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xaphrin · 3 years

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I am hoping to post this whole fic all at once, but I was so happy with this chapter that I wanted to share it. So, here. Have some "I wasn't supposed to fall in love with my wedding baker" AU.

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When Damian opened the door to find Raven standing in the hallway, the expression on her face spoke volumes about her feelings of being here when most people were dead asleep.

She adjusted the large plastic container in her hands and shook a lock of hair out of her eyes. “You are aware that it’s two in the morning, right?”

Damian knew. Of course he did. A part of him almost felt apologetic for calling Raven and forcing her to come to his home in the middle of the night (especially over something as insignificant as lemon curd), but with the premium he was paying her for an off-hours house call, he didn’t allow that apology to take root. He’d been accused of being a “night owl” on more than one occasion, but the truth was that he suffered from occasional bouts of insomnia. And if he had to suffer through this ailment, then so should others - including the baker for his wedding.

“I’m paying you enough to make up for your interrupted sleep schedule.” Without any ceremony, he ushered her into his penthouse, closing the door behind her. Titus pushed past him and nudged Raven’s hip, begging for pets. Damian couldn’t help but notice that Titus paid Raven more attention than he paid his own fiance. “Sleep when you’re dead.”

Raven’s lips pulled to the side in a teasing half-smile, her eyes meeting his. “How chivalrous of you.” There was a small pause as she set the plastic container down on a small table by the door and bent down to scratch Titus behind the ears. “You know that your night time doorman seems to think I’m here for purposes other than cake. Why else would some strange woman be visiting you at an unreasonable hour?”

Damian didn’t care what his doorman thought, and he highly doubted Raven cared. She was just trying to get under his skin. He shrugged and turned away from her, motioning her to follow him deeper into his flat. “I hardly see how that is my problem. Besides, didn’t you say that you get up at four in the morning anyway?”

Her face fell. “That is entirely beside the point, and you know that, Mr. Wayne.”

“You can call me Damian.” He had reminded her of that fact at least half a dozen times now.

“Ha.” Her sarcastic laugh made him smirk. “No one calls a Wayne by their first name. It’s akin to social suicide. I’d be willing to bet that you even call your father Mr. Wayne.”

Damian walked her through the massive living room, heading towards the kitchen at the far end of his flat. “Only on holidays, and the occasional birthday.”

Raven snorted. “Ah. I see how deep the decorum runs.” As they walked into the kitchen, her face lit up with surprise, and she let go of a low whistle. Pushing past him, she inspected the appliances with blatant envy. “Do you even know what I would do to have this oven in my posession? I would commit war crimes to get this oven in my apartment.” She opened the oven doors and looked inside before standing up and turning to him, eyes narrowing. “Is this just for show? Do you even bake?”

“No.”

Raven closed the oven door and sighed. “Pity.”

“I cook.”

That seemed to pique her interest, and she leaned against the marble countertop, watching him with a sharp stare. There was a long stretch of silence, and it felt like her eyes were boring into him, stripping away everything that protected him until it felt like each flaw was exposed to her scrutiny. In any other situation, Damian would have slammed up some kind of barrier to keep her from looking too deep, but this time he found himself oddly comfortable with letting her investigate him. He didn’t mind showing her his weaknesses, and that thought should have scared him, but it didn’t. He kept his face blank and let her watch him.

“You know… I am having a hard time imagining you slaving over a stove in a hot kitchen.” Her head tilted to the side and she smirked. “Although I like the thought of you wearing a frilly apron. A soft pink one, with ruffles and bows.”

His face fell and he crossed his arms over his chest. Cheeky. “I am docking your home visit fee until you take that back.”

“Mm. Worth it.” She turned away from him, and reached for the plastic container on the counter, unsnapping the lid. In an instant, Titus was at her side and Damian watched her sneak him a treat she had obviously made for him. Raven seemed to make herself at home in his kitchen, as if she belonged there. He found himself smiling at her, and a strange kind of warmth filled his chest.

“So, tell me your fear with the lemon curd, and why it was so imperative that you force me out of bed at two o’clock in the morning to travel all the way across town with cake samples.”

Well, when she put it like that, it did make him sound like a typical, spoiled son of an eccentric billionaire. Damian ignored that small spot of guilt again and settled on a stool at the eat-in counter. “I think my fiance is allergic to lemons… or curd. I can’t remember, but it’s one of those.” He thought for a long moment, trying to remember what it was that she had said last time he had spoken to his fiance.

“You can’t remember?” Raven turned back around and looked at him, her expression incredulous. “Haven’t you two known each other for years? That's what all the tabloids say anyway.”

Oh, right. The tabloids were spinning the relationship into some falsehood of star-crossed lovers who used to be childhood best friends. The truth was far less interesting. “We have known of each other for years. We’ve crossed paths at various parties and events, and my father and hers have a mutual business relationship. But, knowing each other implies some kind of deep, long term relationship. Something more than casual friends.”

“Ah.” Raven rummaged through his cabinets for plates, setting them next to the plastic container containing cake samples. “And I take it that’s not what you have with the daughter of Queen Consolidated?”

Damian shrugged, knowing that talking about the arrangement was opening himself to all kinds of scrutiny from her. But, there was something about Raven that made it almost comfortable to open up to her. In all the times they had been together, she never seemed like the type to spill his secrets. In fact, she seemed to keep them closer than most people he knew. He actually liked talking to her - even with her cheeky attitude. “We’ve only been together in an official capacity for a few months.”

“Oh…”

Her tone seemed to waffle between pity and understanding, and Damian felt like he had to scramble for an explanation. It felt like he didn’t want her to think less of him as a person.

“The marriage is one of a business nature. Our families would be brought together with the marriage of children. It would strengthen the ties between us.” After saying it out loud, Damian realized how cynical that sounded. It was more than just a business move. For all intents and purposes, he liked Emiko, she was smart and polite and reasonably attractive. Marrying her was a good, sound move. He would be content though their marriage.

“I didn’t realize that was still a thing - marrying for business purposes.” Raven pulled out cake samples from the plastic box and placed them on the counter. “Sounds a little medieval, if you ask me.”

Damian shrugged, not feeling any particular way about her comments. “She’s a lovely woman.”

“Is she?” Raven scoffed. “My landlady is a lovely woman. The mail person is a lovely woman. The person who delivers my takeaway is a lovely woman." She gave him a flat stare, pursing her lips. "Lovely woman is not a term of endearment you use for someone you're madly in love with."

"I never said I was madly in love with her."

"Ah. I see. I must have misunderstood." She handed him a slice of cake, her eyes as sharp as a hawk’s as she watched him. "Raspberry and chocolate." She paused. "Is that the business agreement to the marriage then? You marry Emiko Queen, and in return both families have fingers in each other’s pots… so to speak.”

"Yes." Damian took a bite of the cake, and he tasted the sharp tartness of the raspberry at the forefront of the cake before melting away to luscious chocolate. Just like the first time he tasted her cakes, he barely kept himself from moaning in pleasure. She had to bake magic into her cakes for them to taste this damn good. He chewed slowly, letting himself wallow in the flavor.

"Does she love you?"

Damian swallowed and stared at her. The question caught him off guard. He knew for certain he didn’t love her, but he had never really thought about whether or not she loved him. "That's forward of you."

"Asking if your fiance loves you?" She snorted and lifted her eyes to the ceiling. "You're right. How rude of me." Another slice of cake appeared. "Pistachio and cardamom."

He took a bite and tamped down a shiver. She was a magician, there was no other explanation. The flavor curled in his mouth like spiced smoke. "It'll be a fine arrangement."

"Mm. How romantic, an arrangement. Be still my fluttering heart."

Damian rolled his eyes and took another bite of cake. "I am amazed you manage to keep clients with the mouth on you."

She gave a one shouldered shrug. "I let my work speak for me." There was a pause and she leaned over the counter to look closer at him, trying to decipher his expression. “But you never answered my question. Does she love you?”

