#it's not even a thought because violence is that ubiquitous

[muzzleroars]

you know now im thinking of a lot of implications. why do the new peace era machines still run on blood? is it because after 200 years of war, the most advanced technology humanity has is so firmly rooted in persistent violence? how does v2 get its fuel, how do the streetcleaners get theirs, how do the terminals, even, if we choose to believe they are also blood-powered machinery? are there blood donations by people willing to give? or is it taken by force like their earliest predecessors? is it all so deeply entrenched in a culture of violent conflict that humanity couldnt even begin to find alternatives?

YEA YEA REAL......i really love how much information we got about the war in this update, and its implications really are. insane. I KNOW IT'S ALL BEEN TALKED ABOUT BUT. i'd have to think humanity truly is just too deep into this technology to change it, particularly with how fast they seemed to have needed to force the new peace. like i keep thinking about this massive timeline that has consumed humanity for generations...how it was 200 years. v1's final firmware update was in 2112, the guttermen fought in trenches, and the earthmovers, massive beings with an incomprehensible amount of technological advance, were its end. that's mindbending when you try to conceptualize just what a people would be like by the end of it. i know this takes place in an alternative timeline, but this war has been humanity. it began in TRENCHES and ended in machines capable of leveling a city in a single blow, machines the blotted out the sun with their rampant destruction. i've thought about this idea with the new peace for a long time, but it's becoming more and more likely that this peace is built on blood just the same. it's 200 years. it's all the technology they have. and their world is dependent on machines (i'm almost beginning to think their industrial revolution, if there is an equivalent here, was robot-based), they can know no other way forward. unfortunately for them, it was tech all based in centuries of war and so it must carry forward. the new peace was a veneer imo large-scale atrocities ended because they had to, because people could live only on the earthmovers, and they were dying. but blood was still needed, just like when the guttermen were made, and i'm increasingly sure it was harvested just as unethically. anyone that proved any kind of "threat" to the peace could be used in this capacity with little push back- civilians this embattled, desperate for security yet now inherently bloodthirsty (hah), would be easily against those deemed malcontents. so the machines go on, powered as they always were...i just have to wonder what finally did them all in

[f1tyreslightmyfyre]

Immortal Artistry - Ch. 9 - Destroy It

Series Main List

A Vampire AU F1 Fic Featuring Charles Leclerc x Fem!Reader, George Russell x Fem!Reader, hints of Max Verstappen x Fem!Reader, Lestappen, Sebchal, and Sainzell (or Russainz?)

Also on AO3

Ch. 9 Warnings: Sexual content; language; vampire blood violence

A/N: Thank you for reading this fic! Hope you enjoy this option 😄❤

Ch. 9 - Destroy It

2023

Balling your hand into a fist, you summon your nerve before reaching out for the pen. Tucking it close to your side, you push up from the conference room chair and head for the door. Your heart hammers in your throat as the walk down the hallway suddenly seems endless.

But as your fingers finally graze the cool metal handle of the rubbish chute, you work a hard swallow down your throat. Drawing a deep breath, you quickly pull the chute open and throw the pen in before you can rethink it. It clunks off the chute’s metal walls as it falls, and your eyes sink closed as a wave of relief washes over you.

It’s done. And now… now, it’s over.

Now perhaps Charles, George, Carlos – hell, even Max – will all leave you alone. They can continue to duke it out over eternity - to move their chess pieces around the board in hopes of achieving checkmate – and you can get back to your life. Such as it is, at least.

Perhaps you’ll be assigned a new boss soon. Perhaps you’ll have some new engrossing case that you can immerse yourself in. But perhaps, first, you’ll need a bottle of wine to help you forget the madness of the last four days – or even just this morning of having a vampire-chef’s  hamburger for breakfast.

The thought teases an incredulous smile to your face as you return to your office. Exhaling deeply to help calm your mind, you return to the open email you tried to write earlier and find the words flow easier now. You continue to work through the other items in your inbox, even taking the time to actually focus on reading an article and looking up a couple of references. Tension bleeds from your shoulders as your body relaxes against your desk chair with a strange sense of ease and freedom. 

Because now you are free. Without that pen – without that film – there’s nothing that either Charles or George could want from you. And while part of you may always wonder what else they’re up to in the world, the rest of you will be grateful not to be involved.

Hours of peaceful productivity pass until the sun settles low in the sky. Powering down your laptop, you reach for your bag and glance out the window at the last rays of twilight. A prickle of fear runs down your spine even though it shouldn’t… there’s nothing more that you have to fear from the undead, and you certainly can’t live the rest of your life scared to go out at night.

The elevator descends to the parking garage with a dull hum, opening to the elevator lobby that buzzes with the distant sound of the sodium-vapor lamps. You squint against the monochromatic color that bounces off the concrete surroundings as you push out into the humid night. A sparse collection of cars surrounds yours and your heels echo off the concrete surface – until gravel crunches and echoes from the distance, followed by a low scuffing thud. 

You freeze, eyes widening as every survival instinct jumps to high alert. Gripping your bag tight, you dart your gaze around, seeking out any sign of a shadow or movement. But nothing looks different… and you still appear to be completely alone. Your mouth goes dry as your heart pounds and an eerie feeling creeps down your spine.

Just because you can’t see anyone sure as hell doesn’t mean that you’re alone.

“H-hello…?” You call out, trying to keep the concerned quaver out of your voice. “George…? … Max?”

Only the ubiquitous buzzing of the light fixtures greets you. Maybe it was just some other employee on a lower level… or a stray cat or a mouse…? Or maybe you are just slowly losing your mind. Hell, if the security guard is watching you on the camera feed, they probably certainly think you’re crazy.

Wetting your top lip nervously as you continue to look around for anything suspicious, you decide to go for broke. “I don’t have it.” You say clearly. “I destroyed it, and now… now, no one has it.”

You have no idea if anyone is even in earshot or if you’re talking to the wind, but it marginally helps you relax. Even just saying it aloud – especially if someone does lurk unseen in the shadows – helps calm your unease. It reminds you of the finality of your decision and there’s nothing anyone can do to reverse it.

Exhaling shakily, you continue to your car and slide into the driver’s seat – quickly locking the door behind you. The engine revs to life and you take off into the night, heading straight for your apartment. Your unease fades the closer you get to home, and after killing the engine, you don’t think twice about exiting your car. Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you reach for your keys as you approach your apartment building.

A strong hand wraps around your upper-arm, dragging you close against a tall, lean chest. You gasp as your eyes connect with George’s handsome profile in the streetlight, his face a mask of hard determination as he falls into step with you. Or at least, he tries to, but your feet forget how to move as he all but drags you along.

“Come along now, darling.” He purrs softly, tucking you closer against his side in parody of a couple’s embrace. “We have much to discuss.”

Your mind spins as you try to keep up, to possibly understand what he’s doing here. “We – there’s nothing more to discuss.” You shake your head, trying to keep the fearful stammer from your voice. “I-I destroyed it. Did you… did you already hear me say that?”

He gives a reprimanding shake of his head, squeezing his hand in forceful encouragement as you all but stumble up the stairs. “This is hardly the place.”

“And w-why not?” You grip your keys tighter as you steadily approach the building door. “It’s done – it’s over.”

“It’s hardly over.” George counters, nodding towards the door. “Open it.”

Fear courses down your spine as your heart races. “I don’t want to.”

George turns towards you with a cold expression mirrored in his glacial eyes. “Either you do it of your own free will, or I’ll make you. Your choice.”

Your mouth goes dry as your heart threatens to beat out of your chest. Fighting to steady your trembling fingers, you jam the key into the lock and the door falls open to reveal the pleasant hallway within. The old building isn’t grandiose by any means, but now the lack of a front desk and night guard strikes you as a poor decision. 

The strength of George’s grip tightens as he ushers you inside and down the small hallway, leading you straight to the narrow staircase. Your stomach sinks to your feet as he drags you up the stairs - knowing just exactly how to get to your apartment. “George,” you breathe, trying not to sound too desperate. “Please, let me go… I have nothing for you.” 

“Oh, we both know that’s not true.” He says as you both step out into the second floor hallway. 

You debate screaming, or clawing at his perfect features - something, anything to bring the neighbors running. Perhaps if they outnumber him, that would be too much exposure for him. Or perhaps he’d just kill you on the spot before making his escape. A tear stings your eye as you try to stall the movement of your feet, but the increased pressure on your arm tears a whimper from your throat. 

Up ahead, a door opens - and thank God for Paulette Masterson. You’d never had any strong feelings about your older neighbor across the hall, but now, you think you might love her just a little bit. Your eyes meet hers, and her face brightens with concerned alarm.

“Oh, my god!” She cries in a heavy French accent, glaring at George. “You - you unhand her this instant!” 

Your bottom lip trembles as you draw a shaking breath. “Paulette, please-” Your voice chokes up in a pained gasp as George’s grasp tightens in silent warning and he lunges forward. His other hand snatches Paulette’s jaw and he looms over her with his impressive height. 

“Look at me.” He commands in a velvety purr as Paulette stares back at him as if stunned. “That’s right.” His words sound in a steely whisper as he stares her down and her eyes turn glossy. “Now, return to your apartment and forget that you ever left.” 

“N-no!” The shaking word leaves your lips before you can stop it and a tear leaks down your cheek. Wordlessly, Paulette turns from George’s grasp and shuffles with zombie-like motions back to her own apartment. The front door closes behind her with a thud that resonates like the final nail in a coffin - your coffin - as George urges you down the hallway to stop in front of your door. 

You clutch the keys tight, refusing to give him the final satisfaction. 

His grip tightens again to the point of pain as his fingers curl and nails dig into the soft skin of your arm. “I don’t know why you insist on trying my patience tonight - and here I thought you were a good girl.” 

“Only to those who I deem worthy.” You hiss as frustrated anger starts to build in your chest. “And you, George? You play nice when really you’re… you’re just a wild thing pretending to be tame.” 

He regards you for a long moment before the corner of his mouth lifts, revealing a sharp pointed canine. “And what about you, darling?” He purrs, leaning in close and hitting you with a wave of cologne that has no right to stir sparks in your blood. “You’re just a wild thing trapped inside a cage… and if you don’t open this door,” his hand squeezes your arm and another whimper chokes off in your throat. “Then, I’ll take away your power to decide if you stay in that cage or not.” 

Another hot tear burns down your cheek as your arm throbs - no doubt severely bruised - and you swallow a sob as your vibrato falters and you fumble for your keys. The door opens after a few attempts, and the familiar interior of your apartment offers you little comfort as the door closes behind George. But at least he finally releases your arm, and you instantly bring your other hand to protectively cover the abused skin. 

George steps further into the shadows of your apartment, and his fitted, black turtleneck and trousers complement every angle of his lean frame as he keeps his gaze fixed solely on you. He moves through your apartment like he owns it, and you wonder just how many times he’s been here. Your stomach sours to think that he potentially watched over you while you slept. 

Slowly, you shake your head and draw another trembling sigh as you move away from him in the living room. “I already told you that I don’t have it - and it’s not a lie.” You try to moisten your mouth with a swallow. “I don’t have the treasure map that you want.” 

George’s gaze narrows with piqued interest. “A treasure map, hmm? Is that what Carlos told you it was?” 

Your frenzied mind tries to think back to this morning - and fuck, that was just this morning that Carlos stood in your kitchen. You try to recall who used the words ‘treasure map’ first, but the details elude you. “I-I don’t think that's what he exactly called it. He showed me some article, he said that Toto told you, and t-that you take Toto’s word as gospel… but it is a map, right?” You say as your mouth runs away with you. “It had a compass rose, it had roads, a-and… what looked like an ‘x marks the spot’.” 

George’s mouth curls to a wide, dazzling smile. “Oh, darling - you have just made my night.” He laughs in victory. “I knew your curiosity would get the better of you. I just knew that… even though you say you destroyed it, that you looked at it before you destroyed it.” 

A cold wave of fear shoots down your spine. “That doesn’t mean that I remember any details or anything…” Your words trail off as you take a step backwards, suddenly feeling way too trapped for your liking as Geroge advances. “I-it was so small… on microfilm or something.” 

“Oh, now don’t play modest,” George coaxes as he moves on silent steps and you continue back away from him. “You said that there was a compass rose, and roads, and even an ‘x marks the spot’. Sounds like you remember it all just fine.” His lips curl to another blood curdling smile that gives his handsome appearance a dark menace. “Now, you just need to tell me a couple of names and I’ll be on my way.” 

Your heart leaps at the prospect. “But I don’t… the writing was too small to make out any names. I can’t - couldn’t read them.” 

“Tsk-tsk,” he clucks his tongue, shaking his head with disappointment even as he moves towards you and you run out of room to run away. “I know you can do better than that.” 

Your back connects with the solid surface of your apartment wall, and you try to summon an image of the tiny map in your mind’s eye. The black lines had been drawn in mostly straight lines, intersecting in various places, and the red x in the corner… but the words are jumbles of squiggles and letters that you can’t conjure. Trying to keep your breathing steady, you offer a dejected shake of your head. “I don’t… I just - I couldn’t make out the words! The writing was just too small, I swear!” 

George stares back at you for a heart-pounding minute as he takes the final step, staring down at you as anxious fear grips you. He hums low in his throat. “Well, if you say so,” he whispers softly with deadly calm and firm resolve. “Then, there’s just one option left.” His chilly fingers find your jaw, tilting it up - just as you’d seen him do to Paulette in the hall - and you instantly slam your eyes shut.

“N-no! George, please.” You plead, trying futility to break free of his hold. “I’m telling the truth - I didn’t see any names. I won’t be able to tell anyone else!” 

“Not that I doubt your sincerity, but this situation has stood for too long to leave it to chance.” His voice holds a chilling, ominous note. “You’re merely just another mortal caught in the struggle of eternity - never able to appreciate the true beauty of the world around you until you just open your eyes… so open your eyes.” 

You bite your lip, steadfastly refusing. His fingers on your jaw tighten with bruising pressure as his blunt nails dig into your skin. A whimper chokes in your throat as you struggle to breathe through the pain, and you just squeeze your eyelids tighter together. 

“Well, if looking at me isn’t enough,” George growls. “Then, let’s change the scenery, shall we?” His strong hand abandons your jaw to land on your shoulder, effortlessly peeling you away from the wall and dragging you forward. The sound of shattering glass makes your eyes fly open, and your mouth falls open to see your living room chair half-protruding from the broken remains of your balcony fire-escape window. 

Your heart rate ratchets higher as he pushes you towards the sea of broken glass. “You can’t - you… you’re not going to throw me out of the window, are you?!” 

“Don’t be so silly.” He coos breezily as if he’s not propelling you towards certain death. “Once I have what I need, there won’t be much of your mind left anyway, so it won’t be a problem for it to end up scrambled on the pavement.” 

A terrified gasp escapes your throat as you claw at him, trying to fight back, trying to escape. But his supernatural strength prevails and the humid night breeze hits your face. “C-can’t you just…” your words trail off in a panicked hiccup. “I-I thought you would use your teeth.” 

He chuckles low and disconcerting as he pushes you out onto the balcony, holding you tight. “Come now, darling - that’s mildly offensive. Not to mention racist. Drained bodies leave too many questions. But an accidental fall from a balcony? Now, that’s not too hard to believe.” 

Another tear burns down your cheek as you feebly struggle. “P-please George - I didn’t… I don’t -” 

“Oh, George,” another voice slices through your terrified mind. A heart-achingly familiar voice with lilting Monegasque syllables. “You disappoint me, mate.” 

A relieved sob punches from your chest as Charles’ words echo above the blood pounding in your ears.

Nothing in George’s immobilizing hold eases as he pivots around to turn you back towards the darkened interior of your apartment. Charles stands like a dark avenging angel, eyes narrowed with resolve as he oozes effortless confident control. Another sob rises in your chest at the sight of him, and you want nothing more than to dissolve in the safety of his arms. 

Charles’ glittering green eyes find yours. “It’s alright, cara mia.” His gaze turns to George, hardening with displeasure. “Let her go, mate. Haven’t you distressed her enough for one lifetime?” 

A chuckle rumbles in George’s chest. “That was rather the point, you see. She positively reeks of you… it’s a wonder that you didn’t fuck her when you drank from her.” He nuzzles along your neck and you try to turn away in disgust. “She smells absolutely divine.” 

Charles shakes his head in disapproval. “Then why upset her when you know that it would attract my attention?”

A sharp, harsh laugh punches from George’s chest this time. “Isn’t it obvious, mate? I want you to be here. To bear witness.” He jerks you tighter in his grip as he takes a step back towards the edge. “To see the high price of this game that you insist we keep playing even 80 years later.” 

“Killing her isn’t going to change anything.” Charles simply says, taking a measured step forward. "She destroyed the map - we’re even. No one has the advantage.” 

“Do you really think I’m that much of an idiot? To think that you haven’t got a backup copy? Or to think that maybe when she says she couldn’t read the writing that you could and the knowledge still exists in the world?” He gives a slow, resolved shake of his head. “No, Charles. Nothing good can come from that map if it’s not restoring the wrongs that have been allowed to stand for the last 80 years. And you would know that if - just once - you could understand how wrong you’ve been since Austria.” 

Charles says nothing as he stares back at George in tense silence. Your overwrought nerves threaten to give out as you grow still in George’s strong hold and more tears leak from your eyes. 

At length, Charles wets his top lip and tilts his head. “Wrong, you say…” He trails off with a soft hum. “I suppose you had the luxury of missing out on the war’s early years. The first retreat, the Nazi’s ravaging the countryside, the mass conquering…” He shoves a casual hand in his pocket as his tone sharpens with a steely edge. “You don’t get to stand there and lecture me on what’s right and what’s wrong - and if you can’t understand that, then we’re done here, mate.” 

George huffs indignantly. “Glad we agree.” He takes another step back. “Then, I’ll just toss her over the edge, shall -” His words cut off in an undignified, startled scream as his balance falters. George’s suffocating hold loosens in his shock, and you trip over your own feet in a desperate escape attempt. The sounds of a sharp fight resonate behind you, but you’re too blinded by relief and fleeing instinct to turn around. 

Sobs shake your frame as you stumble back into your apartment - and the comforting embrace of Charles’ arms catches you. You cling to him, crumbling as the last of your strength abandons you.

