal me to their front." Taking a single step back, the battle mage offered his salute and his fingers became licked in arcane energy. A rift opening in the air as the portal was formed, seeing yet another beach front. Without question, the General walked through the rift completely expecting the worse; but the worse was always his greatest challenge. Could he die? Everything was always an attempt to find out..

Once upon their beach, the sand was more white, the ocean was more restless and their was green plants and grass within a short distance. The battle mages presence was heard as his foot steps walked through the water. Glancing around, there was nothing. Not a soul, no siege, not even boats. It was empty there, and Daelas sighed to himself for a moment yet again. But as the battle mage went to speak, Daelas's voice boomed from his visage and he stiffened his stance within the rippling tide. "I, General Daelas Frostmancer of the Horde have come to exchange hostages! Your motion for a temporary peace has been granted and I require negotiations immediately!" The echo was deafening.. As a long moment passed, Daelas turned to the battle mage and shook his head. "Take us-" A sudden shout was returned as several alliance soldiers appeared upon the hill. The very messenger himself stood before all of them. "General Frostmancer!" He screamed, drawing Daelas attention was the ride clashed against the back of his legs. "Is the target! Fire!" Daelas's eyes grew wide and the storm casted around him, freezing the waves as they crashed around him and his battle mage. The sounds of horns were heard in the distance, and orange flashes shot over the sky as the siege rounds blasted into the water around them. There they were, ducked behind a wall of ice Daelas was creating. "Open a portal, now! Get us out of here!" He commanded as he stood staring down the messanger. Watching the siege smash against the beach front and water, Daelas tensed up and pressed his shoulder against the ice wall and a sudden blast struck the surface, cracking the ice as Daelas did his best to keep the wall frozen, attempting to refreeze the cracks as the water splashed against it. "Portal! Now!" He commanded again as he looked to his battle mage, terrified and paralyzed by the fear. "Damnit! Open the portal Soldier! We are under fire!" As the next round smashed against the wall, Daelas stumbled back, falling into the water as chunks of ice flew past him. Rushing to stand as quickly as he could, each hand rose to his sides, palms facing down as the frost runes illuminated. The twin blades materialized once again and he snarled behind his visage. His voice shattered the sky as he roared towards the group of Alliance firing the siege over the hill side. "Come lighting, come thunder you will be the ones who suffer!" A sudden ear shattering roar was heard from the sky as Daelas's risen drake flew past the hillside, blasting it with frostfire in its path as screamed could be heard reaching the beach. Another siege blast was fire as its orange glow illuminated the sky. Dipping his swords into the water, he flicked them upwards and froze the water as it clashed with the siege blast, shooting Daelas back again as he fell in the water next to where the battle mage was. Standing, he searched for the mage; to his dismay the mage was gone and Daelas stood before a beach armed with Soldiers and siege. Stepping through the broken cracks of the wall, he leaned forward and barreled towards the green. A siege shot was sent into the water again and the loud roar of Alliance came over the hill as the foot soldiers charged downward towards Daelas.

Blue, gold, and silver covered the green and the Soldiers formed their wall in front of the General with their shield. The roar from the sky was heard again as Icewing flew low, shaking the ground and toppling the soldiers over as Daelas slammed each twin blade into the terrain. Spikes of ice shooting out, impaling the soldiers in front of him as a rage filled scream escaped his lips. "I spared you!" He shouted loudly as the blades were ripped from the ground, spinning on his heel as he lunged low, the swipe of air became frozen and projected upwards towards the man. Splicing the trees, cutting the plants and toppling the branches the frozen air ripped anything in its path. "I spared your army!" He roared again as he snarled behind the mask. "I came for peace!" Walking up the path he made, the twin blades dematerialized again and he approached the crest of the hill. "I'll slaughter you all, like the damned fodder you are! Your souls are nothing more than fuel for my destruction! You will fall before my thirst and become another stepping stone in my conquest!" Once upon the crest, the two handed sword rematerialized in his palm and quickly he turned to make his body slim as another siege shot flew past him. The ripple in the air taking him from his feet as he smashed against the hill. Pushing himself up, he lunged up the hill and the bright glow of orange was right before him. Every rune illuminated upon his armor as his weapon matched the remark. A thick layer of ice took his figure and the sound of the siege blast clashing against him popped loudly as shards of ice were thrown behind him. The mans feet had left the hill, sending him backwards as the crimson gaze grew blurry. Airborne and no hope of recovery, something he hadn't felt in a long time short through his whole entire being and the scream of his nerves were so loud it deafened reality. Tumbling through the air, his body smashed against the beach and the feeling of sand burned his flesh as the wounds found the salty material. Glancing to himself, he couldn't even lift his head as he began to cough up the sanguine liquid as if he felt every bone in his body break at once, every blood vessel pop in a single moment and every nerve shout to him that he had met what he challenged the most, more than anyone he knew; Death itself. Looking down along his tattered and mangled body, the only thing he truly noticed wasn't the blood, it wasn't the broken bones; his armor was gone completely, shattered from his frame and the runic bracelet flashed brightly as it strobes in distress. Quickly, the bracelet began to feed on his very life force to repair his armor and his head turned to the beach. Even with his mangled body, wounded frame and the feeling he wasn't able to move the worst pain had just began. His armor hungered, it desired to be repaired and that feeling of every ounce of life in you being eaten was the most devastating of all. The last thing he saw, was the crimson that stained the green from the glacier spikes he created. Following their trail to the rogue whom baited him in. "F-for.. onc-once.." He muttered between a fit of coughs as his eyes fell closed. "I-I'll... die th-th-the.. fo-fool.." The frozen eyes fell closed, the pain was to much to bare and his body shut down as it took him unconcious.

Icewing roared violently, slamming his figured against the beach as he spread his wings tall and swiped the hillside with frostfire, ruining everything in his path as he roared and spun quickly, swiping his tail through the sand as he flung it at the hillside. Causing a large barrier of dust to block the Alliance gaze if the fire weren't enough, he parted his mouth wide and took Daelas within his maw, leaping from the ground as he took off over the mountain side. Time, something Daelas believed he found the end of continued on. Icewings path was home; to the regiment with his master within his maw.

Once back at the barracks, far away from the war medics had rushed Daelas into the infirmary. At the edge of his bed, within a folder were a few scribbled notes. - Our medics aren't strong enough. Healing treatments are failing. - Druids have failed, shamans have failed, mistweavers have failed. - All paladins and priests were called from the war front, but the Warlord will spare no soldiers for Daelas well being. - When awake, he speaks of blood. - When awake, he believes he's dead. - When awake and has assistence, he eats endlessly. - When awake and has assistence, he's hostile. - When awake, he begs for his brother. Find his brother.

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