Damian blinked, letting her question settle in the pit of his stomach. Did his fiance love him? He doubted it, but then again, he never thought to ask. Emiko wasn’t frigid to him, but she wasn’t overly attached either. Indifferent seemed to be the best way to describe her feelings, as though she cared for him as nothing more than a distant friend. She seemed to view this arrangement the same way he did - a duty to her family and a business transaction. Nothing more.

“Your silence speaks volumes.” Raven’s head tilted to the side and she stared at him again, blatantly reading his face. He felt uncomfortable, letting her sharp eyes watch him. She seemed to see more than anyone else had. “I see hundreds of couples a year, and I’ve learned to pick out who truly cares for each other, and who really doesn't know what they want."

Damian took another bite of the pistachio cake, never looking away from her face. Even when she was picking him apart, she was beautiful. "And I take it that you believe I'm the latter?"

"I don't just believe, I know." She handed him another slice of cake. "Orange spice."

"I'm not particular about marrying for love. I've never subscribed to the idea." The orange spice was by far the best, and it immediately went on the short-list.

A pitying look crossed her face. "You don't believe in love?"

That question made him pause, and he looked back at her, his head filled with something akin to smoke. It was like he couldn’t think beyond her question. "I… don't know." He realized with some small amount of shock that he really didn't know. As he sat there, watching her, he realized that he never thought he would fall in love. He had crushes and minor relationships, but nothing that he would call love. Nothing that made him feel like the world was falling out from under his feet, and he was left clamoring for something that made him whole.

“You look surprised by your own answer.” Raven’s voice was soft, nearly swallowed up by the silence between them. “Did you honestly think you would never fall in love?”

“I suppose I did.” Damian took another bite of cake and shifted in his seat. “Love never seemed like something I gave much thought to. My duty has always been to my family, and as long as I am comfortable, I don’t see the need for much else.”

Raven pulled out another slice of cake. “Have you thought that maybe you haven’t met the right person?”

Damian’s face fell and he stared at her, taking the slice of cake from her. “That seems a trite response.”

She shrugged. “Perhaps. That’s vanilla and rose water.”

Damian’s face scrunched at the flavor and he pushed it away. “That rose water is abhorrent.”

A soft laugh escaped and Raven shook her head. “Rose water is very en vogue right now. I’m not fond of it, but some people like it.” She took the slice back and leaned against the counter. “So, tell me if you don’t mind, why are you putting all this effort into a wedding with someone you don't have feelings for?"

"It's meant to be a performance." He hummed softly, thinking. “Both of our families have a reputation to uphold, and if we don’t live up to that expected standard, the media will tear us apart. Emiko doesn’t need any poor publicity.”

“Mm. I understand to a point.” She paused and pulled out another slice of cake. “You’re very pragmatic about this.”

The way she said that didn’t sound like a compliment. Damian took the offered cake. “I don’t require your approval.”

“I never said you did. I’m only in this for the absolutely exorbitant fee you’re paying me.” She smirked. “But… I am curious, don’t you want to fall in love? Just once?”

“And who would I fall in love with?” He took a bite of cake and practically sighed. Chocolate and orange.

“You’re a Wayne. More than half the world would be willing to fall in love with you. Take your pick.”

“I don’t think you can force love.”

Raven shrugged. “Well, your upstanding camaraderie with your fiance doesn’t fit the bill either.”

He blinked and took another bite of the cake. This was the one. “I never intended to love her. Our partnership will be fine.”

Raven lifted an eyebrow. “So… what happens if you fall in love with someone before you get married?”

“I hardly think that will happen.” He scoffed and took a third bite of the cake. He doubted he would find anyone who could coax him to fall in love. That seemed like an impossible task. “And even if I did, it changes nothing.”

“You’re so committed to this marriage. It’s admirable.” Her smile widened. “I take it the orange and chocolate one is the winner? You’ve eaten half the slice already.”

“You’re talented at this.” He took another bite and met her stare. “What about you?”

“I think the chocolate orange will both make a statement and still be appropriately conservative.”

“That’s not what I asked.” His eyes searched hers, and he suddenly realized he had to know. He had to know if there was anyone in her life that meant more than just a friend. He wanted to know who her heart beat for. “Are you in love?”

Color crawled up her neck. “That’s a pretty personal question to ask your baker.”

Damian shrugged. “For what I’m paying you, humor me.”

She chewed on her lower lip and glanced away, and she shifted for a moment. “Currently? No. I was in love once, but… it faded.” She looked back into his eyes. “But that doesn’t make it any more special and important.”

"And you want to fall in love again?" He felt strange and a little invasive asking these questions, but some part of him wanted to know. He wanted to know not just about falling in love, but Raven falling in love specifically. Would she fall in love again? And with whom?

"Of course." Her voice was soft and gentle, and she gave him a small, almost sad smile. "I haven’t found the right person to fall for just yet. But it’ll come.”

Something in Damian’s chest twisted and he found himself reaching across the counter to rest his hand next to hers. It was as close as he dared to get to her. She met his stare for a long moment, and that feeling in his chest turned almost painful. He wanted to brush a stray lock of hair from her face, to feel her skin under his fingertips, but his hand stayed firmly pressed against the cool marble of the counter.

He swallowed slowly and nodded. “The chocolate orange.”

#damirae #demonbirds #I DID SOMETHING #whatever this is #baker au

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oftenderweapons · 4 years

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Apple of My Pie — Jin

A Small Town Swoons story

Chapter 1.

Pairing: Kim Seokjin x reader (nicknamed Buttercup)

Wordcount: 3.5k words

Genre: non-idol!AU, Baker/Café owner!Seokjin, University student!reader Flatmates!AU, Friends To Lovers, Fluff, slightest angst.

Rating: suggested 18+ (there are brief apparitions of dirty thoughts, also future episodes will contain NSFW material)

A/N: Hello my sweet poppies! Welcome to the Small Town Swoon Universe! 🥰✨

In this episode: Jin and Buttercup met when she was nothing but a scared, homesick first year student. Four years later, the two share an apartment close to her university and his bakery and café, and are the best of friends, sharing the house, several meals and, most importantly a sacred breakfast ritual. However, as far as sharing goes, Seokjin’s heart has belonged exclusively to Buttercup for four years. Exhausted, Jin finally decides to let go of his unrequited feelings, or at least try.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Oh, this is chill. Light swearing, heavy infraction of The Silent Roommate Code (aka don’t do the nasty with your bf when your roommate is sleeping in the bed at the other end of the room. Especially if she’s a virgin, first year and very homesick). Also, there is a quick flash image of breast worship, sorry.

Remember to vote for next prompt (check the link in my bio) and in case you need it, here’s my masterlist 💜

In case you need it, here is the music companion

Enjoy! ✨💜

Navi: Chapter 1 — Chapter 2 — Chapter 3 — Chapter 4 — Chapter 5 — Chapter 6 — Chapter 7 (7/7)

It was a slow morning at Jin’s café, only a pair of clients sitting at the small table in the corner, two girls who always met there on Sunday morning, at an illegal hour for the weekend. They had outdoor equipment with them, and probably it was just a stop for a quick breakfast before going skiing or trekking, which was strange considering the disastrous downpour outside, but who was he to debate.

Plus the usual early birds were late too, probably because of the university bonfire the night before.

Seokjin yawned and silently cried over his lost hours of sleep. He was ready to sit down, tip the back of his head against the wall and sleep — actually, rest his eyes —, when the bell at the front door dinged, announcing a new customer.

He inhaled and wore his best smile, standing up. “Good morn— Oh my god, sweetie are you alright?” He asked, seeing a drenched young girl stand at the door.

“I might use a friend.”

That girl was you, running away from your roommate and her boyfriend fucking in your dorm room. Right in the bed beside yours. With you there. And they didn’t even bother keeping quiet.

Seokjin was awestruck. You were soaked like a stray kitten left out in the rain, your hair sticking to your face, your eyes wide and your lip trembling, speaking of several degrees of trauma. “Poor thing.” He murmured, “wait, I should have a blanket back here.”

He dashed for the small cot he had in his office, in the back of the shop, gripping the fleece blanket and bringing it back to the counter, jogging around it and opening the blanket wide as he stared at you. “It’s better if you take off your robe. It’s dripping wet.” He said discreetly.