Charles rocks you gently as he sinks to the floor, encouraging you to burrow his chest. “There, there, cara mia,” he coos gently, resting his cheek atop of your head. “It’s over now. He won’t hurt you ever again.” 

You dissolve against him, drowning in the strength of his arms around you. “I-I didn’t think… I thought destroying the pen would end it, that it-”

Charles shushes you quietly. “You did end it, cara mia. It’s over… and for what it’s worth, you did the right thing.” His lips brush a tender kiss to your brow. “No one needed the knowledge that map possessed.” 

Glass crunches under strong footsteps behind you, and Charles shifts against you to look up. A hum of approval rumbles his chest before he speaks softly. “Thank you, Max.” 

Another body draws up behind you, and everything about the strong embrace of Max’s arms, bracketing you between him and Charles feels so right. You cling to both of them, grateful to be alive and overwhelmed. “W-what about George…?” You choke out through gasping breaths. 

“Don’t worry about him.” Max’s words hold a firm edge despite his gentle tone. “He won’t ever hurt you again.” 

A rush of terrified memory overtakes you, and you cling closer to Charles and Max, letting them hold you in the dark interior of your apartment. Something warm and safe blooms in your chest as they surround you, and Charles presses another kiss to your brow. “In fact,” he coos softly. “No one will ever hurt you again.” 

2026

Excitement buzzes in your veins. After weeks of counting down, today has finally come. 

“If eternity is your choice, cara mia - then it’s something worth celebrating.” Charles clarified. 

Max chuckled softly as he encouraged you. “Sure. Think of it like… like your undead birthday.” 

Charles’ eyes shone with reassuring adoration. “That day will be the start of the rest of your life.” He reached out for your hand and a shiver of anticipation rippled across your skin. “A life with us, for as long as you want.” 

The force of your smile threatened to split your face as you glanced between him and Max. “So, then… that’s really it? That’s all it takes?” 

Max shrugged a dismissive shoulder. “It’s not a complicated process.”

The implications of the words stunned you, their offer overwhelming you. Immortality at your fingertips with Charles and Max by your side? Had there been anything else that you’d ever wanted more over the course of your life? 

Slowly, you nodded and squeezed Charles’ hand. “Then, yes - I choose eternity. With you.” You turned your gaze towards Max, holding out a hand and taking his chilly fingers between yours. "And you.” 

Charles’ face lit with a bright, satisfied smile. “Then, you shall have us, cara mia. And we shall have you.” He dipped his head to place a lingering, tantalizing kiss on the back of your hand. “Let’s find a date, and we’ll - oh! I should have the ballroom prepared.” 

Your brow furrowed. “Ballroom? Seriously…? Your home has a ballroom?” 

Mischief twinkled in Charles’ gaze. “This house is certainly old enough, so, yes - it does have a ballroom. Come, I’ll show you.” With your hand still in his, he stood and you followed, tugging Max along with you. 

The Dutchman bit back an annoyed sigh - something he still hadn’t managed to shake even as an immortal. “Or maybe you shouldn’t show it to her, Charles,” he said even as he squeezed your fingers. “Why spoil the surprise?” 

“Because - despite everything she’s seen - I don’t think she believes me, and I won’t have her questioning my sincerity for such an important decision.” Charles answered as they walked down a side hallway that you’d always considered unremarkable. Though, as Charles dropped your hand to throw open the innocuous double-wide doors, you would have to rethink that assessment.

Two magnificent chandeliers dripping in crystals and coated in dust dominated the elegant room. A piano stood lone sentry with only a scattering of plush chairs along the room’s periphery. The long, heavy curtains framing the windows showed their age despite the drawn shades, and the rich wood floor was desperately in need of some polish. But still… you’d never seen such a sight. At least, not outside of a fairy tale. And let alone in someone’s home. 

You glanced around the room, still unable to believe it. “This is just… incredible. How did I fucking not know that this was here?” You took a step into the room, dropping Max’s hand and studying your footprints on the dusty floor. 

Charles smiled with obvious pleasure. “Hmm, maybe Max was right. Maybe I shouldn’t have showed you yet…” he glanced over at Max with fond affection. “I think we might have created a monster.” 

“None of this ‘we’ stuff,” Max countered gently. “This is all your doing, mate.” He nodded over at you as you took a few gliding steps across the floor. 

Dust kicked up in your wake, tickling your nose and you bit back a sneeze. Coming to a stop, you raised a hand to brush your nose as you turned back towards Charles. His phone had materialized in his hand and his fingers scrolled elegantly over the touchscreen. He glanced up with a curious smile. “Shall we say the 19th? Our next sale should close by the 17th, and then, we’ll have even more to celebrate.” 

Oh, God, yes. That lost Vermeer would fetch another 400 million for Charles’ bank account, and… fuck, you could pinch yourself. 

Spending eternity with those two handsome men and not having to worry about money or food or disease ever again…? It sounded like an absolute dream come true.

And it still does. Even as you answer the knock on your apartment front door, surprised to find a courier bearing gifts. A garment bag and several boxes end up on your sofa despite your confusion as the courier presents you a blood red envelope before leaving. Closing the door in his wake, you flip it over and your heart flutters at the wax seal bearing a familiar crest. At first, you thought the lion and spider motifs were not only creepy but far too cliche for a clan of vampires, but now, you look forward to calling that crest your own. Perhaps they’ll even consider updating it for you - once you decide what animal you want to be. Or do they decide that? 

Your cheeks flush as your mind spins, and goodness… you’re getting way too far ahead of yourself. Reaching for a kitchen knife, you slice under the seal to reveal the thick cream cardstock within. 

A beautiful occasion calls for only the best - and the best deserves every opportunity to feel the most beautiful. Please choose what you will and we hope the gifts satisfy. 

C M 

A wide grin splits your face as you run your fingers over their simply signed initials, each in their own handwriting. Sighing incredulously, you turn back towards the packages and the contents take your breath away. Five designer gowns, all in your size and colors to complement your skin tone. Each fits like a glove, accenting your best features as you twirl to study your reflection in your bedroom mirror. Silk whispers around your ankles and against your legs - and god, any of them would be perfect for dancing. And, of course, the neckline of each gown leaves your neck prominently on display for the evening’s main event. 

A thin ripple of fear works down your spine as the gravity of it hits you - and shit… officially speaking, you’re going to die tonight. The realization should probably frighten you, should engage your every last survival instinct… but you know it’s not the end. Charles and Max are living - but not quite - proof of what awaits you on the other side, and you can’t wait to join them. 

After opening a box to reveal several pairs of gorgeous heels to match the selection of gowns, only one small, black velvet box remains. Popping the lid open, your mouth falls agape at the sight of a ring adorned with a large, luscious ruby surrounded by an array of diamonds. You didn’t know precious stones could come in such a large size - and fuck, would your fingers even be able to hold the weight? 

Still stunned, you pry the platinum band from the velvet cushion and study the refracting light in the gem’s facets. Your heart flutters as you slide it onto your right ring finger, dismayed to find it won’t slide past your knuckle. Swallowing your disappointment, you work the band a little harder, but it’s just too snug. Is it possible that they got the size wrong? But no… if Charles and Max have the exact measurements of your dress and shoe size, then they know your ring size. 

Wetting your top lip, your breath catches as you try the ring on your left hand finger to find a perfect fit. Is this the start of more to come? A proposal? Or merely just the first taste of everything you want with Charles and Max? 

With only hours to go, you slide the ring off and set it on your dresser before indulging in a luxurious bubble bath. You take the time you need for your hair and makeup, hoping it looks good enough for such an occasion. The silk of your chosen dress slides back on your body with delicate whispers, the heels add such poise, and the elegant ruby ring completes your classy, gorgeous ensemble. 

Low simmering arousal heats your blood as you hope that Charles and Max won’t be able to keep their hands off of you. Even now, the phantom memories of Max’s strong hands as he holds you against his broad chest and Charles’ nimble fingers as his lips tease your neck race a blot of desire down your spine. God, what will it be to learn their touch as an immortal? 

As the clock strikes 2200 hrs, a black sedan pulls up in front of your building and you descend the stairs. The driver meets you on the sidewalk with one last gift - a velvet cape in a deep scarlet color for your bare shoulders on a cool night. The heavy decadent fabric settles against your skin, and you swear you can just breathe in the intoxicating scent of Charles’ cologne. 

The thrill of anticipation hums along your skin as the car cuts through the night, taking you ever closer to the house that you’ve grown to love. To the house that will soon become your home. It makes your smile widen as the car glides to a stop and the driver assists you out of the car. Crossing up the steps to the front door, Charles and Max both stand in the foyer, dressed in impeccable tuxedos cut in tailored lines that should be illegal. 

“You look absolutely beautiful, cara mia.” Charles purrs, leaning in to buss your cheek. “I am pleased to see that our gifts were well received.” 

“God, it was almost too much.” You reply, sliding out of your cape as Max stands behind you, leaning down to press a tender kiss to your neck. “But really, I cannot thank you both enough. It’s just… everything is just gorgeous and perfect.” 

Max hums in obvious approval as he nuzzles your skin. “And you look it.” 

Your skin warms under Max’s touch as your gaze rakes down Charles’ lithe form. The dark lines of his tux hug his body with precision tailoring, and you debate just pouncing on him right now - and dragging Max with you, of course. But Max steps away to hang your cape in the foyer closet and Charles moves further into the house, holding out a hand in invitation. His gaze finds yours, glittering with the glow of soft light. “Are you hungry, cara mia?” He asks gently. “Or did you already eat? One last meal, so to speak…” 

You shake your head as Max falls into step beside you. “I already ate… especially since we’re dancing and celebrating, I needed the energy.” 

Charles’ mouth curls with an amused smile. “I wish I could tell you that you won’t have that problem after your transformation,” he says breezily as you approach the ballroom doors. “But, well… without sustenance, even we go weak.” 

“Sustenance…” you repeat softly as your heels echo off the marble. “You mean blood.” 

“Yes,” Max answers bluntly. “That can be a bit of a mental adjustment afterwards, though, depending on the strength of your mortal construct.” 

You arch a quizzical brow. “My mortal construct…?” 

“Yes,” Charles clarifies as he and Max push open the ballroom doors. “Everything that gives you your current sense of right and wrong, of forgivable and unforgivable - even your sense of time.” 

Charles’ words fade in your ears as you stare around the transformed room. Light gleams from the spotless crystal chandeliers, reflecting off the floor’s brilliantly polished surface. The curtains have been redone in a tasteful brocade that harkens back to an age long past. Hell, even you feel as though you should be dressed in a Regency style gown with a dance card looped around your wrist. But the grand ballroom hosts just the three of you, and another delicious shiver races across your skin. 

You shake your head, unable to hold back your appreciative smile. “This is so gorgeous - it’s a shame that you don’t use this room more often.” 

An almost shy edge comes to Charles’ smile. “I’m afraid we don’t really entertain… difficult to do without gaining attention.” 

“And too much attention draws unwanted questions.” Max confirms as he steps further into the room. “And you’ll learn that soon, too… so much for you to learn. And then,” he glances back at Charles from under his neatly combed hair, ice blue eyes mesmerizing in the glittering light. “She will be the young one. Not me.” 

Charles’ smile curls with amused fondness. “That’s not my nickname for you, and you know it.” He looks at you, shaking his head. “I think he’s just bitter that despite being born three weeks before me, he was transformed after me, so that officially makes him younger than me.” 

You chuckle softly. “Well, compared to when I was born - you both outrank me, so if calling me younger helps, then that doesn’t bother me.” 

Overhead, from unseen speakers, a low bass note sounds and a haunting voice follows with familiar words. 

I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream 

Your breath catches and your heart sings as your favorite song by Lana Del Rey fills the ballroom. Glancing between Charles and Max, a wide smile splits your face. “You remembered… which one of you was it?” 

Max moves on silent footsteps, coming to a stop in front of you. “Charles has all the musical knowledge and taste in this house. Though, maybe that will change once you join us…” He holds out his hand, and you don’t hesitate to put your hand in his. 

Admittedly, you don’t have much any practice with the waltz, but following Max’s lead, you fall into the elegant 1-2-3 rhythm. His tux does nothing to diminish the broad strength of his shoulder as your hand comes up to rest, and your dress flows in elegant waves as he twirls you around. 

And I know it’s true, that visions are seldom all they seem 

Extending his arm, you spin out and find yourself suddenly in Charles’ arms. He gracefully falls into the rhythm, and your hand slides into his as he takes your waist to sweep you around the dance floor. His cologne clouds your senses as he holds you close before turning you out for another elegant spin. Max’s cool hand finds yours as you extend, and as you spin back into Charles’ embrace, Max follows you. Your mind spins as you tuck close against Charles’ chest with the strong press of Max against your back as the hypnotic rhythm fills your ears and keeps your feet moving with theirs. 

But if I know you, I know what you’ll doYou’ll love me at once, the way you did once upon a dream 

Your heart races as liquid heat burns between your legs. These two men are everything you want, and you don’t care if they can smell how desire ignites your blood, how arousal makes you drip with want. If this is to be your last night as a human - if this is to serve as some sort of wedding night and birthday in one - then you have no reason to hold anything back. Especially as you continue to move intertwined with them in a synchronous flow and the desire for them to claim you - to make you eternally theirs - burns fiercely. 

The music draws to a soft, haunting close as their steps slow. Your breathing comes in trembling gasps as you hover on the edge of anticipation and relief, still held in the cocoon of their bodies. Evey nerve thrums with need, an aching pulse that only Charles and Max can satisfy. Words crawl up your throat to beg them to fuck you here, one last time before they drain you of life. 

But Charles lowers his head, skimming his lips along your racing pulse and brushing his cool nose against your flushed skin. A gasping moan passes your lips as Max bends down to the other side of your neck, dragging the sharp points of his elongated canines against your skin with delicious promise. A strong cool hand finds your hips, pushing you back against Max’s body as Charles presses ever closer. 

Charles skims his lips along your jaw, hovering just above your lips with the promise of a lifetime. “One last chance, cara mia,” he whispers with a velvet rumble. “Do you take us?” 

You sigh heavily as everything within you burns. “I do,” you moan, torn between tilting your head further against Max or further into Charles. “I take you both, yes.” 

Max strikes first, his sharp teeth slicing through your skin with familiar ease. Another moan pitches in your throat, choking off as Charles’ teeth find your other main artery, hot blood dribbling down your neck as his lips seal against your sin. When they both hollow their cheeks for a long draught, your mind abandons your body as the pleasure-pain sensations overwhelm you. You cling to them, desperate to never let go, to have them always. 

Blackness eats the corners of your sanity and your vision turns dizzy. Your breath comes in shallow gasps as your life drains away, stolen by their lips. Your fingers lose their strength as you fall slack in their embrace, and this… 

Your heart slows to its final rest. 

With a wet suck, Max pulls his teeth free and Charles gathers you in his arms. Dropping to a knee, he lays your lifeless body on the smooth, polished wood. The last drops of your blood form a puddle on the floor as Charles stands back to his full height. A trail of your blood stains his skin, soaking into the collar of his dress shirt as he stares down at you. 

At least until Max steps over your dead body and hooks a strong arm around Charles’ waist. Charles turns his mercurial eyes to Max’s, smiling with relieved ease as he melts into Max’s embrace. Moving to a tune that only Max knows, he gently guides Charles in slow, easy steps. Your blood sings in both of their veins with immense satisfaction. “You know, I ought to be really annoyed with you.” Max says softly through his own blood-stained lips. 

Charles arches an indignant brow. “What? How could you possibly?” He licks the corner of his mouth still stained crimson. “I told you that we would spend our anniversary together, and here we are.” 

“For starters, you told her that we weren’t exclusive.” 

Charles chuckles softly. “That was a long time ago, mate. And the more accurate word is eternal.” 

“And then,” Max continues, undeterred as he leads Charles around the room. “You invited her to spend our anniversary with us…” 

“You knew it had to happen.” Charles counters softly. “It always does every time someone gets close and learns more than they should…” 

Max hums gently, leaning in to brush his blood soaked lips to Charles’ cheek. “For a while, I really thought you would keep her… she lasted longer than most of the others.” 

“But it wouldn’t last - she wouldn’t last. Any mortal who chooses immortality…” 

“I did.” Max reminds him. 

“No. You chose not to die… that’s different.” 

The corner of Max’s mouth lifts with vague amusement as he leans in to meet Charles in a deep, languorous, blood-soaked kiss. One borne from decades of familiarity and devotion and adoration. One that defies words and stirs every part of their primal, undead, immortal existence. 

A low, delicious hum pitches in Charles’ throat as he pulls back, regarding Max with near pitch black eyes. “Happy 80th anniversary, mon amour.” 

Max leans forward for one last kiss - at least here before they retire to their bedroom. Keeping his arm around Charles’ waist, he turns them both towards the ballroom doors and casts one last glance down at your still body. “You had the floor waxed and sealed appropriately, yes?” 

“Of course,” Charles confirms as he, too, pays you one last parting glance. “And tomorrow, we’ll see to her interment in the crypt. Along with adding her ring to the collection.” 

Max reaches for the lightswitch on the wall and the room falls dark as the double doors close behind them. 

Fin 

Series Main List

Tag List: @fictional-l0v3r @hollie911

[uncanny-tranny]

I've noticed an attitude that some parents have where their perceived right to own their children outweighs their duty as a parent. It seems like so much emphasis is placed on the parents ability to own raise a child that it completely clouds any other responsibility for that child. I see it all the time around my culture, where parenthood isn't a question of "if," but "when," because it is seen as ubiquitous to being an adult, and I wonder how many people start believing that because they were expected to be a parent even when they did not want parenthood, they should be rewarded for it.

These are just shots of thoughts, but I've found that this idea that parenthood is your right when you own a child can contribute to an environment of abuse, neglect, or mistreatment of the child/ren in one's care.