The girls at the front stared at the scene, a bit worried about you but mostly endeared at the cute barista taking care of you.

“May I use the restroom? The shirt underneath is, uh, thin... Oh, god this is so embarrassing.” You hid your face in your hands.

“Of course,” Jin blushed to his ears, offering you the blanket. “Would you like some coffee? Tea? Cocoa?”

Your lip wobbled, eyes watering and not for the rain. “Cocoa?”

“Yes, sweetie. Go get changed, the restroom is over there.” He pointed at the door.

“Thank you so much.” You said, placing the blanket in front of your chest.

Seokjin rushed behind the counter, grabbing a rag to dry up the wet patches you had left on the floor before someone slipped. Next he got your cocoa ready.

In the quiet morning, through the background music and the gentle chatting of the other two clients, he could hear you using the hand dryer, glad that it was set on hot air so that you could hopefully warm yourself in the process. He even thought of bringing you in the actual bakery, where he had a small traditional stove operated by firewood, other than the big oven working for croissants and banana bread and brownies and pies.

You emerged from the bathroom a little more composed, bundled up in his blanket.

It smelled good. Like raw sugar, butter and apples. A tinge of raisins.

It smelled domestic, like your granny.

You missed your granny.

You missed home.

Your lip wobbled again.

“Come sit”, he said, pointing at a chair in a private corner of the room, somewhere you would be a bit protected from the rest of the shop. It was also conveniently close to the counter, so he could check on you and ask you if you wanted to talk about what had happened. His first thought was that you were a teenage runaway with very bad planning skills, considering that you had run out in your pyjamas and a jacket, your shoes definitely inappropriate for the weather outside, holding only a pair of keys and your wallet in your hands, placing them on the counter once you sat.

“I’m Seokjin.” He said kindly, offering you his hand.

You caught his hand and introduced yourself.

“So, what brings you here with this devil weather so early on a Sunday morning.”

“Running away from my roommate and her boyfriend.” You said, hugging the blanket tighter around you.

“What hap— Nevermind, I think I got it.” Seokjin said, blinking repeatedly. Goodness, people were nasty. “Are you sure you’re okay?” He asked, placing the cup of cocoa in front of you. “Cream? Cocoa powder? Cinnamon? Chocolate sauce? Marshmallows?” He asked.

You teared up. “Marshmallows.”

He poured an abundant amount of them as he pouted, noticing you had become even more upset.

“There you go, Buttercup.” He said, smiling at you so kindly.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice weak and your forehead creased as you desperately tried not to let your tears spill.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He asked, delicately letting his hands move toward yours, moving slowly to see if you took it away. “May I?” He asked, his fingers hovering over yours.

You nodded. While your left hand held the blanket close to your chest, your right ended pressed between his warm palms, the one on top rubbing your knuckles.

“How old are you?” He asked, worried. He wore a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry, you look very young, I’m just asking to see if I should call your parents or anyone adult.”

“I live at the dorms. I’m in college.” You said, frowning a little.

“As I said, you look very young. And there are some underage students here so...” He explained, his deep, dark eyes breaching through your bad mood.

“I’m a first year. Nineteen.” You said.

“Poor darling, that must be so hard on you.” He said softly, still patting your hand.

You nodded. “I miss my family. My granny.”

“Oh, buttercup.” He cooed.

If you were in a sane state of mind you would have snickered at yourself and at how miserable you looked.

Still, you were grateful for the kind and gentle Seokjin. And how easily he had brought you back home, with the scent of his café, the taste of the cocoa and the specific brand of marshmallow that your grandmother always got for you when you were little.

“It’s a three hour drive. And it’s tough here.” You said, hiding your face as you dried one tear.

“Do you have any friends here?” He asked.

You shook your head. “Not really.”

Seokjin smiled, his eyes becoming even kinder as his cheeks became round and puffy. “From today, I’m your friend.”

Seokjin, you are a strong-willed, honest man. You are a gentleman. You are a good human. He kept repeating in his brain.

You are a polite, friendly, reliable. You are her friend. He repeated as a mantra.

Still, his brain was completely drowned with thoughts of you in the shower.

The two of you had become flatmates in rushed circumstances after you found an apartment ten minutes away from your university, which allowed you to walk there without having to take the bus or end up in the decrepit dorms, sharing a room way too small with someone way too rude or too loud.

Seokjin still didn’t know what had convinced him to share an apartment with you. It was hell. And heaven too, when he didn’t keep reminding himself that you weren’t his girlfriend, that you would never see him like that, and that he shouldn’t be playing house with you.

It was torture and bliss. Bliss on your Sunday mornings, when you could have breakfast together, or random nights when you would have movie marathons together and you would fall asleep against his shoulder, when he would cook for you and you would have dinner together over a glass of wine, laughing and making jokes. The more he spent time with you like that, seeing you drink your morning cup of coffee while still half asleep, on those days when he had someone else doing the morning shift — which was extremely rare — the more he realised you were absolutely perfect for him.

And then torture.

In moments like this, while you were under the shower, when you got out of it and as usual you walked around the house clad in nothing but a towel, absolutely comfortable in your skin, or when you thought he wasn’t home and he could hear your breathy moans and little whimpers, and then again on those two or three nights you had taken somebody home — in those circumstances he felt like he was paying for an ancient crime he didn’t know he had committed.

You had convinced him to move in with you since the apartment — being close to the university — was also incredibly close to his shop, and once he saw your eyes glimmering, your pretty face begging him to accompany you to visit the apartment, he couldn’t really say no.

So, he had said yes.

And once he saw the building, and the warm, domestic ambience, he realised that even if he would never be your lover, the least he could allow himself was to live this small daydream with you.

A week later you and him had signed the papers to rent the place. And everything had escalated from there. You had become the closest of friends, trusting and leaning on each other in every moment, through every difficulty.

However, the more he got to know about the men you dated, the more he realised you would never be attracted to him.

They were all fancy preppy boys who very likely knew the entirety of the Oxford dictionary and could probably recite Shakespeare sonnets impromptu. One of them could easily have been grandson to a duchess or a marquise. And he was pretty sure the first boy you had dated — second year university — had even a trust fund.

It was basically unreal for you to look at him with anything but friendly appreciation.

In an attempt to silence his thoughts, he got out of bed and headed for the kitchen, starting the coffee machine and getting your breakfast ready.

Maybe you would have completely ignored it being January and you would have simply climbed the barstool by the counter wearing your bathrobe, your hair still wet, and the two of you could have had breakfast just like that, without any kind of embarrassment.

As soon as coffee started brewing, your nose appeared from the bathroom door, barely ajar as you slipped out in a soft-looking white t-shirt.

As he threw a glance in your direction he knew immediately that you had very likely stolen the undershirt from his freshly washed laundry.

You slithered out of the bathroom and with stealthy footsteps you occupied your regular spot in the kitchen, watching as he prepared all the necessary material for a respectable breakfast.

“Good morning.” He said as he saw you perched on your favourite seat.

“Morning.” You replied, your feet bare, your toes gripping the small bar connecting the two front legs of the chair. “I thought you were at the café.” You said, pushing your hair away from your face. They weren’t dripping, but they were still a bit damp, especially since you had stopped drying them as soon as the smell of hot coffee reached you in the bathroom.

“Lara is covering the morning shift. I’m doing tea time today. The ladies love me and Lara can’t stand them asking about her boyfriend. I can’t have her kiss and grind on her girlfriend in the middle of my distinguished bakery out of spite.” Jin placed some apple slices on your plate, together with a quite large piece of apple pie.

In a small bowl, he poured some dry fruit before placing it on the table.

“Petty, angsty thing she is.” You said, clicking your tongue. “A true hero.”

He snickered. “Not surprised you’re friends.”

“I am patience made person.” You said, playfully offended.

“Like that one time you smashed a plate on the floor because you had burnt yourself when taking it out of the oven.”

“It was an accident. I dropped it.”

“Like it’s hot.” Seokjin murmured under his breath, lightly swaying his hips as he finished aesthetically placing your food on the plate.

“What?” You asked, comically confused.

“Nothing.” He said, stopping altogether before pouring you some coffee, adding a spray of whipped cream and decorating it with caramel and crushed caramelised almonds.

Jin asked himself how many more times he’d be able to cook you breakfast; how long until he would have to teach someone else, until you would move out with another person and you start your day with crappy industrial food instead of homemade pies and organic apples and his grandmother’s dried hazelnuts and almonds and freshly toasted chestnuts when the season was right.

Whenever he was home, he spoiled you with homemade breakfast. It was the only way he truly allowed himself to show you how desperately in love with you he is. Anytime he cooked, love simply seemed to pour out of his body through the powerful way he kneaded biscuit and pie batter, and the delicate gestures he used to place each part of a dish to form beautiful works of art: crimson red wine risotto on white porcelain plates; juicy cuts of meat, perfectly cooked in that wondrous oven of his, with a deep brown layer on the outside and the most tender dark pink in the middle, laying on the freshest bed of lettuce with a thin dribble of balsamic vinegar and crushed green peppercorn on deep blue rectangular plates.

And every Sunday was sacred. Every Sunday morning he woke up like he had spent all Saturday night courting you and making love to you — minus the obvious relief and satisfaction that come from spending all night on a bed with the person who is your partner and your lover at the same time. Sunday morning was his favourite ritual. Waking you up with the smell of your favourite hot chocolate — the one you seemed to be addicted to, and that he used on you and against you very wisely — and then cake, a different one every week, and again fruit and sometimes, in summer he would go to the closest farm, buy the milk directly from the farmer, a friend of his grandmother, at the crack of dawn on Saturday morning, bring it home, pasteurise it so that it was ready for Sunday morning, when he would use it for the healthiest of smoothies.

He loves you. He has loved you for years. And after two years of living together, losing hope was a possibility.

A possibility a bit too vast at the moment. Actually — hopefully — reality.

Today would be like any other day if it weren’t for one small fact.

Two days ago it had been four years since he first realised he had fallen for you. And two days ago he had decided he would stop chasing after you.

Therefore, he had decided that from then on, he would let go of you, even if that meant losing a part of himself. And today he would actively start walking a new path.

Once the table was ready, he arranged both your and his plate there, without passing you your cup of coffee — as he usually did — and waiting for you to come to the table.

You moved your hair out of the way as you sat down, taking your fork, not even noticing Seokjin’s first sign of petty detachment. You immediately stabbed your fork inside the apple slice and bit into it.

“Do you have lessons today?”

“Romantic Philology in the afternoon.” You replied munching, pushing your hair behind your shoulders, accidentally exposing two wet patches on the front of your t-shirt.

Actually, Seokjin’s t-shirt, but you decided he didn’t need to know that: you had simply forgotten to carry your clothes to the bathroom and once you heard the bustle going on in the kitchen, you managed to find a pair of pyjama pants in the clean laundry, but not a shirt. And you had stolen one of Seokjin’s. Not like it was a big deal.

“Romantic as in love?” He asked.

“No, as in 1830s, German, English and Italian. We’re looking into Byron and Shelley. Sometimes it’s outright boring, but our professor is so hilarious, she sees right through all those pompous arses.” You said, getting started on your masterpiece of a coffee.

“Oh.” Seokjin said. One more point for the preppy kids.

“No, it’s just academic stuff. Nothing that is actually worth something in real life. Some days I just wish I could give up on Goethe and Scott and the Brontes so I could bake cookies without a care in the world.”

And every day he wished he could give you just that. Turn his bakery into your sanctuary, hold you there, half guest, half hostage.

He decided to halt his thoughts there. No more.

“So you have teatime. Do you want me to make dinner tonight?” You asked.

“Actually no.” He said casually.

You stopped munching on your food. “Oh. It’s not Tuesday, though. Are you out with the guys, random meet up? Is Namjoon in town?”

“No.” He glued his eyes to the plate. No, he had not noticed your hardened nipples, a vague halo of dusty pink appearing from underneath the thin, wet white cotton. No. He would not let his mind wander. No, he would smash the thought out of his mind.

Smash you.

No! The thought. His mind. Out.

Like the colour didn’t remind him of fresh raspberry ice cream, like he hadn’t imagined dragging frozen raspberries against your oh-so-responsive buds, only to warm them with his mouth afterwards, pinch the small fruits between his fingers, crush them until tiny droplets of ruby juice landed on your lush breasts, his tongue lashing out to collect the liquid and lave your luscious curves.

But this time the thought did not enter his brain. This time he let it wither and dissolve into fine, sterile dust.

“Are you having dinner with your granny? And you didn’t invite me?” You said, pouting. “Her roast-beef is—” You stopped and swooned. “The definition of perfection.”

“I’m out on a date.” He said briefly and simply.

You frowned and quickly lifted your eyebrows, not letting the confusion show. “You sure you still know how those work?”

“It’s not like I’m celibate.” He said shrugging with his humongous shoulders. Lifting all those sacks of flour… And helping at the farm— You frowned again.

“Cinnamon?” He asked, knowing that the spice sometimes bothered you.

“No, no...”

“Do you need assistance, for your date? You sure you don’t mean the exotic, typically Egyptian fruit?”

“I mean I’m going out with a girl.” Seokjin started growing impatient.

“Who is it?” You asked, out of curiosity. In two years he had never brought a girl home. And in four years you had know each other, you had never seen him with a female friend or an actual girlfriend. You didn’t even know what is his type.

“Her name is Grace. She’s been a regular at the café for a few months now. She asked me out and I thought it would be rude to say no.”

Your interest poked, you placed down your fork. “Did she invite you?” You held your coffee in your hands, trying to keep yourself from gesticulating nervously.

“No. I did.” He said, finishing his pie and starting to eat all the hazelnuts in the small cup.

“I mean. Plenty of girls give you their phone number on a weekly basis. I literally find them everywhere. There’s around thirty on top of the washing machine alone, because I can’t do your laundry and have all those pieces of papers disintegrating and infesting our laundry and the drain. Why didn’t you ignore her like all the rest?” You asked, a bit upset.

“Because she seems a nice person,” who could love me back, which you don’t. He replied, leaving half the motivation silent in his brain.

“Cool.” You said, finishing your coffee before standing up and placing the cup in the sink.

“Cool,” he replied, neutral, watching as you left all the almonds and dried banana slices in the cup, the pie on your plate. “You’re not done with breakfast.”

“I’m late with my homework.” Which you weren’t, but you felt like your breakfast had been poisoned. Maybe that’s why you felt sick in your stomach.

Seokjin pouted and finished his food before placing your leftovers in small boxes. He knew you would come back hungry from uni and finish the food you had abandoned.

He didn’t read too much into your reaction. He was done trying to understand you.

Today he was finally done being stuck at a crossroad, and although your path in the woods felt and looked lovely and smelled even better, he opted for the safe, trodden and charted way that led out of the woods, into the uneventfulness of the ordinary.

———————————————————

Navi: Chapter 1 — Chapter 2 — Chapter 3 — Chapter 4 — Chapter 5 — Chapter 6 — Chapter 7 (7/7)

#bangtanhq #thetruthuntoldnet #kim seokjin x reader #Jin x reader #kim seokjin #Baker!seokjin #bts fanfiction #bts blog #seokjin fluff #Seokjin flatmates!Au #Seokjin friends to lovers

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longitudinalwaveme · 3 years

Text

Arkham Files: Mirror Master I (Samuel Joseph Scudder)

Hugo Strange: From the patient files of Dr. Hugo Strange, director of Arkham Asylum. Patient: Samuel Joseph Scudder, also known as the Mirror Master. The patient displays a number of antisocial and narcissistic tendencies, and clearly has a nicotine addiction, but no formal diagnosis has ever been given to him, and since he, like the rest of the so-called “Rogues”, arrived at Arkham only a few days ago, I have not had the time to give him a complete psychological examination. Session One. So, Mr. Scudder, how are you today?

Mirror Master: (Blows puff of cigarette smoke) For suddenly having been sent a thousand miles away from home? Not bad, I suppose.