And, absolutely, the opportunity of even being a parent has been leveraged in cruel ways, and I think that's an important consideration because it is completely heinous. In my country alone, forced sterilization has been a political strategy for eugenics and to complete a political narrative about the worth of people's right to even live. When thinking about everything above, it reminded me of other ways that parenthood both reinforces violence, perpetuates violence, and threatens violence. This problem goes much deeper than I think many are ready for, and I wanted to acknowledge this due to how pervasive this "political strategy" was/is in many places. I don't think I myself am equipped to truly do this specific topic justice, but I felt it pertinent to this conversation, and something I don't always see even passively acknowledged.

[melodiesofmidnight]

I want to talk about violence in Phantom of the Paradise for a moment.

Paul Williams once said in an interview that:

"You go back to, in our society, we were, as Americans, sitting and watching the footage from Vietnam. There were cameras following the fighting. We're sitting there with our TV dinners watching the war in Vietnam. And, at some point, it felt like something really evolved at this point.

But the news was becoming entertainment. And the line between the two, between the news and entertainment, our reality began to blur. And so when that amazing moment in the movie, when Beef was killed on stage and the kids think it's part of the show, I think that's a really pivotal moment [...] and it just feels like that was basically the heart of the picture."

It seems to me that this truth, which, at the time, may have seemed to be an overly-thoughtful consideration of the film's intended meaning, has now been augmented into something of so formidable a magnitude as to seem so obvious that it hardly warrants mentioning: and that is intentional.

*Further commentary under the Read More.*

In an ideal society, of course, this aspect of the film would be lost to us, a symptom of a bygone and barbaric society whose methods of entertainment would find themselves comfortably classified as having evolved from those of the Romans.

The "heart of the picture," as Paul put it, however, has only become more familiar to us as Time has steadily marched onward, and may now be so ubiquitous a phenomenon that we suffer the same blindness as those inhabiting said ideal society: we simply do not really analyze the violence. It is hardly mentioned in pertinence to this film in the realm of critical analysis, as that is just standard film fare: we hardly pause to consider its position within the film, or what the depiction of this violence may be trying to say: it is simply not particularly remarkable to us.

And why should it be?

Since the advent of the Internet, real violence has become so easily accessible to us that even a quick Google search can bring you within a finger's breadth of witnessing atrocities mankind was never meant to see.

Many of us grew up in the nascent, more unregulated days of the Internet, where kids passed shock sites between them like naughty magazines, and when places like LiveLeak consolidated into one convenient location the truly horrific realities of the world: beheadings, murders, war crimes, car crashes, cartel torturings...if it featured real, unadulturated human suffering, it had an ever-growing audience. People In the Know referenced these videos to one another, winking at the in-jokes made at the expense of real humans whose horrific deaths they had themselves witnessed.

Even in the current age, these things blur the lines between fantasy and reality for modern youths the way war footage may have for the youths of the Vietnam era: death is a spectacle, be it real or simulated.

We tell ourselves vehemently that we can distinguish between the two - between real and simulated violence - and, while this may be true in parsing the difference between fantasy and reality, can we parse the difference between its effect on us personally? Is every instance of real violence we witness truly as raw to us as it was the first time we saw it?

Ostracized teenage boys gather together to idolize school shooters the way horror fans may gather together to admire their favourite fictional slasher. People respond to a low death toll in mass shootings the way they may react to saving nearly all the characters in their favourite horror game: "Oh, just two got killed? That's not so bad."

Sure, it seems silly to us while watching the film that the audience doesn't recognize that Beef was truly killed whilst onstage, because of course they should have -- we would have. However, would we have cared? There have even recently been instances of people continuing to party on while their friends lie dying of alcohol poisoning on the couch, or of people livestreaming the murder of their partner while their viewers cheer them on, or even people who have displayed the body of a celebrity at a nightclub event.

People trample each other over 5% off sales on televisions and shoot each other's children over a perceived slight on the roadway. People commit random acts of violence against each other every single day, and, of late, have been livestreaming it: recording it for people all over the world to watch -- and they do. They gather en masse to watch, and, when a half-hearted attempt is made to remove the video from being accessible, people scour the Internet to find it: to be part of the group In the Know--to have something to talk about. An assassination live on television, coast to coast? Now that's entertainment!

I think the violence aspect of Phantom of the Paradise is terribly overlooked, and such really only speaks to the relevance of that particular criticism against our society, which still rings so true as to be invisible to us. Haha, the person in the movie killed another person with a bird hat, isn't that silly? Haha, the singer onstage got electrocuted to death, that's so absurd. Haha, that girl put on Winslow's mask after he died without even checking on him. Haha, everyone's partying even though four people just died. Isn't that silly?

And why shouldn't we find it silly, rather than horrifying? After all, we saw worse than that when we were six.

[namisweatheria]

So this was going to be a tag rant on this gifset of Vivi and Luffy fighting in Alabasta but I thought I'd spare the op and get my full thoughts out in my own post.

I think it's a testament to how much Luffy just sees and treats people as people and doesn't make any effort to follow gender norms, and how his and Vivi's friendship has an almost childlike loyalty and simplicity to it, that seeing him hit her here isn't uncomfortable in the way seeing men hit women always is in media.

The feeling of equality between them is practically a visceral emotion watching this. They're friends scrabbling in the dirt and it's so… I don't even know. It's so normal somehow. I think it's also due to the simple facts of their size, clothes, and fighting expressions being basically the same. They're also squabbling with the same emotions, frustrated with each other, but not actually wanting to hurt each other.

There's a ubiquitous undercurrent of misogynistic sexual sadism underneath most male on female violence in media which people have literally written books about it's so pervasive and constant and ITS INSANE how an animanga as sexist as One Piece that is filled with utterly inappropriate flimsy justifications to fulfill deranged male fantasies that that undercurrent is just. Absent here.

It's not even because they're so young! That's unfortunately never been much of a factor in this, considering how young violent misogyny can start manifesting. Nothing about this is accidentally visually reminiscent of that, which is kind of impressive honestly. But Luffy is an impressively written character, as are his friendships.

It definitely shows up, at least later as the visual sexism gets worse. I was wildly uncomfortable with the way Blackbeard was choking Boa for like gratuitous minutes in the anime recently. (Especially considering how Boa as a character is especially hyper-sexualized in her every appearance, not excluding that episode in any way.)

But it's just not here at all. Wild. They're just equal and they're friends fighting because they care about each other and it's depicted so genuinely. It's a great moment for other reasons obviously but it was kind of a shock to look at it and realize that that discomfort that is always there with this kind of scene just isn't.

I don't think a scene with Luffy is ever going to have that undercurrent. Not because Oda knows it's bad to depict that kind of violence fetishistically, but because he knows it'd be bad to do it with Luffy. What goes on in his head is at once horribly public and totally mystifying.

SHAKING THE BARS OF MY CAGE WHY DOES LUFFY KNOW WOMEN ARE PEOPLE AND ODA DOESN'T!!!!!!!!!!!!! I LOVE VIVI AND LUFFY!!!!!!!!!!!

[ninjakittenarmy]

I think my main issue with the plot of Spirit of Justice, despite generally liking it, is that you didn’t really NEED to have the entire conflict with the Kura’inese government to revolve entirely around trials alone for the plot to work. Spoilers ahead naturally.

See, the plot isn’t actually THAT far fetched in concept. Manipulation of the legal system to suppress dissent is pretty much ubiquitous among dictatorships. It’s the oldest trick in the tyranny book. And the fact that regular citizens can abuse it for their own gain is a very common side effect of it’s not intended in the first place irl. And targeting attorneys that won’t play ball is part of that pretty much always.

And honestly, the idea that a faith could have a murder trial have spiritual significance for the deceased is actually pretty interesting, and the justice system being of spiritual significance or even being intertwined with the local faith isn’t particularly unusual historically. My only issue with it is just that they don’t mention what happens if someone ISN’T MURDERED. The trial is established as necessary for the spirit to move on, and that seems at least partially true (gotta wonder if the spirits believing this has something to do with it, if they make a sequel they should build on this). So what happens if there’s no trial to be had? I assume it’s only necessary for murders, I’d just like to know.

The final trial isn’t that unbelievable either. Delegitimizing a ruler in front of both their subjects and the people they count on to enforce their will is how many a tyrant has fallen, and a trial where it’s proven that their rule was acquired through illegal means or they otherwise don’t have legitimacy is a perfectly legitimate way that can happen, especially since in this case, the queen’s goons were loyal entirely because they thought she was legitimately divinely ordained (sure, her coup didn’t matter to her royal guards so long as she had the necessary powers that gives you, but she uh, didn’t).

The main issue really is just that they overdid it. The trials seem to outweigh other forms of repression a dictator would use in tandem. There would need to be other elements to the government’s tyranny and the groups resisting it. You had one assassin when these regimes have whole death squads. And attorneys alone aren’t really a big enough group to justify having them be the main enemy your dictator “needs” the power to fight. There’s gotta be more. Other ideologies, other cultures, other faiths. Maybe a bit heavy for AA but dictatorships are heavy stuff and this series is already about murder.

And there would realistically be more groups opposing them besides defense attorneys alone. They’d probably be part of it. Lawyers have been part of tons of revolutions in the past, including America’s, in fact. I can buy one being a leader in fact. But it wouldn’t be like 90% lawyers with like, three other people. You’d have partisan sympathizers, vengeful families of those wronged, members of persecuted groups. Having the Dragons be entirely composed of a crack team of guerrilla lawyers isn’t plausible, and the absurdity of it isn’t noted in the narrative like the other wacky stuff in these games. You’re meant to just accept it.

Also, I don’t buy for a SECOND. That they’re all pacifists. You made their second in command a foreign commando soldier and had them presented throughout the game as a typical partisan rebel group. You want me to believe the most feared group of rebels in this country is pacifist? Pacifism is all about discrediting that notion, it’s REALLY HARD to make them seem like the boogeymen the government says they are. And it just felt in context like a cheap way to make them not TOO rebellious lest idiots accuse them of endorsing political violence, despite the fact that political violence against a democratic government and innocent people is completely different from violence targeted specifically at a dictatorship’s rulers and enforcers. You can still portray anyone who attacks innocents “for the cause” as evil. There’s a middle ground here.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

The MAGA GOP firmly believes that violence and violent threats against their fellow Americans is the surest path to power. As David French explains, that's a huge problem. In 2021, Reuters published a horrifying and comprehensive report detailing the persistent threats against local election workers. In 2022, it followed up with another report detailing threats against local school boards. In my own Tennessee community, doctors and nurses who advocated wearing masks in schools were targets of screaming, threatening right-wing activists, who told one man, “We know who you are” and “We will find you.”

My own family has experienced terrifying nights and terrifying days over the last several years. We’ve faced death threats, a bomb scare, a clumsy swatting attempt and doxxing by white nationalists. People have shown up at our home. A man even came to my kids’ school. I’ve interacted with the F.B.I., the Tennessee Department of Homeland Security and local law enforcement. While the explicit threats come and go, the sense of menace never quite leaves. We’re always looking over our shoulders. And no, threats of ideological violence do not come exclusively from the right. We saw too much destruction accompanying the George Floyd protests to believe that. We’ve seen left-wing attacks and threats against Republicans and conservatives. The surge in antisemitic incidents since Oct. 7 is a sobering reminder that hatred lives on the right and the left alike.

But the tsunami of MAGA threats is different. The intimidation is systemic and ubiquitous, an acknowledged tactic in the playbook of the Trump right that flows all the way down from the violent fantasies of Donald Trump himself. It is rare to encounter a public-facing Trump critic who hasn’t faced threats and intimidation. The threats drive decent men and women from public office. They isolate and frighten dissenters. When my family first began to face threats, the most dispiriting responses came from Christian acquaintances who concluded I was a traitor for turning on a movement whose members had expressed an explicit desire to kill my family. But I don’t want to be too bleak. So let me end with a point of light. In the summer of 2021, I received a quite direct threat after I’d written a series of pieces opposing bans on teaching critical race theory in public schools. Someone sent my wife an email threatening to shoot me in the face.

My wife and I knew that it was almost certainly a bluff. But we also knew that white nationalists had our home address, both of us were out of town and the only person home that night was my college-age son. So we called the local sheriff, shared the threat, and asked if the department could send someone to check our house. Minutes later, a young deputy called to tell me all was quiet at our home. When I asked if he would mind checking back frequently, he said he’d stay in front of our house all night. Then he asked, “Why did you get this threat?”

I hesitated before I told him. Our community is so MAGA that I had a pang of concern about his response. “I’m a columnist,” I said, “and we’ve had lots of threats ever since I wrote against Donald Trump.”

The deputy paused for a moment. “I’m a vet,” he said, “and I volunteered to serve because I believe in our Constitution. I believe in free speech.” And then he said words I’ll never forget: “You keep speaking, and I’ll stand guard.”

I didn’t know that deputy’s politics and I didn’t need to. When I heard his words, I thought, that’s it. That’s the way through. Sometimes we are called to speak. Sometimes we are called to stand guard. All the time we can at least comfort those under threat, telling them with words and deeds that they are not alone. If we do that, we can persevere. Otherwise, the fear will be too much for good people to bear.

[not-a-space-alien]

Hey Valen! I heard you talk about that when you lived in vampire territory, you used buy ethically sourced blood from a different country... Does that mean that there is a society made up of vampires and humans living together? like, Symbiotically, and not a predator/prey relationship? And if so, have you ever thought of moving there?

Sorry for a scary question, but... now that you are surrounded by humans everyday, are you ever worried about controlling yourself...? or other humans controlling themselves too, sorry!!!

Okay end on a high(er) note! What's one thing that shocked you about living on the human side that surprised you? Like, I imagine Vampire's don't have dogs, since the only thing they hunt are humans... although I suppose you do have snowball... maybe certain sayings like 'that man was born with a silver spoon in his mouth'?

Okay thanks for answering all these questions!... Again~ make sure to cuddle with snowball for me!

"Yes! There are areas of the world where relations between vampires and humans are friendlier. They're not... abundant, and it's not like humans and vampires are nextdoor neighbors in those places... But they at least don't live in fear of each other, which is a wonderful first step. There's no violence. I've toyed with the idea of moving there before. The culture is different, and they have fairly strict immigration policies... I'm not sure they would let me in because of my connection to the blood farms. They're protective of their humans... I mean, the human populations nearby who provide them with blood voluntarily. They go to great lengths to avoid anything that could potentially upset the status quo of nonviolence they have there. They're fairly liberal with using exile as a punishment for violence."

"I was scared about controlling myself before, yes--not anymore. Before I learned what starvation felt like, I had a silly notion that smelling human blood would make me lose control. That's why I wore the beaked mask--it held scented plants under my nose. That's what they were originally for. It feels...silly in retrospect. I have been hungry enough to lose control of myself now, and I know I would never reach that state again unless I was starved of blood for a long, long time." He shudders at the thought.

"Vampires do have dogs, actually! They have the same domestic animals that humans do--Vampires never actually domesticated any animals ourselves, as you said--we have little need for them in reality. But vampires take a fancy to animals the same way humans do, so we have dogs, cats, horses, rabbits--most of the same ones. We keep food animals like cows and pigs mostly for keeping our humans fed." He flaps his hands with excitement as he stumbles upon a particularly interesting train of thoughts. "The domestication of rats actually started in the 18th century, which is well within the lifespan of a single vampire. It's plausible that if a vampire were so inclined, they could single-handedly oversee the domestication of an entire species if it had a particularly short generation time. We could even establish our own lines of fancy cat and dog breeds. Can you imagine it? That would be so interesting!" He takes a brief pause as he imagines himself trying to breed a domesticated line of opossums.

"Oh, but the question was about differences. Sorry... You're right that there are quite a lot of linguistic differences. Most of them have to do with food--so much of human culture is structured around food. The most egregious example is the ubiquitousness of the coffee table, which I still don't quite understand no matter how many times Lex and Ari explain it to me." He does understand it, he just thinks it's stupid. "Light and dark symbology are reversed between our cultures, too. We view the moon as the primary celestial body and the sun as the secondary one. Nighttime is safety and light is danger. The first time Ari said something about death and Lex said it was 'dark humor'--well, I had to think about that phrase for a while."

Valen pulls Snowball onto his lap and cuddles her.

[not-terezi-pyrope]

Philosophical survey/poll of the day: Disregarding the morality of usage, what is the morality of *buying* black market drugs?

I've been thinking about this again in light of recent consumer boycotts. First let me state upfront that I am not soliciting advice for me personally, this is a hypothetical. Neither am I advocating that people buy or use drugs, nor am I condemning people who do. I am generally very pro-autonomy for questions of drug use, and think that a person using drugs has, in and of itself, no moral weight.

I am interested in what people think about the moral weight of buying drugs off the black market, however. Elaboration below, followed by a poll:

My question is about the morality of accessing the drugs trade as an end consumer, given that, according to popular conception at least, a lot of substances are supplied by "criminal gangs" who might also participate in more violent crime? Like, obviously this isn't so much a deal for weed because that's probably just some dudes growing it in their attic, but consider for example when people buy harder drugs, like cocaine, for example.

You can't trace the supply chain, but even the end point of purchase is some small-time dealer who sells drugs and isn't involved in anything else, at some point it will have been smuggled into your country, which might involve larger gangs, or like, organized crime operations who also are involved with violent crime. You likely don't know that for sure, but the point is you can't know, so my question is, does the spectre of potential violent crime in the process of producing and transporting an illegal drug make the purchase of the drug immoral, in the same way that some people say it is immoral not to boycott legal companies that are complicit in atrocities?

Alternatively, there are also these factors that may or may not excuse this:

One might argue that if you aren't aware of any specific harms in the production of a product, then you as the consumer shouldn't be obligated to suspect them, even if the context is the sale of black market goods.

One might argue that the harms perpetrated by the black market drugs trade, insofar one would contribute to them as an end-buyer, have their moral weight placed upon the legal system for outlawing the drug in question and therefore not allowing a verifiably ethical vendor to exist.

One might argue that the demand for illegal drugs is so ubiquitous and constant that whether you personally "boycott" the industry or not makes no difference, so you shouldn't feel bad for skimming off the top of what's already there, you're only contributing a very small percentage and the core audience for drugs isn't going to go anywhere no matter what you do, as the last centuries of prohibitions has proven

One might argue that the scope of criminal violence involved in drugs supply is overstated/sensationalized, and that any specific source of drugs probably isn't going to involve cartels assassinating people like in breaking bad or whatever, if the drug is produced by countries with low economic development then you might actually be doing good by providing income for people who have no alternatives

One might argue that the harms caused by the production and smuggling of black market goods are in no way worse than the harms perpetrated by the legal economy, which also has its fingers in many violent or exploitative acts and provably so, so it's not meaningfully any different to ordering from McDonald's or whatever.