Hugo Strange: Yes, I can see how that would be stressful. Believe me, having suddenly gained over a dozen new patients in one fell swoop is not an ideal situation for me, either.

Mirror Master: Don’t sweat it, Doctor. I’ll be out of here in a few days anyway.

Hugo Strange: I very much doubt that, Mr. Scudder. Arkham Asylum’s security has been improved considerably since the days of the unfortunate Dr. Jeremiah Arkham.

Mirror Master: It doesn’t matter how good the security is, Doctor. The prison hasn’t been built yet that can keep me locked up.

Hugo Strange: You are not a metahuman, Mr. Scudder. As long as we do not allow you undue access to technology, you will not be able to effect one of the fantastic escapes for which you are so well known.

Mirror Master: (Blows a puff of smoke) You a betting man, Doctor?

Hugo Strange: Not particularly, Mr. Scudder.

Mirror Master: Too bad. I was going to bet you that I’d be out of this joint in a week or less.

Hugo Strange: If those are the terms of your ‘bet’, then I might be willing to relax my standards on betting. In the parlance of gambling, my victory will be a “sure thing”.

Mirror Master: So, do we have a bet, doctor?

Hugo Strange: Do we not need to, ah, set the terms for victory first?

Mirror Master: You’re right. If I win, well...I’m out of prison, and you have to acknowledge that I can beat your supposedly impervious security system.

Hugo Strange: And if I win, you will make no more escape attempts and will attend psychological sessions with me regularly.

Mirror Master: It’s a bet. (The two shake hands)

Hugo Strange: Now that that is out of the way, Mr. Scudder, I would like to make it clear that Arkham Asylum is not a prison. It is a mental hospital; a place of psychological healing.

Mirror Master: Then why am I here? I’m perfectly sane.

Hugo Strange: You call yourself the “Mirror Master” and commit crimes whilst wearing a hideous orange-and-green leotard. If that isn’t a sign of emotional disturbance, I do not know what is.

Mirror Master: It’s a costume, Doctor. You know, like the ones actors wear while putting on a show? If they’re not insane, then neither am I.

Hugo Strange: The two situations are not at all synonymous, Mr. Scudder. Crime is not a performance.

Mirror Master: (Blows puff of smoke) The crimes aren’t the performance, Doctor. I commited crimes a long time before I put on the costume. The performance is being the Mirror Master.

Hugo Strange: Ordinary criminals do not turn their crimes into elaborate performances, Mr. Scudder.

Mirror Master: And that, my dear Doctor, is what separates the criminals...from the supervillains.

Hugo Strange: So, in your mind, the crimes you commit as the Mirror Master, with the silly costume and the incredible technology, they aren’t for money?

Mirror Master: Well, the money’s nice...but the real fun of being the Mirror Master is the challenge. Matching wits with the Flash, outwitting security, getting my name in the papers-that’s the real reason I became the Mirror Master. If I’d just wanted to get rich, I could’ve done that easily.

Hugo Strange: Yes, I was just about to mention that. Your records indicate that, among other things, you have invented or discovered an alternate dimension known as the Mirror Realm, which enables you to teleport between locations, mirrors that can hold people’s reflections, a 3D printer that makes perfect mirror images of people, hypnotic technology that works over long distances, a mirror that predicts the future, a mirror that lets you switch your legs with other people’s legs, a number of laser weapons, some sort of flying car, a mirror-powered jet pack, a mirror that allows you to shrink and enlarge yourself and other people, mirrors that create a wide variety of fantastical illusions, a weapon that turns people into glass, a weapon that reverses the way that the brain perceived the world, guns that can transform stolen jewelry into light beams (and back again) for the purposes of easy transport, and a weapon that distorts people’s bodies.

Mirror Master: (Blows out a puff of smoke) I’m a man of many talents, Doctor.

Hugo Strange: Obviously. What’s more, when you arrived here, we administered a number of psychological and intelligence tests to you, and the results were remarkable.

Mirror Master: How so?

Hugo Strange: In spite of the fact that your records indicate that you never graduated from high school, your overall intelligence score was somewhere around 174. In other words, Mr. Scudder...you are a genius.

Mirror Master: (Whistles) Well, I always knew I was smart...but I’ve gotta admit, I didn’t realize I was that smart.

Hugo Strange: Mr. Scudder, you are, quite bluntly, one of the most astonishing scientists of our generation. You could easily have made yourself rich and famous legitimately.

Mirror Master: Yeah, well, here’s the thing, Doctor. By the time I made those discoveries, I was already a convict. People don’t exactly line up to hire liquor store robbers from Skid Row, even if they are geniuses. Besides, why should I try to help science and society? What did they ever do for me, except put me behind bars?

Hugo Strange: After you had robbed a liquor store, Mr. Scudder.

Mirror Master: (Blows puff of smoke) In case you haven’t figured it out, Doctor, I’m not a very good person.

Hugo Strange: No, Mr. Scudder, you are not a good man...but you are also a very sick man, and it is my duty to help you.

Mirror Master: What do you mean, I’m sick?

Hugo Strange: By your own testimony, you dress up in costume and commit crimes as though it’s some sort of grand performance. You have repeatedly ignored opportunities to make money legitimately, and even your crimes focus more on showmanship than on actually making a profit. In fact, the only times your crimes show a profit requisite to the amount of effort you put into committing them are when you are working alongside the other so-called Rogues, which, I suspect, is largely attributable to the fact that Mr. Leonard Snart puts some effort into keeping your idiosyncrasies in check when you work together. All of this suggests that you are emotionally disturbed, Mr. Scudder.

Mirror Master: So I’m dramatic. That hardly makes me a candidate for a rubber room, Doctor.

Hugo Strange: I’m afraid I would have to disagree, Mr. Scudder. And I am the medical professional here. (Pause) So, Mr. Scudder, I repeat: why the costume? Mirror Master: I told you already. It’s part of the performance.

Hugo Strange: And your decision to wear this costume had nothing whatsoever to do with the costumed vigilante who runs around Central City?

Mirror Master: What, you mean the Flash? He really didn’t have much to do with it. I put on the costume before I ever met him. He makes commiting crimes more fun, but I would’ve become the Mirror Master regardless of whether there was a Speedster around to fight.

Hugo Strange: So the Flash did not inspire the Mirror Master?

Mirror Master: (Blows puff of smoke) No.

Hugo Strange: Then what, exactly, inspired you to put on the spandex leotard?

Mirror Master: Well, you’ve gotta admit it’s memorable.

Hugo Strange: I suppose so.

Mirror Master: But in all seriousness, I was a big fan of JSA comic books as a kid. I always thought their costumes were pretty cool; if anything inspired my costume; it was theirs.

Hugo Strange: So the Mirror Master was inspired by the so-called Mystery Men of the 1940s and 1950s?

Mirror Master: Yeah. Let me tell you, if anyone understood showmanship, it was the JSA. Those guys were my heroes.

Hugo Strange: In that case, is it not counterintuitive that you became a supervillain? I was under the impression that the JSA comics presented those vigilantes as unambiguous heroes.

Mirror Master: (Blows puff of smoke) You know, I never really thought about it like that before.

Hugo Strange: Then allow me to posit my own theory. (Strange pulls out Mirror Master’s file, papers rustle as he does so) According to your files, you were born to Percival and Martha Scudder. Your father died of cancer when you were only seven months old, and his medical bills consumed all of your parents’ money. As a result, your mother was forced to move with you to a glorified tenement building on the spot where Morrow Street and Baker Street met. The area was colloquially known as “Skid Row”, and poverty, crime, and drug addiction were rampant. Your mother, a seamstress, had to work long hours just to make ends meet, so you were often left at home alone. You and your mother never had enough clothes or enough to eat. When you were six years old, your next-door neighbor was murdered in a violent drug dispute; you were at home to hear the gunshot. When you were eight, you witnessed a violent brawl that ended in a man being sent to the hospital; when you were twelve, you watched another neighbor die of a drug overdose.

Mirror Master: (Obviously uncomfortable) Can we please stop talking about this?

Hugo Strange: Mr. Scudder, until you acknowledge what happened to you, you cannot make progress.

Mirror Master: I do acknowledge what happened! I know Skid Row was a crappy place to grow up; I’m not pretending it wasn’t! But that doesn’t mean I want to talk about it!

Hugo Strange: Mr. Scudder, I understand your discomfort, but unless we talk about what happened to you, I will not be able to help you. (Pause) To continue: As a boy, you were very close to a young girl named Jennifer Conners, who lived in the apartment across from yours. Her father, a minister at a local church, soon became like a father to you. He even served as your Scoutmaster. You were a Boy Scout, Mr. Scudder. You even earned the title of Eagle Scout when you were fourteen. That’s highly irregular for a costumed criminal.

Mirror Master: (Trying to change the subject) Yeah, well, I’ve always been extraordinary.

Hugo Strange: That is not the point, Mr. Scudder. The point is, until you were sixteen years old, you were a remarkably well-behaved child in spite of your dreadful environment. You got good grades, you loved comics about so-called superheroes, you were a Boy Scout-you were not a juvenile delinquent in any sense of the word. What changed, Mr. Scudder?

Mirror Master: (Angry) Why do you need me to tell you? Isn’t it in my files?

Hugo Strange: It is, but I think it is important that you admit it, Mr. Scudder.

Mirror Master: (Blows puff of smoke) Fine! What changed was that I watched Mr. Conners get shot right in front of me! (Blows another puff of smoke) He was the best man I knew, and it still didn’t stop him from getting murdered by one of the Candy Man’s drug dealers.

Hugo Strange: The...Candy Man?

Mirror Master: Jack Monteleone. (Blows puff of smoke) He controls Central City’s drug empire.

Hugo Strange: I see. So, your beloved father figure was killed in front of you. I’d imagine that produced a great deal of anxiety.

Mirror Master: (Blows puff of smoke) No duh, Sherlock.

Hugo Strange: As such, you decided to start self-medicating with alcohol and cigarettes. Eventually, this got you mixed up with the party crowd at your school. Your grades slipped rapidly, and, by the time you were seventeen, you had dropped out of school and run away from home so that you could better feed your addictions. You committed a number of petty crimes before robbing a local liquor store at the age of 19, whereupon you were sent to prison. While serving your sentence, you discovered the Mirror Realm, and upon your release, you became the Mirror Master.

Mirror Master: (Blows puff of smoke) So, how exactly does my life story prove that I’m crazy?

Hugo Strange: Mr. Scudder, you are not “crazy”. What you are, however, is a child living a fantasy life. You used to self-medicate with alcohol; now you deal with your trauma by putting on a mask and playing an elaborate game of cops and robbers with your city’s scarlet-clad vigilante. By becoming this “Mirror Master”, you are reenacting the comic book stories that you loved as a child. You may be a warped reflection of the JSA, but you have nevertheless created a world for yourself where good and evil are simple and clear-cut and no one will ever really get hurt. And the Flash is enabling your fantasy.

Mirror Master: (Blows a puff of smoke) Or-and here’s a novel concept-I do it because I like money and attention.

Hugo Strange: Nothing is ever that simple, Mr. Scudder.

Mirror Master: (Blows a puff of smoke) I’m really looking forward to watching you have to eat your words when I escape, Doctor.

Hugo Strange: And when you fail to escape, I will look forward to helping you deal with your nicotine addiction, Mr. Scudder. Regardless, I think that it is time for this session to come to an end. We have covered enough ground for one day.

#flash rogues #dr. hugo strange #flash comics #batman comics #mirror master #sam scudder #fanfic

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ineloqueent · 4 years

Text

where the wildflowers grow

Gwilym Lee x Fem!Reader

synopsis: they say there lives a witch in the wildflower woods, but Gwilym has never believed the tales. until now.

warnings: use of medieval swords (no blood)

word count: 2.1k

see the moodboard here!

⭒

It’d been dark when he’d set out that morning, and though it was always dark on his mornings in the woods, this day had begun darker than usual.

He’d dressed by the flame of a single candle and sheathed his sword at his side, fastening the buckles of his boots with practiced hands, for this was routine.

Gwilym liked routine. He even liked his shifts in the Wildflower Woods, and while the other members of the royal guard drew straws to determine which unlucky bastard would be patrolling the woods that day, Gwilym always volunteered.

The woods were quiet, and an outlander might have thought that this silence was what the men feared, the dull buzz that began in one’s ears once exposed to soundlessness for an extended period of time, alone with the sound of one’s breath and the wealth of one’s thoughts, but the outlander would have been sorely mistaken.

The men did not fear silence; they feared what lived in the silence.

It was said that a witch lived in the Wildflower Woods, capable of a dark and terrible magic, magic which the king had long since outlawed, criminalised. There had been innumerable huntings and burnings when the legislation had passed, and to this day, every citizen of the kingdom could hear the cries of the men and women killed for crimes they had most likely not committed.

No exceptions had been made, and everyone deemed a witch had faced a terrible fate upon the courtyard pyre of the Castle Gaerwen.

No exceptions had been made, but one particular individual had slipped from the grasp of the king’s guard.

They called her Morgana, after the enchantress of Arthurian legend, and she was feared as equally as the woman of the legend. It was said her gaze was deadly, and that she could take any form she desired, turn water to liquid poison, revive both the dying and the already dead, and change the weather at will. No one had any power over her, for even the elements bowed to her magic, and so she had been deemed too much of a risk for the royal guard to capture.

And so, the royal guard now patrolled the Wildflower Woods morning and night, to ensure that the witch did not move to attack the good citizens of Daryn.

Gwilym had patrolled the woods for years now, and had neither seen nor heard any sign of a witch. Thus, as all logic demanded of him, he did not believe the tales. The other men called him foolish, shuddered at his naïveté, but Gwilym laughed merrily at their fears whenever he was given the chance. He did not believe the tales, and so he did not fear the woods. The woods were a solace, and in living the life that he did, with chases and fighting and travelling, it was nice to have some time to himself, in a place where the world was quiet.

His boots crunching on the gravel of the path which led out from the guards’ quarters and toward the outer wall of Castle Gaerwen, Gwilym nodded morning greetings to those arriving home from the night shift.

Women stood lined up to draw water from the wells in the courtyard, and a group of them giggled as Gwilym passed. He sighed inwardly. He did not encourage their attentions, and yet, they continued to behave in this manner whenever he was about.

Ignoring the chatter that followed him, Gwilym arrived at the outer gate.

“Morning,” he said to Mercher, his friendly acquaintance and the man whom Gwilym was to share the day’s shift with.

Mercher mumbled his own greeting, and Gwilym smiled.

“Nervous? It’s just the woods, you know.”

The other man grunted. “There’s more to those woods than you think, ffwl.”

“There is no witch in those woods, fy ffrind,” Gwilym countered good-humouredly.

“Perhaps you are right,” Mercher responded, as he tapped his fingers along the hilt of his sheathed sword, “but there are other things too.”

Gwilym raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Mmh. Venomous serpents larger than fully grown horses, boars with tusks longer than your forearm, spiders which will crawl into your eyes if you close them unawares.”

Gwilym’s eyes twinkled; he was amused. “Well then, Mercher,” he clapped his companion on the back and strode forward through the opening gate, “we should get going so that these creatures can have their breakfast.”

Mercher swallowed thickly, standing rooted to the spot. With a shake of his head, he hurried to catch up to Gwilym, who was still smiling to himself.

“By rights, we shouldn’t be allowed to risk our lives like this,” said Mercher.

Gwilym laughed. “You should have been a baker instead of a soldier! Courage, fy ffrind. It will get you far in life.”

⭒

As they were only two, Gwilym and Mercher were forced to split up in their duties. Gwilym appreciated the solace, but Mercher was fearful. The former repeated his advice of courage to the latter, and the two parted ways.

A deep mist hovered betwixt the trees this morn, and so it was difficult to see very far beyond one’s own hand, but it also afforded the woods a mysterious quality, one which only fuelled Gwilym’s lust for adventure; outwardly, he was grown, but at heart, he was still a child, and longed to live the stories of pirates and highwaymen that his mother had told him when he was little.