I had a conversation with friends about this several years ago and I think that most people who were already okay with drug use in a personal capacity thought that the purchase of drugs is probably fine, but I'm interested to see what people think these days, and now tumblr has polls, so share your thoughts:

[night-unfurls-its-splendour]

Susan Kay's 'Phantom' Read: Part II (Erik, 1840-1843)

I'll start by saying something positive. No one can accuse this book of being poorly thought out. Kay does a genuinely excellent job of tying the events related in Part I to Erik's own explanations of his developments in Part II--such as how the occasion of his mother showing him his face on his fifth birthday triggered his life-long morbid fascination with mirrors. This is genuinely good character work.

I also appreciate how she has Erik use his ingenuity to create leverage for himself to better his circumstances in his captivity.

That's about the only good I have to say about this particular section.

Firstly I have to wonder if she chose to name Erik's abusive (what do we call him? Handler? Manager?) "Javert" for any particular reason. Like the association with Les Mis is ubiquitous at this point. Was she trying to stir up shit?

On that note, the end of this section is by far the worst and the worst part of all, for me, is that she depicts Erik deriving an explicitly sexual pleasure from killing Javert.

In my mind, this is a line you absolutely cannot cross even in fiction if you hope for your character to be redeemed. Once the wires of sex and violence get crossed, you are fucked. There's no coming back from that.

I also have a problem with this though, because there's been nothing to set up these wires getting crossed for Erik in his development. He hasn't had any of the the telltale indicators (bedwetting, traumatic brain injury at an early age etc.) that usually are the harbingers of psychopathy. He was not exposed to sexual violence at an early age, and never displayed any indicators that he derived satisfaction from cruelty.

I'm very interested to know if this sexual satisfaction with killing will persist later on in the narrative or, like Madeleine's incestuous fixation on Erik’s voice, it will disappear from the narrative showing it as nothing more than poorly thought out window dressing; gratuitous and unnecessary.

Masterpost

[balkanradfem]

Wanted to drop in and say first of all that your blog is amazing! You have worded so articulately, so perfectly so many thoughts and feelings I've had recently. Well, rather I've had for a long time on some level but never really confronted with honesty until recently. It has taken a bit of time to ease myself into this world, as a new feminist.

I'm currently trying to list double standards between men and women, the ones that men have created to against women, to explain to someone who clearly doesn't "get it", but I'm getting sort of overwhelmed because they are basically ubiquitous, and more like double binds where you are punished either way.

I have beauty standards down. I've had pushback every time on this but I think I'm good there. There's also the way men have slurs for women who have sex (whore, slut) and for women who don't (prude, frigid). Men are not defined by their sexual history nor are shamed for it the way women have been forever.

They treat male cheaters better than female ones, even going as far as to say men should be allowed to cheat.

They say "not all men", but treat women like a monolith. They accuse us of playing victim when we bring up serious systematic male violence against women, in every country, but feel discriminated against if we don't take being expected to pay for dates and being drafted in some countries (all a result of patriarchy) as an equivalent oppression point.

They hold women to higher ethical standards. They hold women to higher standards of parenthood. They cry sexism if anyone doesn't take their crying seriously but relentlessly mock (and make memes out of) women showing emotions online, call them manipulative, and even use them as evidence that women should be restricted from working.

They're allowed to blame women for male violence and general bad behaviour from the men in their lives. They don't get blamed for choosing the wrong partner or breaking up the family if they decide to leave their partners after being treated badly. They're allowed to talk about single mothers like used cars and treat single fathers as heroes. They get free domestic and reproductive labour from women but want everything they do to be compensated.

They consider women focusing on their career instead of children to be selfish but not men.

They expect their loneliness to be taken seriously but consider lonely women defective.

Is there anything you could add, or correct? Do you have your own list of double standards you can share?

You got it down pretty good, I can't think anything off the top of my head, but I think the biggest difference is in the power of one's word, male words are believed to be shaping reality, while words that come from women are believed to be shaping nothing but lies and deceit, especially if they're speaking from the female perspective, and not recounting whatever men want them to.

I don't know if it can be called a 'double standard', but the fact that we weren't a part of the work force from the beginning, and were only allowed to participate in the latest versions of it, gives them a huge benefit, and they're using it to make sure women have the most ungrateful and exhausting work, while they take credit for it themselves, on top of underpaying the same women and making sure they don't progress as fast, or at all in the work field. If women do progress or start overtaking a specific field of work, it will immediately get demoted, underfunded, and disregarded as frivolous and not-serious-enough.

I feel like double standards are very tame words to explain the situation, even though it's a very good way to point out that we're not equal and how it can be visible in common beliefs and common treatment of women. We're basically living in a world that men built and shaped for nobody and nothing but themselves, with women meant only as servants, entertainment and resource for them to use. Nothing is created for women alone, not medicine, not healthcare, not resources, not buildings, not vehicles, not jobs, not families. All of these center men, benefit men, put men in the position of control, while women are seen as 'stepping out of their place' if they attempt to fight and win their own space and resources inside of it.

Women are being shamed and humiliated both before and after they're used and exploited by males, and even if they do absolutely everything they're supposed to, they're still likely to end up abused, wounded by injustice, forced into childbirth and marriage, ending with no shelter, resources, land or economic power of their own. Men, on the other hand, are more likely to inherit resources, gain economic power, hoard resources, land and will expect to trap a woman with what they got. We're essentially always put in position where we either manage to ward off from men or end up being exploited if we make one mistake, have one emotional and vulnerable moment where they get the best of us. Men can hardly say they face the same hardship - the most a woman can get from a man is some of his money, and it's still not going to give her opportunities to gain nowhere near as much as men can in today's society.

It's almost insane we still have to explain there's 'double standards', but I absolutely understand how it's practical to have a few on hand to be able to easily point out when someone is acting obtuse.

Whenever I see a woman online bullied for saying something not 100% considerate to all minorities on the planet, I imagine what would the reaction be if a man said that, and every single time, I can see dozens of men doing hundred times worse shit and getting away with it because they're just not believed to even be capable of that much consideration, and they're forgiven for it by default. If a man had acted online with the same behaviour as any problematic woman, he would be praised to heavens for how progressive and insightful he is. He would be considered a feminist, an icon, the best man in the world for doing even 5% of emotional labour that women do on daily basis. It pisses me off seeing people rage at women for shit they wouldn't make them blink if a man said.

I guess there's also double standards of 'how many men do we make die in childbirth, how many men do we impregnate and abandon, how many men do we use as sexual entertainment and resource, how many underage men do we marry off to older and predatory women who will rape them, how much torture and abuse of men do we watch on the daily basis to get off, how many men do we force to change their appearance to childlike so we'd have a better time predating over them', it becomes bit more obvious when you put it that plainly that we're in a position that cannot even be compared to mens.

If someone else can think of more examples, please add to the post.

[warningsine]

In 2010, Time magazine made Mark Zuckerberg its person of the year. It described Facebook’s mission as being to “tame the howling mob and turn the lonely, antisocial world of random chance into a friendly world”. During the first decade of mass internet use, this was a popular theory: the more that people were able to communicate with others, the more friendly and understanding they would become, the result being a more peaceable and harmonious world.

In 2021, that vision seems painfully naive. Howling online mobs clash day and night, and some of them commit real-world violence. The internet is connecting people, but it isn’t necessarily creating fellow feeling. At its worst, it can resemble a vast machine for the production of mutual antipathy.

Technology is at least partially responsible for a world in which toxic disagreement is ubiquitous; in which offence seems to be constantly given and taken; in which we do ever more talking and ever less listening. The Silicon Valley entrepreneur Paul Graham has observed that the internet is a medium that engenders disagreement by design. Digital media platforms are inherently interactive and, well, people are disputatious.

As Graham puts it, “agreeing tends to motivate people less than disagreeing”. Readers are more likely to comment on an article or post when they disagree with it, and in disagreement they have more to say (there are only so many ways you can say “I agree”). People also tend to get more animated when they disagree, which usually means getting angry.

But while it is tempting to blame Facebook and Twitter for making us this way, that would be to miss the significance of a wider and more profound shift in human behaviour – one that has been decades, even centuries, in the making. Socially, as well as electronically, there are fewer one-way channels than ever. Everyone is starting to talk back to everyone else. If we are becoming more disagreeable, it’s because the modern world demands we speak our minds.

The American anthropologist Edward T Hall introduced a distinction between two types of communication culture: high context and low context. In a low-context culture, communication is explicit and direct. What people say is taken to be an expression of their thoughts and feelings. You don’t need to understand the context – who is speaking, in what situation – to understand the message. A high-context culture is one in which little is said explicitly, and most of the message is implied. The meaning of each message resides not so much in the words themselves, as in the context. Communication is oblique, subtle, ambiguous.

Most of us, wherever we are in the world, are living increasingly low-context lives, as more and more of us flock to cities, do business with strangers and converse over smartphones. Different countries still have different communication cultures, but nearly all of them are subject to the same global vectors of commerce, urbanisation and technology – forces that dissolve tradition, flatten hierarchy and increase the scope for confrontation. It’s not at all clear that we are prepared for this.

For most of our existence as a species, humans have operated in high-context mode. Our ancestors lived in settlements and tribes with shared traditions and settled chains of command. Now, we frequently encounter others with values and customs different to our own. At the same time, we are more temperamentally egalitarian than ever. Everywhere you look, there are interactions in which all parties have or demand an equal voice. Everyone expects their opinion to be heard and, increasingly, it can be. In this raucous, irreverent, gloriously diverse world, previously implicit rules about what can and cannot be said are looser and more fluid, sometimes even disappearing. With less context to guide our decisions, the number of things on which “we all agree” is shrinking fast.

Think about what defines low-context culture, at least in its extreme form: endless chatter, frequent argument; everyone telling you what they think, all the time. Remind you of anything? As Ian Macduff, an expert in conflict resolution, puts it, “the world of the internet looks predominantly like a low-context world”.

If humans were purely rational entities, we would listen politely to an opposing view before offering a considered response. In reality, disagreement floods our brain with chemical signals that make it hard to focus on the issue at hand. The signals tell us that this is an attack on me. “I disagree with you” becomes “I don’t like you”. Instead of opening our minds to the other’s point of view, we focus on defending ourselves.

Animals respond to threat with two basic tactics, first identified by the Harvard biologist Walter Bradford Cannon in 1915: fight or flight. Humans are no different. A disagreement can tempt us to become aggressive and lash out, or it can induce us to back off and swallow our opinions out of a desire to avoid conflict. These atavistic responses still influence our behaviour in today’s low-context environments: we either get into hostile and mostly pointless arguments, or do everything we can to avoid arguing at all. Both responses are dysfunctional.

You don’t have to look far to see the fight response to disagreement: just open your social media feeds or read the comments section on your favourite website. The internet is reputed to create “echo chambers”, in which people only encounter views they already agree with, but the evidence points in precisely the opposite direction. Research tells us that social media users have more diverse news diets than non-users. You are almost bound to encounter opinions that upset you on Twitter; much more so than if your only information source is a daily newspaper. Instead of creating bubbles, the internet is bursting them, generating hostility, fear and anger.

One reason online discourse is so often so furious is because it has been designed to be this way. Studies have shown that content that outrages is more likely to be shared. Users who post angry messages get the status boost of likes and retweets, and the platforms on which those messages are posted gain the attention and engagement that they sell to advertisers. Online platforms therefore have an incentive to push forward the most extreme versions of every argument. Nuance, reflection and mutual understanding are not just casualties of the crossfire, but necessary victims.

But it would be a profound mistake to conclude from all this that we are arguing too much. The hollow outrage we see online is actually evidence of the absence of real, reflective disagreements: fight as a smokescreen for flight.

It’s often said that if humanity is to rise to the existential threats it faces, we must put our differences aside. But when we all agree – or pretend to – it becomes harder to make progress. Disagreement is a way of thinking, perhaps the best one we have, critical to the health of any shared enterprise, from marriage to business to democracy. We can use it to turn vague notions into actionable ideas, blind spots into insights, distrust into empathy. Instead of putting our differences aside, we need to put them to work.

To do so, we will have to overcome a widespread discomfort with disagreement. Disagreeing well is hard, and for most of us, stressful. But perhaps if we learn to see it as a skill in its own right, rather than as something that comes naturally, we might become more at ease with it. I believe we have a lot to learn from those who manage adversarial, conflict-ridden situations for a living; people whose job it is to wring information, insight and human connection out of even the most hostile encounter.

At the 1972 Olympic Games in West Germany, a group of Palestinian terrorists seized 11 Israeli athletes. The terrorists made their demands, the authorities refused them. The Munich police resorted to firepower. Twenty-two people were killed, including all the hostages. In the wake of what became known as the Munich Massacre, law-enforcement agencies around the world realised they had an urgent problem. Officers communicating with hostage-takers in order to avoid or minimise violence had no protocol to follow. Police departments realised that they needed to learn negotiation skills.

Hostage negotiators, who may be specialists or trained officers with other responsibilities, are now deployed in a wide range of situations. The best ones are not just expert in tactics; they understand the importance of what the sociologist Erving Goffman called “face-work”. In Goffman’s terms, “face” is the public image a person wants to establish in a social interaction. We put effort into establishing the appropriate face for each encounter: the face you want to show a potential boss will be different to the face you want to show someone on a date. This effort is face-work.

With people we trust and know well, we don’t worry so much about face, but with those we don’t know – especially when those people have some power over us – we put in the face-work. When someone puts in face-work and yet doesn’t achieve the face they want, they feel bad. If you strive to be seen as authoritative and someone treats you with minimal respect, you feel embarrassed and even humiliated. In some circumstances you might try to sabotage the encounter to feel better.

People skilled in the art of disagreement don’t just think about their own face; they’re highly attuned to the other’s face. One of the most powerful social skills is the ability to give face; to confirm the public image that the other person wishes to project. In any conversation, when the other person feels their desired face is being accepted and confirmed, they’re going to be a lot easier to deal with, and more likely to listen to what you have to say.

No one knows this better than hostage negotiators. Hostage crises can be divided into two types. In “instrumental” crises, the interaction tends to be relatively rational in character. The hostage-taker sets out clear demands, and a bargaining process ensues. In “expressive” crises, the hostage-takers want to say something – to people at home, to the world. They are usually people who have acted impulsively: a father who has kidnapped his daughter after losing custody, a man who has tied up his girlfriend and is threatening to kill her. Most often, negotiators are dealing with individuals who have taken themselves hostage: people who have climbed to the top of a tall building and are threatening to jump. The hostage-taker in an expressive scenario is usually on edge, emotionally – angry, desperate, deeply insecure, and liable to act in unpredictable ways.

Negotiators are taught to soothe and reassure the hostage-taker before getting to the negotiation. William Donohue, a professor of communication at the University of Michigan, has spent decades studying conflict-ridden conversations – some successful, some failed – involving terrorists, pirates, and people on the brink of suicide. He talked to me about a key component of face: how powerful a person feels. Hostage-takers in expressive situations want their importance to be recognised in some way – to have their status acknowledged.

Donohue and his collaborator Paul Taylor, of Lancaster University, coined the term “one-down” to describe the party, in any kind of negotiation, who feels most insecure about their relative status. One-down parties are more likely to act aggressively and competitively, at the expense of finding common ground or coming up with solutions. In 1974, Spain and the US opened negotiations over the status of certain US military bases on Spanish soil. The political scientist Daniel Druckman looked at when American and Spanish negotiators adopted “hard tactics” or “soft tactics”. He found that the Spanish team used threats and accusations three times as often as the American team. The Spanish, one-down, were aggressively asserting their autonomy.

When a hostage-taker feels dominated, he is more likely to resort to violence. “That’s when words fail,” Donohue told me. “In effect, the hostage-taker says: ‘You haven’t acknowledged respect for me, so I have to gain it by controlling you physically.’” People will go to great, even self-destructive lengths to avoid the perception that they are being walked over. One-down parties often play dirty, attacking their adversary from unexpected, hard-to-defend angles. Instead of looking for solutions that might work for everyone, they treat every negotiation as a zero-sum game in which someone must win and the other must lose. Instead of engaging with the content, they attack the person as a way of asserting their status.

By contrast, there are those who enter a negotiation expecting to succeed because they are, or perceive themselves to be, in the stronger position. They may well therefore adopt a more relaxed and expansive approach, focusing on the substance of the disagreement and looking for win-win solutions. They may also take more risks with their face, making moves that might otherwise be seen as weak, offering a more friendly and conciliatory dialogue. Since they don’t fear losing face, they can reach out a hand.

This is why giving face is so important. It is in a negotiator’s interest for their counterpart to feel as secure as possible. Skilled negotiators are always trying to create the adversary they want. They know that when they’re one-up, the smart thing to do is to narrow the gap.

In any conversation where there is an unequal power balance, the more powerful party is more likely to be focused on the top line – on the content or matter at hand – while the one-down party focuses on the relationship. Here are a few examples:

A parent says: “Why did you come home so late?” The teenage daughter thinks: “You’re treating me like a little kid.”

A doctor says: “We can’t find anything wrong with you.” The patient thinks: “You don’t care about me.”

A politician says: “The economy is growing more strongly than ever.” A voter thinks: “Stop talking to me like I’m an idiot.”

When a debate becomes volatile and dysfunctional, it’s often because someone in the conversation feels they are not getting the face they deserve. This helps to explain the pervasiveness of bad temper on social media, which can sometimes feel like a status competition in which the currency is attention. On Twitter, Facebook or Instagram, anyone can get likes, retweets or new followers – in theory. But although there are exceptions, it is actually very hard for people who are not already celebrities to build a following. Gulled by the promise of high status, users then get angry when status is denied. Social media appears to give everyone an equal chance of being heard. In reality, it is geared to reward a tiny minority with massive amounts of attention, while the majority has very little. The system is rigged.

So far, we’ve been talking about one aspect of face-work: status. However, there is another, closely related yet distinct component of a person’s face, which is not so much about how high or low they feel, as who they feel they are.

Elisa Sobo, a professor of anthropology at San Diego State University, has interviewed parents who refuse vaccines. Why were these people, many of them smart and highly educated, ignoring mainstream medical advice that was based on sound science? Sobo concluded that for these individuals opposition to vaccines is not just a belief, but an “act of identification” – that is, it’s more about opting in to a group than opting out of a treatment, like “getting a gang tattoo, slipping on a wedding ring, or binge-watching a popular streamed TV show”. The refusal is “more about who one is and with whom one identifies than who one isn’t or whom one opposes”. Sobo points out that this is also true of those who opt in to vaccines: our desire to be associated with mainstream views on medicine is also a way of signalling who we are. That’s why arguments between the two sides quickly become clashes of identity.

According to William Donohue, what drags participants into destructive conflict is usually a struggle over who they are. “I’ve seen it in hostage situations, in politics, in marital arguments,” he said. “You don’t know anything, you have problems, you’re insensitive. One person feels like the other is attacking who they are, so they defend themselves, or hit back. It escalates.”

That our opinions come tangled up with our sense of ourselves is not necessarily a bad thing, but it is something we need to be aware of when trying to get someone to do something they do not want to do, whether that’s stop smoking, adapt to a new working practice, or vote for our candidate. Our goal should be to prise the disputed opinion or action away from the person’s sense of self – to lower the identity stakes. The skilful disagreer finds a way of helping their adversary conclude that they can say or do something different, and still be themselves.

One way to do that is to have the disagreement away from an audience. In Boston in 1994, in the wake of a shooting at an abortion clinic, the philanthropist Laura Chasin reached out to six abortion activists, three of them pro-life, three pro-choice, and asked them to meet in secret to see if they could build some kind of understanding. Hard and even painful as it was, the six women met, clandestinely, over a period of years. At first, they found their positions hardening, and none of them ever changed their minds on the fundamental points. But over time, as they got to know each other, they felt able to think, communicate and negotiate in more unconstrained, less simplistic ways. The less that people feel compelled to maintain their face in front of allies, the more flexible they feel able to be.

The same principle applies to workplace conflicts. In front of an audience of colleagues, people are more likely to focus on how they want to be seen, rather than on the right way to solve the problem. If it is important to me to be seen as competent, I might react angrily to any challenge to my work. If I want to be seen as nice and cooperative, I might refrain from expressing my strongly felt opposition to a proposal in terms strong enough for anyone to notice. That’s why, when a difficult work conversation arises, the participants often propose to “take it offline”. The phrase used to mean simply an in-person discussion, but it has gained an additional nuance: “Let’s take this potentially tough conversation to a place where there is less at stake for our faces.”

Taking a disagreement offline can work, but it should only ever be seen as a second-best option. It means the problem at hand is exposed to the scrutiny of fewer minds, losing the benefits of open disagreements. The best way to lower the identity stakes is to create a workplace culture in which people do not feel much need to protect their face; a culture in which different opinions are explicitly encouraged, mistakes are expected, rules of conduct are understood, and everyone trusts that everyone else cares about the collective goal. Then you can really have it out.

Still, in most disagreements, face is at stake in some way, and while getting out of sight of an audience is one way of lowering the identity stakes, another way is to give face – to affirm your adversary’s ideal sense of themselves. When you show me that you believe in who I am and want to be seen as, you make it easier for me to reconsider my position. By being personally gracious, you can depersonalise the disagreement.

Sometimes that can be as simple as offering a compliment at the very moment your adversary feels most vulnerable. Jonathan Wender, a former cop who co-founded an organisation called Polis that trains US police officers in de-escalation, has written a book about policing in which he notes that the act of arrest is a moment of potential humiliation for the suspect. Wender argues that when police officers are making an arrest, they should do what they can to make the person being arrested feel better about themselves.

He gives the example of arresting a man he calls Calvin, suspected of violent assault: “The officer and I each took hold of one of Calvin’s arms and told him he was under arrest. He began to struggle and was clearly ready to fight. Given his large stature and history of violence, we wanted to avoid fighting with Calvin, which would inevitably leave him and officers injured. I told Calvin, ‘Look, you’re just too big for us to fight with.’”

Wender writes: “Officers can de-escalate a potential fight by … affirming his dignity, especially in public.” It is in a cop’s interest to make the person they have arrested feel good, or at least less bad, about themselves. This is common sense – or at least it ought to be. It is amazing how often people commit what you might call the overdog’s mistake: when, having achieved a dominant position, they brutally ram their advantage home, wounding the other party’s sense of self. By doing so, they might gain some fleeting satisfaction, but they also create the adversary they do not want.

Wounded people are dangerous. In Memphis, when I visited a Polis training session, I watched as the instructor told the class that when he was a cop, he had seen officers hit suspects after they had been cuffed, sometimes in front of the suspect’s friends or family. Not only was that wrong, he said, it was dumb: the act of humiliating someone in an arrest “can kill your colleagues”. There was a grave murmur of assent in the room. Suspects who have been humiliated do not forget it, and some extract terrible revenge on a cop – any cop – years down the line. Humiliation hurts the humiliators and those associated with them. In a study of 10 international diplomatic crises, the political scientists William Zartman and Johannes Aurik described how, when stronger countries exert power over weaker countries, the weaker ones accede in the short term but look for ways to retaliate later on.

The US politician Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez has described how to have a conversation with someone with whom you strongly disagree. You don’t have to share her politics to see that it is good advice:

“I have this mentor. And one of the best pieces of advice that he gave me is ‘always give someone the golden gate of retreat’, which is: give someone enough compassion, enough opportunity in a conversation for them to look good changing their mind. And it’s a really important thing to be able to do, because if you’re just like, ‘Oh you said this thing! You’re racist!’, you’re forcing that person to say, ‘No I’m not’. Et cetera. There’s no golden gate of retreat there. The only retreat there is to just barrel right through the opposing opinion.”

When we’re in an argument with someone, we should be thinking about how they can change their mind and look good – maintain or even enhance their face – at the same time. Often this is very hard to do in the moment of the dispute itself, when opinion and face are bound even more tightly together than they are before or after (the writer Rachel Cusk defines an argument as “an emergency of self-definition”). However, by showing that we have listened to and respected our interlocutor’s point of view, we make it more likely that they will come around at some later point. If and when they do, we should avoid scolding them for not agreeing with us all along. It’s amazing quite how often people in polarised debates do this; it hardly makes it more tempting to switch sides. Instead, we should remember that they have achieved something we have not: a change of mind.

[adventures-of-the-creeping-bam]

NEVER SPLIT THE PARTY: THE ADVENTURES OF THE CREEPING BAM,  BOOK TWO: ONE COLD TRAIL - CHAPTER 22

If you’re new to the story, please go check out Book 1 first …

Book 2 Chapter 1 is here …

IMPORTANT:  Please note this story includes content that may be considered mature, such as moderate battle violence, some strong language and occasional mild sexual scenes.

If you want to support my writing, feel free to swing by my Patreon or Ko-fi.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO:  ART

“What d’you reckon then?”  Kesla speaks in low, hushed tones, and I get where she’s coming from, this is a hell of a moment. She’s acting like she’s working with a particularly skittish horse, and that’s not too far off what this actually is, because we’re dealing with the unknown.  ‘Least where Shay’s coming from …

She doesn’t say anything, far as I can tell she never even heard her. She stays where she is on the top step, her shadow not spreading far over the beach below, not at this time … but it’s clear to me now that it ain’t the sand she’s looking at, probably not even the lapping breakers as high tide rolls in.  No, I know what she’s looking at right now.  Her eyes are locked on that vast, endless, unbroken blue horizon.

It's a good day, not too warm by Untermer standards but given that it’s significantly warmer than Hocknar this time o’ year, the others have deferred to the heat, Shay included.  Those who usually wear heavy coats have bundled ‘em up in Yeslee’s bag for safe keeping, but at least this far below the river nobody bats much of an eye at all the steel this has revealed to the elements.  Shay in particular’s shed a lot of layers, but while Kesla’s lost her big duster and tunic now she kept her jack-of-plates on in deference to maintaining some armour, just in case shit were to go down again.

That said, it does look a little off with the rest of her gear.  It’s a garment that’s really designed to be worn under other clothes, essentially a vest of layered, quilted linen with small pieces of steel plate woven in-between to stop stabby blades from ruining her day.  It’s also a striking cream colour, which doesn’t at all match the dark buckskin of her loose britches, leather bracers and strappy fighter’s boots … although it does look very interesting indeed worn over her ubiquitous loose-fitting, poofy-sleeved white linen shirt.  When she lost her coat and tunic to reveal it earlier I wasn’t the only one of the group who had to work on stifling a near-overpowering urge to laugh my arse off, but I managed to cut short of giving her shit over it.  Reckon the brief look of hot-eyed murder she cast my way in particular probably helped with that, anyway.

I still reckon she looks a little like she’s on her way to a fencing match , mind. ‘Specially with her sword still strapped at her hip, although the effect’s somewhat spoiled by her handaxes and a few choice knives belted about her too.  More than anything else she just looks like a walking threat right now, though I s’pose that ain’t all the way a bad thing, ‘specially given the ground we’re covering today.

We slept well in the temple, which took me a little by surprise once I thought about it some.  Deferring on the offer of actual rooms, we instead opted to camp out in the lounge, so by the time Kesla and the others who left to interrogate our prisoner returned more than one of our ever-growing group had fallen asleep on the couches.  So we shoved together as much of the furniture as we could, bolstered by warm fur blankets provided by mindful attendants, and settled in for the night.  Yeslee, being Yes, preferred to sleep on the floor, but then I never expected anything else from her, while the goblin, Brung, was happier curled up in front of the fireplace anyway.  Reckon a bellyful of overlarge, thick warm roast beef sandwiches and some impressively strong ale helped us along, but then we were all proper tired by the time the lamps were turned down and most of the candles extinguished.

There was fresh bacon, eggs, sausages, fried tomatoes and piping hot baking powder biscuits ready for us when we started to stir in the morning, and I’ll admit I stuffed my face ‘til my guts were fit to burst seeing it all laid out like that.  We finally discussed what the others had learned from the boy then, since everybody was awake again, and after some deliberation decided on what, given the slim lead we actually had, our next move should be.  So once we were all ready to go, we headed for the docks.

We’ve spent the morning touring the tightly-packed, slightly salt air-rotted streets clustered around the city’s massive crescent harbour, slipping between taverns and shops in search of every tattooist we can find.  Given this is the territorial stomping ground of the many thousands of sailors, traders, merchants, smugglers and sellswords who frequent the port all-year-round there’s a lot.  They’re a superstitious lot who like to have their litanies and mantras to various patron gods inked into their flesh so they don’t have to waste precious breath praying in an emergency, it’s one of the biggest growth industries in all of Untermer.  Granted it’s the real talented old pros who really do the biggest, briskest business, but even the hacks seem to scrape in plenty o’ coin to get by every year.  So there’s dozens of the places to go through.

Apparently Wull, as the captive would-be killer goes by, was convinced to allow Gael to look into his head enough for them to use a nifty little spell to capture an image from his memory of the artist responsible for the physical application of his cursed tattoo.  They said it’s not a perfect likeness, since it’ll be eroded some by the passage of time and the unreliable nature of memory, but what she got hopefully should be good enough to give us a good enough impression to go on.  Since he wasn’t able to get a name to go with the face we’ll just have to check ‘em all and hope we can find this venerable talent somewhere in the noise.

So the group split into two parties, each taking one end of the long, sprawling neighbourhood and planning to meet in the middle when we’re done, ‘least if we don’t find ‘em before.  Gael gave Tulen the image for herself so she could go with the other group, although the young dragonhalf was reluctant to leave her friend’s side, ‘specially after the shit that went down yesterday.  Urgency won the day, though, so she was convinced to go with Thel and the rest. So in the end it was just Gael set up with me, Kesla, Krakka, Shay, Big Man and Brung, Kesla insisting Yeslee go with the others.

Dar too, and I suspect she was as happy to be leaving my company as I was to be free of hers, although I could tell that she was more thrilled not to have Driver 8 darkening her back too.  Kesla insisted anyway, wanting to have at least one Untermer native in each group along with a wizard so both can get round good and quick in territory they know. Big Man offered to stay behind at the temple, knowing how conspicuous he’d be down here, but Kesla shot that down before he’d even finished speaking.  After what happened to both us and Thel’s band yesterday she decided discretion can be damned in deference to our safety right now.  So he's been strolling along behind us the whole time, drawing a lot of looks the whole time but also attracting a very comfortable zero in terms of trouble.

It’s been a varied collection of lower class Untermer life for us so far, venturing from parlour to salon to stall to tent, ostensibly to check out the services and flash-art on offer but mainly to get a good look at each and every artist we can.  We asks what questions we feel we can get away with without running the risk of arousing suspicion, but usually we can work out within the first few minutes whether or not they’re even a potential candidate or not, regardless of if Gael gets a look.  Turns out a whole lot of these guys ain’t even comfortable working outside their places of business to begin with, preferring to work on walk-ins or purely by appointment.  The ones who are willing to make house-calls for special jobs get a closer look, but so far all we’ve found is a big bunch of dead ends.

Once the sun climbed to its full height into the sky and the heat in the press of the crowds and the tight streets became too much for us to bear for one morning, we broke off to find some food.  Remembering my way well enough, I led the group to a vendor’s window in the wall down by the docks and, rather than asking what anyone fancied, instead ordered six servings of best battered cod and chips.  Gael started to protest about not being given any say in what she’s getting, but I insisted that this is the best meal they’re gonna get anywhere on the whole Strip.  I promised they’d love it, and while they gave me a pointed look over what they clearly consider my presumption, they didn’t argue further.

Once we had our order, I remembered our promise to Shay the day we arrived in the city, and led the group off down the docks to the bay beyond the end of the quay.  Gael seemed a little thrown by the implied journey given the ground we’d already covered, but Kesla knew well enough what I was leading to, so she nodded her assent and the others went along happily enough.  Now it’s clear enough to all I was right.

“It’s …”  Shay falters, still rooted to the spot as she takes it all in.  “I can’t … it’s amazing.  How … how big is it?”

“Thousands of leagues across.”  Gael answers in a similarly hushed tone to Kesla’s, although in their case they’re a little taken aback by the view themselves.  I know this ain’t the first ocean view they’ve had, they’re well-travelled enough to have seen a coastline at least once, but it’s clearly still enough of a novelty for them too.  Besides, this is the Untermer coast, ain’t none more spectacular in all Rundao, y’ask me.

The beach stretches for a quarter mile further before the great craggy white cliffs cut it off, the sand a dull gold in the bright blaze of the noonday sun, but the water’s warm and clear enough here that it’s a powerful deep azure blue.  It sparkles white where the sun flashes from the rolling waves, while the breakers are dramatic enough even from here, the surf impressive even this early in the year. It’ll get a whole lot more aggressive as winter proper starts to press in and the sea becomes more treacherous from the storm season, but even now the crash and boom of the cresting breakers is heavy enough rolling into the sands.  Up beyond the cliff-line, where the rocks begin to climb in jagged haphazard spires, columns and arches carved by thousand of years of brutal water and wind, the waves crash with unrelenting violence throughout the day.

“There’s islands out there too.  A lot of ‘em.”  Kesla’s returned to her normal, conversational volume now, happy enough Shay’s just impressed, not overwhelmed.  “Too many to count, some big enough to be nations in themselves. I’d like to see more of ‘em one day, if the gods are willing.”

Now Shay finally breaks from her trance, turning to face her with real excitement dancing in her eyes.  “Really? Sounds amazing.  You’ve been out there, then?”

I know she’s thinking about the dozens of ships we’ve seen clustered around the piers and jetties of the quays, some are quite modest vessels but more than a few great multi-decked three-mast beasts tower over the rest.  Some are heavily armoured traders that sail dangerous waters threatened by pirates and lethal monsters alike, but there’s plenty of Tektehran naval vessels moored in the harbour too.  The thought of setting out on the deep, unfathomable waters of the vast ocean seas is daunting to me, but in a strangely enticing way.  I get what she’s feeling now.

“Once, in my second year as a merc.  I crewed security on a merchantman trading hides, ore and lumber from Hocknar to Krebet.  We had a couple close calls with pirate crews and got brushed by a leviathan on the return with a hold of spice and oil, but nothing too eventful.  Didn’t have to draw my sword in anger the whole voyage.”

Shay cocks a brow at that.  “Well that’s no fun.”

“Oh, I dunno.  Wasn’t really about that.  I was there in case we ever got boarded, we just had to protect the cargo, but that wasn’t my reason for signing on.  It was a chance for a little bit of an adventure, and to actually get paid for it.”  Kesla grins wide.  “I went for an experience, and I sure as hell got one.  Turned out I got a good pair o’ sea-legs, too.”

“Well it sounds wonderful.”  Shay looks out across the vast waters again, her smile growing wistful.  “I want to try it someday.”

Kesla leans in and gives her a little shoulder-nudge.  “Maybe once we’re done with this job we can hire out to a merchantman, get you a chance.”

“Oi, we still ain’t had any proper downtime from the last job yet.” I growl, but it’s largely in jest, I can’t quite keep the smile from my lips.  Thankfully Gael spots it, ‘cause otherwise it could maybe look like I forgot why we’re actually here in the first place.

Tipping me a little wink, Kesla reaches out and wraps her arm round my shoulders, but then turns it into a loose headlock as she pulls me in close.  I go along with it, only pretending to squirm and protest, and we chuckle for a few moments, our spirits suitably lightened.

After a few moments, Krakka cocks his head, regarding the rest of us with his bright-dark eyes.  “Do you suppose Yeslee would be up for that kind of adventure?  You’ve seen what she’s like in a large city, how do you think she’d be out there on a ship?”

Letting me go, Kesla regards him for a moment, then me, before turning to Gael. Finally she regards Shay, who simply shrugs, then she bursts out laughing, and it’s not long before the rest of us join her.  Even after the laughter subsides we simply stand there for a few moments more, just enjoying the pleasant moment.