Gwilym was still searching for his purpose in existence, and though he had yet to find it, he was sure it involved adventure, something more than this little life he presently lived.

Almost as though the world around him were aware of his longing, a rustling arose from the surrounding shrubbery.

Gwilym’s hand flew to the sword at his side, his knees bent, prepared to run.

There was silence. Not even a bird cawed in the canopy overhead, no river water rushed, no wind was heard between the trees.

Something slithered in the undergrowth.

Slithered. It was very distinct.

Hyperbolic images of terrible, scaled bodies with large mouths bearing fearsome, pointy teeth dripping venom conjured themselves in Gwilym’s mind, and his heart kicked up its rhythm.

His eyes flitted about the bushes, the endless wildflowers which carpeted the forest floor and provided the wood with its name, but he could see nothing. It was still rather dark out, and the mist did his eyes no aid.

Then, suddenly, a great, scaly body launched itself from the undergrowth, and before Gwilym could react, tore its fangs down his calf.

He gave a cry of pain, and lashed out with his sword, but the venom must have been rapidly acting, because his vision had already turned blurry.

But with, quite literally, a stroke of luck, he struck the creature, and with a violent hiss, it retreated rapidly back from whence it had come.

Gwilym was left to his solace once more, but now he was panting, and nearly doubled over in trying to lean his weight against a tree.

He shouted for Mercher, once, twice, but no response came.

He was on his own.

Feeling as though he were going blind, Gwilym staggered forward at a pace that was rather quick, fuelled by desperation. Pain lanced through his leg and up toward his heart, and he knew that one must not allow venom to circulate once in the veins, but what else was he to do? Lay himself down to die?

No, for that would be a coward’s death, and Gwilym Lee was no coward.

A light flickered in the mist, between the trees.

Perhaps he was hallucinating. It was not unlikely.

But he held onto hope, and dragged his heavy feet forward until the light grew bigger, brighter.

The light came from a window, in a cottage built of heavy stones. Gwilym imagined the craftsmanship to be excellent, but he did not know for sure. His vision was beginning to grow dark around the edges.

At last, he happened upon the door. With a heavy arm, he knocked against the wood, and collapsed, just as the door swung open.

⭒

He could smell woodsmoke, and heather and all kinds of herbs.

His eyes were heavy, as though he had not slept for days, and a dull pain throbbed in his leg. But it was nothing of the agonising pain he had felt before.

There was a sound like the clinking of metal pots and pans, and someone was humming.

With tremendous effort, Gwilym rose to his elbows, and opened his eyes.

The light was low, but there were candles aplenty, and they flickered softly, in their places about the room— in teacups and saucers, upon plates and wooden carvings, standing proudly in window sills and atop shelves.

On the shelves, there were potted plants and what appeared to be bottled herbs, labeled with names both familiar and unfamiliar to Gwilym’s vocabulary.

His eyes wandered about his peculiar surroundings, before returning to where he lay— in some sort of bed that was really more of a cot, made of linen and crowded with sheepswool blankets and a stitched duvet.

Bless the kindness of strangers, he thought, until his gaze happened upon his host.

She locked eyes with him before he could turn away, and his breath caught, because the woman before him was enchantingly beautiful, and without a doubt the witch of the tales he had not believed.

A slow smile curved over her lips. “My stare is lethal, no?” she said, a thick Welsh accent carving her English words differently from the way Gwilym spoke his.

His first instinct was to laugh, and he almost did, before he thought better of it. There was no telling what this witch was capable of, and presently, he was utterly at her mercy.

But a question had occurred to him as well, and so he asked it.

“However did you guess that my English is better than my Welsh?”

That slow smile touched her pretty lips again. “Like you say, it was a guess.”

“Damn good guess,” Gwilym said, not bothering to hide the fact that he was impressed.

She laughed, a warm sound, and he felt oddly comforted by it. “Us gwrachod do have a talent for those sorts of things.”

“So it is true, then?” he spoke carefully. “You are the witch of the Wildflower Woods.”

“I am. Morgana, if you will.”

He fixed her with an inquisitive look. “Yes, but that is not your name, is it?”

She had been standing by a stove, but now, she wiped her hands on the apron that hung over her full skirt, and walked toward him. She perched in a rocking chair positioned by the cot and leaned back into it, folding her arms.

“No one has ever asked my name before.”

Her voice was quiet, low, and surely as enchanting, as lethal, as her stare. But he detected a loneliness beneath the words.

“Well,” Gwilym said, “I am asking you now, politely, if you will give it to me.”

She narrowed her eyes. “There is much in a name, Gwilym.”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise, sitting up properly. “You know my name?”

She nodded. “A pretty name, no? But a bit long. I like Gwil better. Do people call you that?”

His heart felt strangely light at his name on her lips, even when it was shortened. “They do now,” he said, and thought that her eyes glittered. “And your name?”

She murmured it, and it sounded to him like the songs of old, a lilting melody with an alluring darkness humming beneath the surface.

He rolled the sound over his tongue, and felt a faint blush rise to his cheeks as he said it. Indeed, there was much in a name. An intimacy, too. Gwil did not often use the given names of his acquaintances.

“You healed my leg,” he remarked thoughtfully, shifting it from beneath the blankets.

“And purged y gwenwyn from your veins,” she added.

Her eyes were deep, and he felt himself sinking into her gaze as he met it.

He murmured, “You saved my life.”

“Ie,” she said. “That I did. A witch is not so bad, you see.”

Her smile was teasing, and he knew then that he had nothing to fear from the witch of the Wildflower Woods.

“And for that,” Gwil began, his eyes searching the room for his sword. It was resting just beside him, on the floor by the cot, and he drew it now, standing it upon its point on the stone floor and bowing his head briefly. “I am forever in your debt.”

She smiled, and Gwil feared that more than his honour was indebted to her.

His heart, for certain, was too.

#s&t celebrate #tina's writing #gwilym lee x reader #fic

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alarawriting · 4 years

Text

Writeober #3: Bone

Gerlach Schwartztern cackled maniacally as he felt the bindings keeping him out of the world faltering. He had expected this, ever since he’d seen that the historical building where the ritual had been performed was scheduled to be knocked down. There had been three days of demolition, and finally, the sacred circle at the center had been breached. He was free!

“Hey! You! This is a hardhat area! You can’t be in here!”

Gerlach shuffled around – being bound out of reality, able only to see what was transpiring, without having muscles to move, had done no good for his physique, and all his muscles were stiff beyond belief – to see a man in a bright yellow helmet and a shining orange vest, yelling at him.

“Dost thou know to whom thou speaketh?” he said, smiling cruelly, raising his own bony fingers as he prepared to teach the fool a lesson.

“Come on, asshole. Don’t give me that Scadian shit,” the man said. “You need to get off the grounds. It’s not safe.”

“Unsafe for whom?” Gerlach laughed, and reached out with his power. He called out to the dead buried below and all around to rise from their graves.

Nothing happened.

“Unsafe for you, asshole. You. Did I stutter? Get the hell out of here before I have to call the cops.”

Where were the dead?

Now that he was looking for them, he couldn’t feel them. In the Old World, there had been skeletons everywhere. But he’d had to flee the witchfinders – not the idiots who accused old women with black cats and herbal knowledge of being witches, but the ones with real power, who hunted those with real magic – so he’d taken passage to the New World, four hundred years ago.

Life was hard, then. Many colonists died, and their skeletons became his servants. He’d terrorized the colonists and the natives alike… until mages of both groups had teamed up against him. The natives had used their magic to confine him within a single town, herding him to the colonist mages, who’d bound him and locked him outside the world so long as the runes and symbols they’d carved in the stone under a church floor remained intact.

Now that the church was demolished, and the stone broken, Gerlach was free. He’d been able to see the world from his prison outside it; he’d seen the population explode. Surely the dead must be everywhere! People still died in this brave new world, did they not?

“Very well, knave. I shall leave, if you direct me to a graveyard.”

The man in the yellow hat sighed. “I don’t have to do this,” he said. “You’ve been an ass. But fine. The new church that replaced this one is about two miles down the road, and it has a graveyard. I think you have to turn right on Whitman – or I dunno, maybe it’s Baker? One of those streets. Go in about three blocks, you’ll find the church, and the graveyard’s across the street.”