“Okay,”  Kesla finally interjects  “So what’s the plan, we setting down here or what?”  She casts about the curving stone seawall marking the end of harbour. There are a few people dotted about its length, some townsguard on watch patrolling it and a few locals fishing off the wall with long poles, but otherwise there’s no-one camped out here with any real purpose.  It’s a working port, not a sightseeing spot.

“You don’t want to sit out on the beach?”  Gael enquires  “I thought that was the point of this little detour.”

I have to frown at that, looking down at the darker wet stretch marking the tideline, then the brighter stretch further up, leading into the tall grass-dotted dunes mostly obscuring the hill beyond.  “You’re sure?  Looks like an invitation to a sandy crotch to me.”

Gael gives me a very flat look.  “There are ways around that, genius.”

Cocking my head, I give ‘em a sharp look of my own, but there’s no more venom in it than their feigned reproach, and it doesn’t take ‘em long to smile again. Gael turns to Kesla, doesn’t say anything, simply raises their brows in clear enquiry.

Kesla looks to Shay now, who’s already looking down at the beach like she’s seeing it all for the first time.  I gotta admit she really does look intrigued by it.  Finally Kesla frowns a little, like she’s just remembered something, and turns back to Brung, who’s been pretty much silent for most of the morning.

I’ll admit, he’s too much of a novelty for me to just forget about, even if he has spent most of this time with his hood up as we’ve been making our rounds, but it’s thrown back now, has been since we broke off for lunch in fact, I realise.  Like he’s finally comfortable enough in our company to let himself be really seen now.  Suddenly I realise I didn’t even wonder if he might actually like fish in the first place, and I start to feel bad about ordering the same lunch for everybody …

“You cool with that, Brung?”  Kesla asks it so matter of fact I feel worse.  She’s accepted him into our little circle already.

He regards her for a long moment with those blazing bright eyes, and I still find myself wondering what the hell’s even going on behind them half the time. I have no more dislike of goblins than Kesla does, this unusual little sellsword is a perfect example of the fact they can be well-rounded people just like the rest of us.  But about the only real encounters I’ve had with his kind have always been when they’re trying to kill me, it’s proper weird to suddenly be interacting with one in a social situation.  But when I realise I’m thinking about it like that I hate myself for it.

“Your party, Mistress Shoon.”  He finally rasps, his expression unchanged.  “Your call.”

“No, really, I’d like to know.  We’re all in this together, sure, but that don’t mean you just have to put up with what we wanna do.”

His brows raise a little at that, I’m almost surprised to see it, and maybe the slightest tick of a smile touches the corners of his beaky mouth. “Beach is fine.”  He starts walking now, not even bothering to head for the shallow stone staircase leading down into the sand further up but just stepping straight to the edge of the wall and dropping the eight feet down onto the beach itself.

I turn to Kesla, my own brows shooting up through no fault of my own, and she just grins sidelong at me, shrugging with wry amusement.  “Guess that’s it, then.”  She pauses before stepping to the edge, then looks down, considering it for a stretch.

Still feeling a little bad about my attitude, I try to mask it with an eyeroll as I step to Krakka, who’s frowning down at the sand too.  “You all right with this, old man?”

Turning my way, our cleric gives me a pointed look at the address.  “Less of the lip, lad.  I’m not so old I can’t still put you on your arse before you can blink.”  He’s smiling despite the threat, but I know it’s not entirely idle.  “But yes, I suppose I am.  Not that I’m too enamoured of this route, though.”

“Allow me.”  Driver 8 finally shunts into life again, startling Shay a little so she skips aside a big step as he starts to move towards the edge now, not even pausing before he steps off.  It’s not a particularly big drop, but even for his ten feet it’s not exactly just a single step down, and when he lands it’s with a very loud, heavy thump that sends up a great pluming gout of sand in all directions.  He looks down for a moment as he finds himself now sunk almost two feet into the beach, but he simply picks either foot up with additional little puffs before turning back to us.  He raises his hand now, offering it to the edge for Krakka to step onto.

Krakka lets one of his barking, discordant laughs go seeing that, and steps into the offered palm without hesitation.  “Why thank you, Big Man.”  He’s still smiling as broadly as he’s able as Driver 8 start to lower him carefully to the beach below.

“My pleasure.”  the golem rumbles, and I could swear he almost sounds pleased with himself.

This time when I look to Kesla, she’s stifling a laugh.  Gael’s still just frowning down at the drop, clearly unsure about this.  “This is … um … perhaps I should just …”

“Oh come along, now.”  Shay steps past her and just jumps, landing with an impressively subtle puff of sand that barely even rises off the ground, one of the most graceful things I ever seen her do, in fact.  She turns straight round to look up at them.  “It’s easy.  You’re half-elf, this is in your blood.”  She takes a step back, two, then holds her arms out.  “it’s easy.”

Frowning a little, I turn back to them.  “You did survive the Viper.  This is a piece of cake compared to that.”  Then I step back myself … and there’s nothing under my feet now. I drop fast, seeing their eyes widen quick watching me drop, their mouth dropping open too in surprise, but I keep my face cool as I hold their gaze all the way down.  I got no idea of the exact footing I’m about to find as I land, but I trust my luck all the same, and when I land I let my knees fold as I take in the impact, spreading my arms a little.  Inwardly I breathe a sigh of relief, but I keep my eyes on Gael even as I stand up again.  “You coming?”

Gael turns to Kesla, the only one left up there with ‘em now, looking pretty nervous.  “Should I … ?”

“Up to you, luv.”  Kesla gives them a reassuring little nudge, then drops into a crouch, putting her own hand down on the edge of the wall.  It takes me a moment to realise exactly what she’s about to do, so when she boosts herself off in a considerably more controlled jump than my own I gotta scramble aside with a little less grace than I’d like before she drops right on top of me.  She bends at the knees same as me when she lands, and must not suffer any more discomfort from her own landing since she simply steps up to my side with a cocky half-smile I find more’n a little infuriating.

“Come on, Gael, it’s fine.”  Kesla calls up to them.  “If I can do that, you definitely can.  It’s fine.”

Shay stays where she if, holding out her arms, beckoning a little but mostly just prepared to catch her if this goes horribly wrong, and I can tell that’s definitely what the young wizard’s thinking about.  They take a few nervous breaths, looking up the length of the wall to the steps a good twenty yards further up, clearly considering chickening out and just running over to take that safe route down, and I can’t say I’d really blame ‘em.  This really ain’t actually necessary, and none of us would actually think any less of ‘em for playing it safe like that, especially after what happened in the mountains, and then that close call yesterday.  But I know ‘em too well, Kesla too, and it’s becoming clear enough to Shay too – she’s fully capable, and she’s definitely someone who wants to do all the same stuff we can, they won’t be able to live with themselves if they don’t prove they really can.  So they take a last deep breath, tighten their lips and narrow their eyes, then, as an afterthought, toss their staff over the side towards me.

Ain’t really expecting that, so I almost miss it, having to lunge somewhat to catch it at the last, but in the end reckon it just looks like a cool last minute reaction instead.  So I plaster a half-smile on my face to make it look like that was my plan all along, and look up at them again, broadening my smile as encouragement.

Gael doesn’t quite close their eyes as they jump off, but I can tell they want to.  They drop without any real finesse, and Shay moves forward anyway, reaching out to catch ‘em as they come down, but in the end they land straight enough and have the good sense to drop into a crouch when their feet hit the sand.  The sand that’s kicked up is no bigger than what Shay set loose, and they manage to keep their balance, although they got their arms spread wide just in case, and they look pretty shook now they’re down.  Shay crouches too beside ‘em, putting a hand on their shoulder, and leans close to mutter:  “Hey, that’s it, you did it.  That was great, Gael.  Well done.”

They take several deep, unsteady breaths, but slowly a smile starts to creep across their face as they realise they actually pulled it off.  Finally they raise their face to look up at Kesla, who’s stood by with her arms folded and head cocked.  “Yeah, I suppose I did.  I really didn’t enjoy that.  Can we use the steps to climb back up?”

“Definitely.”  Krakka interjects before Kesla or Shay can answer, although he’s smiling a little too. “I have no more time for that kind of nonsense than you do.”

“I most certainly agree with you there.”  Gael takes Shay’s offered hand and allows her to help them stand up again. They’re looking pretty sheepish now, I’ll admit.  “But Shay’s right, it’s in my blood.  I shouldn’t be scared of that kind of thing.”

“You just need more confidence.”  The half-orc gives her a companionable pat on the shoulder.  “There’s a warrior in you, you just have to let them strut once in a while.  If you have the guts to port headlong into a solo fight with a bunch of masked nutcases a simple eight foot drop shouldn’t baffle you.”

“All right, I’m fine, okay?”  Gael shakes her off, but does it politely.  “Can we just get on?  I’m hungry.”  They push through the group now, moving out into the open towards where Brung’s been patiently waiting for us all this time.

As we start after them I realise I’ve still got Gael’s staff.  It’s lighter than I was expecting, certainly given how effectively I saw them wielding it yesterday, but it’s also bloody tall, way taller than I am, and it’s definitely a bit of a handful for me to move around with.  I have to juggle it somewhat as I head out across the sand, following the slight incline up the beach with the others, finally leaning it on my shoulder and holding onto it with both hands and hoping for the best.  As I look sidelong up at Shay she’s watching me with a growing smile.

“Chivalry can be a pain sometimes, can’t it?”

“I don’t mind, really.”  I lie through my teeth.

“They’re lucky to have you, Art.  And I’m glad you’re both in a good place again.  I was starting to wonder what’s been up between you two since yesterday morning.”

“Has there been … I dunno what you mean, I hadn’t noticed –”

“You know, for such a sneaky little bugger there are times when you can’t lie for shit, you know that, right?”  She gives me a proper sly, toothy grin now.

Frowning deep, I give her a hard glare, but she just smiles right back, oblivious.  Up ahead Gael’s fishing through their pockets, final shrugging before drawing out one of their now rarely used handkerchiefs and shaking it out.  They stop in a likely spot halfway up the beach, a decent stretch back from the high-tide line, where there’s a decent sized gap between the scattered driftwood and other detritus that’s built up on the sand, and raises it in front of them.  Muttering under their breath, they blow out across the handkerchief, a long, full lungful, then start stretching the square of light white linen between their fingers. And it obeys them, genuinely seeming to grow larger as she pulls.  Larger and thicker too, I can see.

Finally they got a piece easily long as the span between their hands held wide, but instead of stopping they take another breath and blow through it again, snapping it out in front of them in the same moment.  As it whips out I see it expand outwards a good deal more dramatically now, and when they finally stop blowing there’s an easy twelve-by-twelve square foot overlarge handkerchief in their hands.  They snap it out one more time and this time let it settle down on the sand in front of ‘em, and seeing this seems to snap Kesla out of her impressed reverie enough to help smooth it out in place.

“Bloody hell, Gael.”  I manage to choke out after a baffled moment.  “How the hell did you … um … what?”

The look they give me is sharp, but it doesn’t stay that way for long, a surprisingly sly smile spreading across her face soon enough.  “Just go along with it for once, please.  It’s magic.  Don’t make such a big deal out of it.”

Ignoring the urge the glare back, I Instead hoist the staff off my shoulder and pass it back, then step up to this miraculous new blanket now spread out in front of us.  Crouching, I give it a careful, light-fingered poke, and I’m surprised to find that now, somehow, it feels more like some kind of waxed, waterproofed canvas. That makes me frown some, and when I look up I see their smile’s grown positively gleeful now.  I can’t help responding in kind seeing it, even if mine still feels incredulous.  “Cute.”

“C’mon, then.  Gael’s right, I’m starving.”  Kesla starts unbuckling her swordbelt.  “Shall we?”

Nodding, Shay steps forward onto the brand new blanket and sets the canvas bag she’s been toting since we set off in the middle before sitting cross-legged on one of the empty corners.  Gael sticks her staff into the sand behind her and unbuckles her own sword before settling down beside her, and I’m quick taking up the place on her other side before anyone else can take it up.  I see Shay give me a look when she sees this but I try real hard to ignore it.

Hunkering down on Shay’s other side, Kesla sets her sword down and reaches forward to open the bag.  The moment she does the smell of warm, freshly-fried battered fish and vinegar-splashed chipped potatoes wafts out of it, and my mouth instantly starts watering. Reaching in, she starts passing out each parcelled meal, holding the first out to Brung as he settles down on my open side.

Before unwrapping my own, I reach into the satchel of odds and ends I brought from the temple after taking them up on their offer of a few little takeaway bits and pieces before we set out this morning.  I find the flasks with ease, taking one out and unscrewing the cap, taking a little whiff to check its contents, then frown.  “Um … okay, I forgot I don’t know how this works. Gael, which is it that goes with fish again?”

Gael pauses with a chip hovering just shy of their mouth, cocking a brow my way. “Hmmm?  You mean the wine?”

“Of course the wine.  I didn’t reckon we’d wanna hit the spirits this early in the day.”

Their brow quirks a touch higher as they pop the chip into their mouth and start chewing, but they don’t rise to the bait.  “Red, obviously.”

“Ah yes.”  I screw the cap back on and drop the flash back in, recovering another and checking it. Bingo.  I seal this one again too but leave it set out next to the food bag.  “Obviously.”

“Oh my gods …”  Shay quietly exclaims, drawing everyone’s immediate attention.  She’s chewing slowly, a look vaguely close to ecstasy on her face now, and I see she’s torn off a little piece of fish already.

“Gorgeous, ain’t it?”  I grin now, finally starting to unwrap the paper bundle so I can start on my own. “I told you, best fish and chips in the world, that place does.”

“Reckon I might have to agree with you on that score.”  Kesla chews her current mouthful slowly, almost reverently, then when she does swallow she simply raises her hand and licks her fingertips clean one at a time before going back for another morsel.  “This is really something.”

“It’s something else, I agree with you there.”  Krakka picks through his own lunch with those strange long-fingered hands of his and considers for a moment before picking out a couple of chips.  “There’s … it’s something about the batter, I think. They’ve done something different than usual.”

“The beer in the batter.”  I beam him a smile.  “They got a deal with one of the upscale breweries in Tabaphic, so it ain’t just your ordinary ale.  That’s a special one, proper secret ingredient stuff.”

“Well it’s extremely good, you made the right call.”  Gael finally admits as they nibble on a piece, although I can see their cheeks are a little flushed again.  Gods, Gael, you really can’t bluff for shit, can you?  They see me watching after a moment, see how thoroughly incredulous a look I’m giving them, and they roll their eyes.  “Oh all right, it’s gorgeous.  My congratulations to the chef, or whoever it was.”

I smile at that, tearing off a big piece of my own fish and then halving it before selecting a couple of chips and popping both together into my mouth. It’s a been a while, so I really relish it, finally remembering just how this was one of the things I most missed when I left.  The others are clearly enjoying their own meals as much as me, I don’t even need to ask after Brung the way he’s quietly chewing away, again smiling that subtle half-smile of his.  So I just munch away happily for a while, and the others seem similarly happy to just shut up and enjoy their meal for a while too.

After a few, Driver 8 finally stirs from his quietly contemplative observation of the beach around us and turns to the water, seeming to consider it for a few moments.  Then he just starts walking, moving with slow, implacable steadiness across the sand, and when he reaches the lapping surf he keeps going.  I watch him wade in un to his knees, this hips, then when he’s up to his chest and still stepping I arch my brows, turning to Kesla.  “What the hell?”

“What, you worried he might drown?”  she chuckles a little as she regards me for a moment before turning back to watch him continue until he’s up to his neck.

He stops for a moment now, and I begin to think that maybe that’s it, that’s as far as he’ll go, but then he takes another step and suddenly he’s just gone under the waves, and I hear Kesla mutter something unintelligible, low under her breath.  She catches me watching her again and just rolls her eyes, returning to her meal. “Let him have his adventure. Ain’t like any of us can do that.”

“Yeah, I guess.”  I pick out another scrap of fish and pop it into my mouth.  I contemplate further for a moment while I chew it.  “So …”  I finally venture after swallowing.  “What’s the plan with the boy?  Wull or whatever it was.”

“Shul said they might be able to do something about the tattoo, given enough time.” Kesla answers after a moment. “Might be they can reverse the enchantment eventually, but it’ll be tricky, looks like.  Meantime they’ll give him a room in the back, look after him. Under guard, obviously, but … it’s more for his own good than anything else, really.  For all we know poor bastard’ll choke to death moment he sets foot outside otherwise.”

The thought of that makes me bare my teeth, I can’t help it.  Don’t ruin my appetite, but I still have to take a moment to suck my fingers cleaner before I pick up the flask and unscrew it, then take a quick swig.  I swill it for a moment before swallowing, and I have to admit it works really well with the fish.  Certainly I feel better after.

After a moment I notice Brung eyeing the flask with something that might be curiosity, so I offer it up.  Then I notice Gael watching me and I have to smile, which she returns.

“What’d Yeslee say?”  Shay ventures now, picking the flask up herself after Brung sets it back down in the middle of the blanket.  “You know, about that woman he described.  Ventriss, was it?”

“Vandryss.”  Kesla corrects her, not even looking up from her fish as she picks over what little she now have left.  “She … wasn’t sure.  She said it sounded like it could be a few different things, all of ‘em troubling, but couldn’t narrow it down on what she had to go on.”

“Then … what could she be?”  I wonder aloud, though I’m not really sure if I really want to know. “Potentially?”

“Might be she has some dark elf blood in her.  Maybe.  But she said the description sounded off, like if she was then she definitely ain’t pure, there’s something proper wrong in the mix.”  She finally looks up, turning to me as she pops another morsel of fish into her mouth.  “The way her eyes were … weird.  That threw her.  The teeth too.  That ain’t an elf thing.  Or the nails.”

“Dark elves, though … that’s far north, ain’t it?”  I pick out a few more chips, but don’t bite yet.  I’m still ruminating.  “Tektehr, mostly.  Heard they pretty much run the Empire.”

“Does that mean it’s them, then?”  Shay wonders  “This is Terror bullshit after all?”

“I don’t think so …”  Kesla lets out a weary sigh.  “No, the way the boy described her, the rest of it, the way this is all set up … this ain’t them.   There’d be no reason for it.  They got control already, why would they need to be so quiet about it?”  She picks out the last of her fish and a couple of her dwindled chips.  “No, this is something else.  The way they’re avoiding fucking with the Terrors, that’s them being smart, just like with the Guild.  And the way they’re using these disparate crews, non-affiliated, just common thugs? That’s smart too. Compartmentalising who knows what, and making it so whatever they do know, for what little it's actually worth, don’t get out.  Terrors don’t need to do that shit, not since they already run everything they need to.”

Krakka pisks up the flask now.  “But if she is a dark elf, even just half of one …”

“I’d say the fact they seem wrong is the key, then.”  Shay counters  “Together with that odd stray wizard, and especially the orc … Kesla’s right.  This is a whole lot more complicated than it seems. Like it’s supposed to seem, even.”

I have to scowl at that.  “I swear, this shit gives me a headache sometimes.”

“Reckon it’s meant to.”  Kesla smiles ruefully now.

There’s another thoughtful silence as we draw to the close of our communal meal, and once I’ve wolfed down every last scrap of my own fish and chips I find myself casting longing looks at the remains of others’ meals.  Shay catches me watching what’s left of hers as she takes another swallow of wine and cocks a brow, giving me a somewhat sharp smile as she screws the cap back on the flask.  Instead of calling me on it she turns to Kesla.  “You’re sure going after this tattooist’s the smartest play, then? We’ve already got the name of this gang leader, what was it?”

“Vik.”  Gael puts it, licking their fingers clean after finishing off the last of their own fish, although I can’t help noticing they still got a few chips left.  “And the one I fought in the alley was called Tog. He was quite good, I’m not sure I could have beaten him.”

“I’m just glad it never got that far.”  Kesla breathes, finally picking up her now empty food-wrapper and crumpling the greasy paper into a ball.  “Vik ain’t a viable lead, ‘least not yet.  Darwyn said she didn’t recognise the name herself, but if he is in charge of these freelance gangs then he’ll be real hard to find, and we sure won’t get nowhere just wandering round the bad part o’ town asking after him.”

Kesla’s right, the kind of circles that lot move round in won’t take too kindly to that at all, we’d be as likely to get out collective throats cut as just shown a good run-around.  There are plenty of non-affiliated gangs that operate on the fringes of most cities, scraping together thoroughly criminal livings through petty theft, burglary, extortion and general unpleasant behaviour, as well as the occasional sideline in smuggling.  If they steer clear of anything the Guild themselves are involved in, they’re permitted to operate, so long as they keep their noses “clean” – which essentially translates to leaving alone anyone who pays the guild for protection, or they’ve otherwise deemed off-limits.  As a result for the most part they just scrape by living off the scraps, the shit work that nobody looking to make their fortune would consider, and as a result their most lucrative enterprises tend to be hiring themselves out as freelance muscle, essentially paid thugs.  They’re dangerous, and they don’t like outsiders poking their noses into their business, as much because that might just get the Guild looking where they ain’t wanted.

“Tattooist it is, then.”  Shay finally allows as she picks up the last scraps of fish and bundles them together, popping the pieces into her mouth and making a clear effort not to look my way while she’s doing it.  She can’t help a slight smile at the thought.  I try not to let it get to me, seeing it.

To distract myself, I look out to the water again, where Driver 8 disappeared … just in time to see him emerge again, his head slowly cresting through the rolling surf.  It’s a slightly eerie sight, seeing his red eyes blazing through the prismed water before he breaks surface, but I guess I was at least half-expecting it so it doesn’t give me the start I suspect it’d inflict on a passing stranger.  The first I realise Brung, who already finished his meal before me, is watching too is when he hisses like a startled beast, and I realise he’s tensed beside me as he watches Big Man rise from the sea.  I manage the resist to urge to reach out and rest a calming hand on his shoulder, genuinely unsure of how he’d actually react under the circumstances.

“Bloody hell … golem.  Damn it.” The goblin sits back, flexing his claws for a moment as he looks away, shaking his head, eyes narrowed.  They meet mine and for a moment he just watches me, almost seeming surprised at being caught out.

So I smile, the warmest I can muster, hoping it’ll calm him.  “Big Man’s harmless, I promise.”

“How’d you end up with Thel and Dumoli, if I might ask, Master Brung?”  Gael asks him, seemingly out of nowhere.  When I look at them they’re regarding him with simple curiosity.

Those bright yellow eyes widen now, seeming genuinely surprised to have been addressed the way he has.  “Master?  Bloody hell … not master.  No. Brung only.  Please.”

Gael arches her brows, but doesn’t seem offended.  “Forgive me.  Brung. I just wondered –"

“Rescued me.  In Tabaphic. Was in a cage, after uprising. What they called it, anyway.  Bollocks.  Never killed any man before they tried to kill me.  Miners wanted my home, thought there was iron.  Pretended we were a threat so soldiers would clear us out. Family got cut to pieces.  Only one left.  Took me alive, put me in cage.  Paraded me, made example.”

“Minerva …”  Gael breathes, looking a little paler than usual.  “Brung, I’m … how could …”

Brung bares his teeth in what could approximate a grin, but there’s no real humour in it.  “Last laugh, mind.  No ore in our hills.  All that for nothing.”

“But that’s worse.”  Gael protests, looking genuinely offended.  “How could anyone –”

“People are greedy, and they don’t know any better.”  Kesla growls, clenching her fists as she looks out towards Driver 8 now as he finally clears the surf.  “We’ve run into that enough ourselves, remember?”

Gods, I do.  We’ve run into would-be employers in the past who’ve tried to get us to go into a forest lair or rocky valley or prospective mine to clear out a band of unruly goblins or a horde of rogue orcs who’ve been stirring up trouble.  Kesla’s pretty good at weeding out the genuinely needy from those looking to exploit established prejudices for their own benefit, and more than once we’ve sent opportunists packing for trying to fool us into murdering innocents for personal gain.  If they can’t prove these goblins or orcs are a genuine threat with blood on their hands we ain’t interested, but there’s plenty other merc crews out there ain’t anything like so discerning.

Worst thing is, half the goblin or orcish uprisings Rundao’s seen in the wilds over the years probably started with folk trying to take what wasn’t theirs to begin with.  There’s been times we’ve hunted down and killed genuine threats that ultimately turned out to have been riled up by somebody trying to earn a fast fortune in the Reaches or some of the other wilderness territories we ply most of our trade in.  So even though we’re justified in killing to protect innocent farms or villages, it still leaves a nasty taste in the mouth after.

It'd be instantly understandable for Brung to be angry about it, to want to inflict horrible damage on those he felt responsible, but instead he’s so calm I’m left a little beside myself seeing it.  Moreover the fact he’s clearly gone on to ply his own trade in the company of the very kind of people who would’ve been hired to do that sort of thing … it’s hard to fathom.  He catches me watching him now, and I can’t begin to guess what my face might be telling him, but he simply shrugs.

“Thel and Du … understand.  No hunting work, no purges.  Mostly just security, odd necromancer, warlock, etcetera like.   Careful about who hires us.”

That makes me nod, lets me breathe out again.  “Us too.  Too many arseholes out there.”

“Amen to that.”  Krakka growls, done with his own meal too and now cradling Bloodmoon in his lap as he frowns over this turn in the conversation.

Shay swallows the last of her chips, but leaves her paper laid out as she regards her greasy fingers for a moment.  “So when you said that they rescued you from a cage …”

“Literally.”  Brung nods once, almost more punctuation that affirmation.  “Was complicated.”

“Like a breakout?  From prison?”

“After fashion.”  I’ll admit his clipped, simplistic responses tell a story while revealing very little, it makes it a little baffling trying to follow his story sometimes, but mostly you catch the gist.  I think I got it this time.

“Well surely that was … I mean really …”  Shay’s frowning deeply now.  “Didn’t they get into trouble for that?”

“Ain’t been back to Tabaphic since, so hasn’t come up.”  There’s the subtlest smile touching the corners of his mouth again.

“Yeah …”  Kesla breathes after a moment, and no-one else seems to know quite what to say to that. I can’t help smiling a little, mind. I dunno why, somehow that’s just the funniest shit to me right now.  It’s all I can do to keep from bursting out laughing.

“None of us are perfect either.”  Driver 8 says now, breaking the silence at last.  He’s stood a few feet away from the edge of the blanket, which I suppose is him trying to be considerate since he’s still dripping wet.  “We have performed acts in our time together that might be considered by some to be problematic.”

“Ain’t sure you oughtta really lump yourself in with that, Big Man.”  I admit  “But yeah, you got a point there.  Still, most of us ‘least had the good grace to do it outside earshot of anybody’d actually be in a position to start any shit about it.”

Kesla grins wide, reckon she finds the sheer irony in my statement in her regards in particular a little hilarious.  Technically she’s a wanted enemy of the whole Tektehran Occupation, they just don’t know it.  She should have one hell of a price on her head.

Brung must pick up on it, given the way he regards her for a long, watchful moment. “Troublemaker yourself?”

“You could say that, yeah.”  Kesla admits with a wry chuckle.  “In my youth.”

He cocks his head.  “Resistance?”

Her smile narrows, but doesn’t fade entirely, her regard of him becoming more shrewd.  “Yeah. Freedom Legion.”

“Makes sense.”  He nods, again just once.  “Rest of you?”

That makes me blink.  “Gods no, I was just a kid.  And I was in the Guild, so …”  Coming up short with more to say, I just shrug.  “Y’know.  Never really came up.”

“I was still in school.”  Gael agrees.

Krakka simply shrugs.  “I largely stayed out of it.  My Lady didn’t take sides in that, so I had no right to behave any differently.”  He still gives Kesla a shifty look as he says it, and she gives another knowing little half-smile seeing it.

“Up in the mountains we mostly just stayed out of the Terrors’ way.”  Shay’s having trouble meeting anyone’s eyes now, I notice.  “We had other concerns.”

Brung studies her for in particular for a long moment, no suspicion in his regard, but I see her shying all the same.  Finally he turns to look up at Driver 8, who’s a little while answering.

“In truth I could not say.  I was still asleep.”

Brung frowns at that, and I just wouldn’t know where to start.  It’s a hell of a story, too long for a lunch that’s already over, but I guess we’ll get to it eventually.  For now he just looks up at Big Man for another long moment, face still unreadable, before finally shrugging once again, like he’s content to wait on that particular revelation.

Everyone seems to be finished now, the flask making one last round as we wash it down, and that pretty much drains it now before it comes back to me.  I suck down the last mouthful, giving it a swill to clean my teeth before swallowing it down, then cap it again and stuff it away while I lick my lips.  The atmosphere seems to have finished mellowing again, and we’re generally pretty contented after such a good meal anyway, so no-one seems particularly inclined to move just yet.  But we’ve got a job to do all the same.

It occurs to me now, as we sit here, that on the subject of the resistance against the Occupation at least, Yeslee’s never really spoken about what she was doing, and none of us ever felt inclined to press her on it.  I’ll admit I’m curious about it now, mind.  I wonder if she might think me too bold if I tried to probe her on it next time we’ve got a moment together.

“Reckon we oughtta get a move on, yeah?”  Kesla finally ventures, giving her knees a quick little brush off before shifting her legs about and pushing herself to her feet, picking up her sword as she rises.  “Best not waste the day if we can help it.”

“Why not?”  I scrape up the rest of the rubbish now and start stuffing it all, screwed up or not, into the bag.  “Still a lot of ground to cover.  You never know though, might be the others already lucked out on their end.”

“Doubtful.”  Gael interjects as she passes me her own bundled-up paper.  “Tulen would have contacted me as soon as they found him.”

“Ah.” I grimace a little as I accept her rubbish.  “Yeah.” I stuff it away with the rest before finally starting to work my way to my own feet, catching Kesla’s eye as I do.

Her smile’s subtle again, but bright with amusement, and it’s all I can do to keep from snapping in response to it.  Finally she gives a little shrug as she straps her sword back on.  “Guess we’ll see.”

TO BE CONTINUED ...

[limmastyles]

did you see the vanity fair interview with o? i want to know your thoughts, i haven’t watched it yet but it came up in my youtube recommended so i probably will eventually

VAREITY ARTICLE!🚩🚩🚩

This is just one of the nastiest horrible interviews I've seen! even the Rolling Stone article isn't that terrible.

So from the first minutes of the interview, she talks about her film again, presenting it as a "female pleasure", which automatically equals rape and sexual harassment and abusive relationships… Interpreting and romanticizing this kind of relationship is the wrong example for young women/girls. And also, this is a complete disrespect for the victims of this kind of relationship. BUT Cockburn still promotes it as the "norm," given the seriousness of domestic violence now…but it's still female's pleasure, sure Jan.🙄 She also dared to touch on the topic of queer relations, which, in principle, she has no right to do, given what shit she talks about the LGBTQ+ community.

“Female pleasure, the best versions of it that you see nowadays, are in queer films,” Wilde says. “Why are we more comfortable with female pleasure when it’s two women on film? In hetero sex scenes in film, the focus on men as the recipients of pleasure is almost ubiquitous.”

She also says again that Jason is a bad guy and how upset she is that her children will one day see how she was served on the CinemaCon stage and handed custody papers, BUT she is literally not disappointed that her children may one day see her sex tape, which is freely available on the Internet!

“The only people who suffered were my kids, because they’ll have to see that, and they shouldn’t ever have to know that happened. For me, it was appalling, but the victims were an 8- and 5-year-old, and that’s really sad. I chose to become an actress; I willingly walked into the spotlight. But it’s not something my children have asked for. And when my kids are dragged into it, it’s deeply painful.”

Indeed, it is very painful, BUT apparently it is not enough if she allows all the tabloids to mention the names of her children, saying what a wonderful stepfather Harry is, bring them to the concert (HELLO FROM SAN DIEGO, this will never be forgotten!)

“When Wilde is with her children, she’s entirely with her children, she says. She makes breakfast every morning, never misses bedtime and takes them to school herself. “They are my world,” she says. “They are my best friends.”

Every morning what year ago? Everyone knows perfectly well that she has been abandoning her children for 2 years. She follows Harry everywhere: last year's tour of America (she was hardly with her children), this year's European tour (she was with her children for at most a week during all this time)! I know it all, because thanks to her obsession with attention, I know where she was, when and how much!

But of course, they had to designate her as the "mother of the year" so that people would stop talking about it. But this article is also full of lies!

Speaking of Flo…the leech behaved so that everyone saw her as an angel, and Florence as an eternally dissatisfied and envious bitch, which is exactly what happened on Twitter

I'm not going to comment on every paragraph, because there's nothing new and there's nothing there. She uses a bunch of advanced words again to seem smart, but she fails again because most of the phrases in the movie are just incoherent nonsense.

As for holivia…there were no confirmations there again, vague statements again, so you shouldn't take it all seriously.

In any case, it's all done for the promo of the movie to attract more attention to get people talking and as the cover of the magazine showed when they used one of the lines of Harry's songs and it's just so obviously a promo for an unnecessary movie that I don't even want to talk about it🤡 This nonsense is just not worth it!

[sclfmastery]

How do you feel about yourself?

“.....I want to be infinite and eternal. But I live in a body, trapped behind a membrane of skin cells, beholden to organic systems that might betray me in a thousand different ways. I am vulnerable, I am mortal, I can fail and I can die and it terrifies me. These thoughts are never far.  Often they choke out everything else, and I lash out, I expel them in the form of violence and grandstanding, just to keep breathing.”

The Master shudders; it’s a single convulsive head-to-toe motion, teeth bared. 

“When I was young, my mind leeched up my surroundings, and it was never quiet. I was never alone, never just me. No self and no other, I was just a receptacle of the hopes and dreams of others, always keeping secret the four beat rhythm screaming in my skull, because if they found out their heir was degenerate, I would have been murdered before I even enrolled in the Academy.” 

“And now, I am only an inversion of another being. I am only a reflection of what she wants and what repulses her.  I have been ever since I was the first hand she can remember taking, the first unfortunate creature she bid ‘run.’  But I adore her, because she understood me, and I understood her.  I was complete, even in my deficiency. It was safe to let go. It was the only time I ever felt whole.  And it didn’t last.”

“ ‘A terrible desire to be loved. A horror at being left behind.’ A human said that, and I am loathe to admit I couldn’t put it better.  I am still never just me. So a long time ago, I resolved that what I want, more than anything, is complete control.  No one can attack and use me, and no one can leave me, again, if I control everything. I want to feel whole without her. Without anybody else. I want to be all that matters to me. I want to eclipse everything. I want to have the power of God. I want to be ubiquitous and omnipresent. I want to overshadow all creation, ever.  I want to be self-sufficient.

                  I want mastery over myself.”

“ You call it megalomania. I call it coming home to myself, for the first time, and knowing who that person is.” 

Get out of the way. 

[axwalker]

Bad Timing: Kismet

Book: The Royal Romance (AU)

Pairing: Drake Walker x Alexis O’Brien (MC) 

Synopsis: Alexis O’Brien is escaping a terrible past. After months of running  she settles  in Cordonia where she meets Drake at the bar where she works and they spend a passionate night together. 

What happens when a one-night-stand turns into unexpected parenthood? 

This chapter

MASTERLIST 

WORDS: 3,890 🙊

POV: Dual 

TRIGGER WARNINGS: None for this chapter. In the future, mentions of domestic violence, and explicit sex scenes. 

ALL MY FICS ARE +18 

A/N: I apologize for any grammatical errors. 

I switch between Drake’s and Alexis’ POV several time in this chapter. I hope it’ll be clear enough!

PRESENT TIME Alexis

 After a one-hour bus ride and a 20-minutes walk, I finally find the correct address. When I reach the massive iron gates, I punch in the code Mr. Beaumont’s assistant gave me on the phone and gape as the extensive estate comes into view when I walk through. Acres and acres of super green grass littered with pines surround the massive house in the distance. The closer I get, the more I feel like a foreigner. This might have been my world once, but my new reality couldn’t be further apart from all this luxury. I have fifty dollars left in my wallet, an eviction notice back in my 200 square foot studio, and to top it all, the worst freaking headache I’ve had in my life. Talk about a bad streak. Ironically, I’m happier than I’ve been in years. My life belongs to me; I don’t have to live in constant fear and –most importantly, I’m free. Unattached. I want to do a lot of things with my life, and no one will stop me. That’s worth the worst headache in the world or a few money problems. 

I ring the bell, and a gorgeous woman opens the door. Her deep blue eyes scowl at me when I smile at her. 

“Who are you looking for?” She doesn’t ask as much as she barks the question. 

“Eh,” I haven’t been called shy a single day of my life, but her attitude it’s messing with the positive vibes I had coming up here. “I’m looking for Mr. Bertrand Beaumont from Beaumont Caterings.”

 “This door is for house guests only. The help,” she says the word as if it tastes bad in her mouth, “must go around the house and ring the bell back there.” She’s about to close the door right in my face when two hot guys come to the door. Seriously, what do people eat in this country? 

“Penelope, what are you doing answering the door like a simple maid? Where is Jessa?” 

Penelope rolls her eyes. “She had to leave early. She said she asked you for the afternoon off.”

The older man nods as, the younger one grins at me. “We can discuss Jessa’s schedule later, Bertie. Please, come in, Ms.?” He asks me, still smiling. 

“Ortiz. Alexis Ortiz.” I grin back, instantly liking the man with the kind blue eyes. “I’m here for the catering job.” 

“I’m Maxwell Beaumont. This is my brother Bertrand—the owner and Penelope Brim, one of our party planners.”

I follow them to a huge office and give Bertrand the resumé I printed at the internet place next to my building.  

“Is this all true?” He asks after a quick read.

I nod my head.

“Are you sure, Ms. Ortiz? It says here that you were working as a bartender, a barista, and a waitress in a very exclusive French restaurant, all at the same time.”

Penelope gives me a dismissive glare. “She’s obviously lying. That isn’t even possible. Unless she’s iniquitous.” 

I know better than to interrupt a potential employer, even worse if it’s to correct them, but this woman is grating on my nerves. Plus, I had a lifetime of keeping my head down with Matt, and I just don’t have the patience for this kind of crap anymore. And she called me a liar. Hell no.

“No, Ms. Brim, I’m not ubiquitous.” Maxwell snorts, and I swear the other guy, Bertrand, smiles behind my CV. I refrain from telling her what iniquitous actually means because I do need this job. “I worked as a barista in a Starbucks from 5 to 11 am. Then as a waitress at “Clair de Lune” from 12 to 6 pm. Finally, as a bartender in an Irish pub from 7 to midnight or 2 am, depending on the day. You can call any of those places and see I’m not lying.” Just please, God, don’t ask for my papers.

Maxwell reads the resumé when Bertrand gives it to him. “Do you speak French and Spanish as well?”

I shrug. “I love languages, and I grew up in a house where my mom and grandmother only spoke Spanish. I learned French in school. I had an amazing teacher.” 

Maxwell and Bertrand look at each other. The older brother, a younger, sterner version of Hugh Jackman, clears his throat. “I’ll be honest with you, Ms. Ortiz. Two of our waiters are absent, and tomorrow we’ll be catering to one of the most important events of the year. If everything in your resume is true, you can start training today --paid of course, and start working tomorrow.”

Paid training? Despite my throbbing head, I want to scream with happiness. “Everything is true.”

“That’s settled then. Penelope, please, darling, show Ms. Ortiz the kitchens and the ballroom. You can ask Naomi to train her for tonight. You know Regina, and she’ll want everything to go as smooth as possible.” 

“Right.” Penelope turned at me with an uptight smile. “Come with me.” 

I turn and beam at Maxwell, who’s giving me a thumbs up. “Thank you. I really appreciate this.” 

Bertrand shakes his head. “Don’t thank me yet, Ms. Ortiz. Just do an impeccable job.” He glances at my Vans. “And for the love of God, only heels tomorrow.” 

I nod and follow Penelope down the hallway. 

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

DRAKE

 “This is why you ditch your friends who get hitched to a relationship,” I grumble, sitting in my chair. 

“He’s five minutes late,” Liam says. 

Leo shakes his head. “Well, I want a goddamn drink. How come I can’t order one until he gets here?” 

Liam pinches the bridge of his nose. “You two are acting like children. You can wait five minutes.” 

“Maybe, but I need something, and fast.” 

“Ah, there they are,” Max exclaims, hands clasped together, staring at us. “My boys.” Jesus Christ. Liam is scooped into a hug and then set back in his chair. 

From over Liam’s head, Max points at me and shakes his finger. “Come here; you handsome Walker bastard.” 

I hold up my hand. “I’m good.”

 “Nope.” He shakes his head. “You don’t get to pass up Max’s snuggles.” Before I can move, he swoops to his knees, pulls me into a hug. . . and nuzzles. 

“What the fuck are you doing, Beaumont?” I ask, my voice strong as I try to push him away. 

“You smell like heaven,” he says, chuckling. No one likes to fuck with me as much as Maxwell Beaumont does. Unfortunately for me, he’s one of my best friends, and the bastard is well aware of it. 

“Get out of here.” I palm his face and push him away. 

Leo laughs. “Come on, man, you know Walker is a sour bastard.” 

With another laugh, Maxwell retreats to his seat, unbuttons his jacket, and sits down. Hands-on the table, he looks between us and declares, “I’m in love.” 

Christ. “We know,” Liam and I say at the same time, irritation heavy in our voices. Leo just rolls his eyes as he looks for a waiter. 

Maxwell has only been dating Rashad for a few weeks, so it’s no surprise he’s like this—a hopeful idiot with a relentless smile. Hell, he’s been in love with the man for years. It took him a really, really long time to finally make a move. He adjusts his tie as he says, “You don’t have to be rude about it. I’m just sharing. Isn’t that what this is all about? Sharing?” 

“Sharing? I thought this was about drinking as much as possible and hooking up with a hot waitress,” Leo says, flagging down our waiter. 

When he arrives, I talk above the guys and quickly say, “Macallan, neat.” 

“Dalmore, on the rocks, please,” Liam says, and Leo orders the same. 

When the waiter turns to Max, he rubs his stomach and says, “You know, a hot cocoa would be perfect right now.”

 What the actual fuck? “No.” I step in. “He’ll have an Old Fashion. Thanks.” A little confused and probably slightly disturbed, he takes off as Max complains. 

“Hey, I really wanted a hot cocoa.” 

“Not happening. First, because they don’t serve hot cocoas here and second because we’re supposed to be out drinking, Beaumont. And you fucking love Old Fashions. You order one every damn time. Stop complaining.” 

“Sheesh.” Maxwell unfolds his napkin and sets it on his lap. “What’s up your ass?” 

“Nothing.” I push my hand through my hair. 

“It’s a girl.” Leo smirks, causing Liam and Max to practically jump out of their seats.

“A girl?” Liam cocks his eyebrow. “Surely not Drake --permanent bachelor, Walker. My fucking heart can’t take it.” 

Fucking Leo. “It’s not what Leo is making it out to be.” 

“He met her two months ago, and he’s been thinking about her ever since. Magical pussy right there.”

“I swear, Leo; I don’t care for how long we’ve been friends, next time you talk about her like that, I’ll personally break that shit-eat grin off your face”

The clown raises his arms. “I rest my case.”

 “What?” Max’s eyes nearly fall out of their sockets. “Drake Walker doesn’t get attached, and he doesn’t duel his friends for a girl.” 

Jesus. Thankfully the waiter brings our drinks at that moment, so I have a second to compose myself. 

“You slept with her?” Liam asks after a swig of Dalmore. He’s been in a stable relationship with Hanna Lee for a year now. Once the most popular guy on school, he now spends his Friday nights curled up with her watching Netflix. I can’t even remember the last time he went out with us. 

“I don’t want to talk about it. The only reason this fuckhead is bringing it up it’s because I went looking for her, and he saw it.” There I said it. Better me than Leo fucking Rys. 

Max and Liam exchange a look, but Max seems too stunned to talk, so Liam asks. “You did what?”

I chug my whiskey and ask for another one. “I don’t know why. I just …” Tired of this fucking conversation, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “We had a great time. That’s all.”

 “How come Leo knows about this girl, and I don’t?” Liam complains. 

Max complains too. “Dude, you know I’m the romantic one. Leo over here has a brick for a heart, and Li is too busy. You need to discuss these things with me.” 

“I don’t have a brick for a heart,” Leo says, surprisingly offended. 

“No, you’re just still hung up on Maddie,” I say with a smirk. He shifts in his chair but doesn’t say anything. What does it feel, Rys? 

“So . . . who is the girl?” Maxwell asks. 

For fuck’s sake. I might as well get it over with. “I’m going to say one last time that I’m not interested in her anymore, so before your little hearts starts beating wildly for playing cupid, it’s not going to happen.” 

In a snarky tone, Leo replies, “Well, of course, it’s not. She left the country. Are you that bad, Walker? Because I can give you a tip or two.” He’s so fucking annoying. 

“Oh.” Max sighs, disappointed.  

Leo elbows his brother and says, “He hasn’t slept with anyone since.” 

And there it is. The real reason why Leo is worried about this. He lost his wingman. “I’m not an animal, Leo. It’s not the first time in my life that I go two months without fucking. I’m not you. Anyway, all this is pointless. She’s gone.” 

My friends grew up with me, so they know when it’s time to stop pushing. Max interrupts the silence that follows because nothing makes little Beaumont more uncomfortable than a gap in the conversation. “Everything is ready for the party tomorrow night. The thirtieth anniversary of Rys Corporation will be a success.” 

Liam nods. “Regina talked with Hana this morning. It’s the first anniversary since I took over as CEO. I need everything to be perfect.” 

“What about the staff, Max?” Leo asks, smiling. Having sex at every anniversary party is a personal challenge of his. 

“We actually hired someone today. She’s gorgeous.” He turns his head at Leo. “But she’s off-limits.” Leo smirks, wiggling his eyebrows. “I mean it, dude. Bertrand said he’s tired of looking for new waitresses. Two quit yesterday morning when they found out that the event was for Rys corporation.”  

“Hey, I never lie. It’s not my fault if they think I’ll call them anyway.” 

“Whatever, just don’t mess with her. Plus, I got to talk to her after her training today. She’s super nice. She’s Am--. Wait.” He says when his phone chimes up. “Sorry, boys. It was a text from Penelope. Apparently, the Chablis hasn’t been delivered yet. I have to call Joelle before I lose my big brother over a wine crisis. See you all tomorrow.” He finishes his cocktail and stands up. 

Liam stands up too. “I should go home too. Han arrived today from Hong Kong.” 

Leo checks his phone. “Wait, Li. I’ll go with you. I have a date with this girl I met last night at Kismet. Do you want to come, man?” He asks me. “I’m sure she has a friend she can introduce you.”

I shake my head. “I’ll finish my whiskey and head home. See you all tomorrow.”

It was only one fucking night. Why can’t I get her out of my head? 

It’s maddening. Or maybe it is a blessing. If I’m still thinking about her after one night, imagine how bad I’d have it after several. It’s best that she stays far the fuck away from me. I’m not interested in long-term attachments of any kind.  I don’t want to think about Lexie Ortiz, but she’s infected my brain. The sound of her teasing laugh haunts me.

And I can’t deny it; it was one hell of a night.

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

ALEXIS 

 “This is a single girl’s paradise.” 

“No,” I grimace, trying to clean the spilled tomato sauce from my shirt. “Paradise would be a tropical beach with a hot cabana boy giving us free massages... and an endless supply of piñas Coladas.” Naomi laughs, the sound almost lost in the chaos of the kitchen. Chefs shouting orders, Penelope and Bertrand panicking, plates being dropped—the world of catering is a noisy business. 

“Cabana boys may have hot smoking bodies and virility, Lex, but they lack two essential qualities: prestige and money.” 

“So, what you’re saying is that you’d prefer an old limp dick over a young hard one? Interesting,” I answer, teasing her. 

“No, that’s not what I’m saying, smart ass. I’m saying I’d take a solid bank account over a solid dick. Think about it—with all that money, he could never fuck me at all, and I couldn’t care less. And I’d be treated properly. Rich guys know how to treat a lady.” 

“Trust me on this, Naomi. Money has absolutely nothing to do with how a man treats a woman.” I should know. “In any case,” I retort, grabbing another tray of drinks, “if you’re looking for old rich guys, there are tons of opportunities out there.” I laugh at the dreamy look on her face, partly because it’s hilarious and partly because I know she’s kidding. After my training last night, she invited me to her house, where I met Theo, her little boy. He’s eight years old and the absolute love of her life. 

“Speaking of fucking,” she says, her eyes sparkling, “did you see the Rys brothers? One of them is taken, but the other two are single and oh so yummy. Especially the tall and brooding one. I’ll kill for those smoldering brown eyes looking right at my soul” 

I snort. “You really should stop reading romance novels, Nao. And yes. I served one of them and his girlfriend champagne earlier, but he was blond and didn’t have smoldering, brooding eyes. I thought they were only two brothers, though.”

“Well, technically, yes. But Constantine Rys --the super-rich owner of Rys Corporation-- adopted two other kids. A boy and a girl. They all grew up together.” She uncorks several champagne bottles as she speaks.

Now that my uniform is clean, I grab one of the Veuve Clicquot bottles and help her pouring the cold liquid into the glasses on our trays. “How do you know all of that?”

“I’m Cordonian, girl. The Rys siblings are almost royalty in this country. The one that is not an actual Rys is the one with the smoldering eyes. He doesn’t work for the company, though. He’s a … a vet, I think.”  

A veterinarian like Drake. My stupid heart flutters when I think about him. 

“Do we pay you to work or to gossip, ladies?” Penelope screams from the kitchen door. 

Naomi and I roll our eyes and grab our refilled trays. 

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

DRAKE

“This is a huge night for Liam,” Regina says behind her champagne glass. Constantine has been telling everyone, especially her, that he’s ready and happy to retire, but she knows him better than anyone. Leaving Rys Corporation and pass the torch to Liam is much more difficult for Constantine than he cares to admit.  

“It’ll be all right, Regina. Don’t worry. Liam is more than ready to handle the responsibility.”

She throws a glance at Liam, who’s standing a few feet behind me next to his dad. “I just hope he doesn’t forget that his personal life is equally important. He and Hana work too hard.” 

I’m about to answer when one of the waitresses distracts me. Her back is turned to me, so I can’t see her face, but there is something incredibly familiar about the way she moves. She’s passing drinks amongst Regina’s friends. I want to go and see who she is, but Liam catches my eyes across the room.  We exchange a look, one that we’ve exchanged several times over our lives. It was Liam and me when we were younger, walking into his father’s office after getting into a fight at school. It was the two of us when we came home late, and his parents were waiting in the living room as we walked in, drunk. It was the two of us when we wrecked Leo’s new Porsche when we were sixteen, and right now, I know he needs me. Constantine is a great father, but he has too many expectations for his younger son. Liam needs a break. 

Regina sees the exchange and smiles. “Liam’s very lucky to have you, Drake.” She is not our biological mother, but she loves all of us as if she was. And she’s more my mother than Bianca Walker will never be.  

A couple of men look at me, and I try to remember if I should know them from somewhere. I think they’re both on the board of directors at RC. As much as I love the Rys, I will never get used to this shit. Socializing and pretending to like a bunch of people that annoy the fuck out of me. Ignoring them, I make my way to my best friend. Liam is standing with his hands in his pockets, looking serious and put together like the CEO of the largest company in Cordonia should. 

“I think it’s going well,” he says as I approach. “Father was driving me crazy with all his advice.” 

“It’s not only the anniversary of the company, Li. It’s also his first one as the former CEO. It’s normal he feels out of place.” 

Liam nods. “I know. I just wish he’ll trust me more.”

“He does, Liam. He’s just nervous.”

 I’m cut short by Liam’s grin. His gaze slides right behind me and lights up. 

“Would either of you like a glass of champagne?” a female, very familiar voice nearly whispers behind me. 

“I’m good,” Liam answers, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. “How about you, Drake?”

 I turn around, and my heart skips a beat. Soft curves, tanned skin, and a few freckles across the bridge of her nose. The brightest, most amazing eyes I’ve ever seen. Alexis Ortiz tucks a strand of her rich brown hair behind her ear and takes a deep breath. Her eyes widen, and I see she recognizes me but doesn’t mention it. Instead, a faint smile ghosts her luscious lips, and she lifts her chin like she has a secret she won’t tell. A secret we share. Her gaze remains on Liam, almost like she’s afraid to look my way. Finally, she turns to me, and when she does, an adorable blush color her cheeks. 

“Would you, uh, sir?” she asks, taking half a step backward. 

“Would I what?” I press, enjoying too much the way her cheeks turn even pinker. 

“Would you like a drink?” The words leave her lips fast like she wants to pronounce them and run away. I take a step towards her, remembering the night she spent in my arms and how damn perfect she felt. I know I make her nervous because I see little goosebumps erupting on her soft skin.  I smirk at her. “That depends on what you’re offering.”

 I shouldn’t be toying with her, but I can’t help it. I want to keep her talking, to watch her reactions, to see that sweet smile again.  

“I don’t have much to offer,” she says, a hint of nervousness in her voice. “Unless you like champagne, sir.” She emphasizes the last word.

“I like all sorts of things.” I keep my gaze heavy against hers, not allowing her to look away. She fidgets with her tray and swallows hard but never takes her eyes off mine, too rebellious to look away. The longer our eyes match, the hotter my body becomes. She bits her delicious bottom lip slowly, her dark gaze boring into mine. 

“Is that so?” Liam laughs beside me, and I watch her jump like she forgot he was there. Alexis clears her throat and glances around the room. She turns back to us again, this time a practiced smile on her face. The easy grin and soft laugh are both gone. She wants to get away from me, I can feel it, and I understand. She’s working; it wouldn’t be professional. This is not the time or the place to reconnect. Unfortunately for her, I have other plans.

“Gentlemen ...” With a nod, Alexis walks away as fast as possible. She doesn’t look back, but I watch her until she’s out of sight. 

“What was that?” Liam snickers, loosening his gray silk tie. “I thought you were going to jump on her.” 

I rub my thumb over my lip, still surprised as hell.

“That was Alexis, the girl I met a couple of months ago. Now, if you excuse me, Li, I need to go talk to Bertrand.”  

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