“Then there I shall go,” Gerlach said, picking up his robes – they were dragging in the dust of the construction – and walking toward the gate in the fence. An interesting fence, that, made of wires woven together loosely.

“Thank you is a thing, asshole!” the man called after him, but Gerlach did not thank his inferiors.

***

It took far longer to find the church than the knave’s directions suggested. Gerlach was calling down curses on the man’s entire family unto the seventh generation by the time he finally found it, his legs and feet screaming at him for making them perform so much work after just being embodied again.

But there it was. The graveyard. And now he could feel the dead, lurking below, waiting for his call. With them at his command, he would rule over this town – and others. As the dead came to answer him, he would grow in power, and he would be able to call more and more of them as his power expanded. Eventually he would rule over this entire nation. Perhaps even the world.

Gerlach took a deep breath, and then called to the dead.

He felt them respond, felt skeletons restless in coffins push against the lids.

And push.

“What transpires here?” he roared. “You should be rising from your graves! I have called you, and you must come!”

Skeletons still pushed against coffin lids.

“Why can you not come forth?!”

Some skeletons broke their wrists and fingers trying to push open their coffin lids. None of them succeeded in actually opening anything.

Gerlach tried for hours. And then he walked to another graveyard and tried again. Still the dead could not open their coffins. Gerlach was furious. Back in the Old World, only the most wealthy had even had coffins. And they were decorated wooden boxes that a sufficiently motivated skeleton could punch through. Here in the New World, four hundred years after arriving, apparently skeletons were all contained in unbreakable coffins.

He sank to his knees on the ground and screamed, his dreams of conquest dying just like the skeletons trapped in unbreakable coffins, and just as unlikely to rise under his power.

***

Elias Whittaker was furious.

The city had concealed the plans to demolish the old church until he was out of the country, and then gone through with the destruction. He hadn’t known about it until his daughter drove by the place and saw it destroyed. It had been a month.

None of the records of the Whittaker family, passed down from father to son (or daughter in some cases), had said anything about Gerlach Schwarztern being a patient and crafty man. A brilliant necromancer, yes, but he’d named himself Black Star in German for gods’ sake. He was not the type to lay low. So why hadn’t the city fallen to walking skeletons yet?

Could it be that Schwarztern had died in his prison, or perhaps died the moment he re-entered the world and time began for him again? Maybe all the aging he hadn’t done while he was trapped caught up with him at once.

But Elias didn’t think that was likely. From everything he’d read in the family tomes, carefully preserved for four hundred years, the crafters of the spell hadn’t thought it would do that. They had warned, over and over, of the danger should the binding circle they’d carved into the rock ever break or wear. All of them had passed on the knowledge to their children, but between illness, war, and adult children’s desire to strike out west to make a new life for themselves, far away from their parents… Now the Whittaker family was the only one left.

Elias had been on the Board for Historical Preservation, had argued for years that that tiny run-down little church needed to be preserved exactly as the city’s founders had left it, that it was nearly 400 years old and was a view backward into a past that America had almost lost, the early days of the colonies. And what happened? The moment he was out of the country, the rest of the Board caved in like a wet tissue and let the city government have its way. They were going to put up some mixed-use development there, townhomes and offices and retail all mixed together, somehow. And that was worth letting an ancient necromancer free in a world where almost no one remembered that magic existed, or how to invoke it. Right.

But there was nothing Elias could find to indicate that Schwartztern had escaped. No graveyards were disturbed. No records of dead people getting up and walking. No disturbances at the morgue.

His daughter Rebecca found something—a record of an old man who’d been caught in the Jewish graveyard, obviously digging up graves because several graves had shown signs that the dirt had been interfered with, holes and clods and piles of dirt all over the graves. The elderly caretaker for the graveyard was still spry enough to shoot at an anti-Semite committing a hate crime, though. Rebecca reported that the old caretaker didn’t know if he’d actually hit the man in the tattered black coat or not, but that if he had, he must have only winged him, because the man had run without sign of injury. Since then, members of the Jewish community had been taking turns helping him guard the graveyard, with their own guns, and there had been no further disturbance.

Oddly, the fellow hadn’t left a shovel behind, but Ira Friedburg, the caretaker, had never seen him carrying one, either. Maybe it was under his coat, and the bullet had hit it instead of the man.

Of course, Elias knew why Schwartztern hadn’t needed a shovel. The graves had been disturbed from the inside. But why had the Jewish graveyard been affected, and not the much less well-guarded Catholic and Protestant ones? Schwartztern might well have been an anti-Semite, considering that in that time period almost everyone was, but he had never shown a preference for any specific type of corpse.

For the first time in his life Elias was grateful for the Second Amendment. Gerlach couldn’t know of any firearm technology more advanced than maybe a musket. A small weapon that fired deadly ammunition with terrifying accuracy and speed was nothing Gerlach Schwartztern could have any experience with. And the Jewish graveyard had suffered enough hate crimes that the caretaker patrolled it with a gun, regularly, and was small enough that Schwartztern hadn’t managed to raise a single body before being caught at it.

It was frustrating and maddening. He searched for three months. No sign of Schwartztern anywhere. Had the man left town? Was he right now trying to raise the dead in New York City or Washington DC or something? Had he returned to his homeland? Wait, no, he couldn’t have done that without a passport.

In desperation Elias started going around to funeral homes, asking them if they’d seen a man of Schwartztern’s description – long graying hair, a long beard, pale skin, aquiline features, crooked teeth. None of them had.

Until Elias went to Baron and Sons Funeral Home, and was met at the door by a man who looked exactly like the portraits of Schwartztern that had been passed down, if the man had gotten a modern haircut, a shave, and gotten his teeth straightened.

Elias’ eyes widened. “Gerlach Schwartztern?”

The man looked surprised. “There’s not many who know me by that name,” he said, and called back into the funeral home. “Mr. Baron, there’s a man here who wants to speak to me specifically. I’ll take a break to talk to him and then return to the clock.”

“Sure, that sounds fine,” a man’s voice called back.

“How are you – Why are you – What, did you find religion while you were trapped? You were freed almost four months ago,” Elias hissed. “But you’ve raised nothing.”

“Not entirely true,” Schwartztern said. He had a thick accent, but it wasn’t quite placeable – which made sense, because it was from another country 400 years ago. His English, though, sounded plausibly modern for a foreigner. “Let us walk to the back.”

“Where the graves are, and where you can attack me?” Elias snapped.

Schwartztern shook his head. “There is a contemplation garden for the grieving. No funerals are scheduled now, so it is unoccupied. We can talk without interruption.”

Oh. Right. There wasn’t a cemetery anywhere near the funeral home. That was why funeral processions were a thing. He followed the ancient necromancer, bemused, to the garden. “Did you forget your powers? Or lose them?”

“I assume from your knowledge of my name that you were one of the guardians my captors must have left behind to keep me contained,” Schwartztern said. “You may call me Gerlach Schwartz now, though. Or simply Gerlach. Apparently this new age is one of great informality. And yet they don’t even use ‘thou’ anymore.”

“Uh, yeah, we got rid of that a while back,” Elias said. “And you’re correct. My family has been keeping watch. Everything I’ve read said to expect an insane necromancer who would do anything to rule over the living with the power of the dead. But here you are in a building with… maybe two dead people?”

“There are four corpses here, in fact, but you’re correct. Four corpses is far from enough to conquer a town with.”

“What happened?”

“Modern caskets,” Gerlach said simply. “In my day, only the wealthy were even interred in a coffin; most bodies were lowered into the bare ground. Apparently since that time everyone who dies is buried in an impregnable sepulcher called a ‘casket’, or they are burned to ash… except for the Jews, who bury their dead in wooden boxes that I could at least work with, before the Jew fired his weapon at me.”

He shook his head. “The weapons they have in this time! It would never work, raising the dead, not now. I have been watching some of their movies—” He put a strange emphasis on the word. “So many tales of dead rising and biting the living to make them a risen corpse as well. And in these tales, everyone has one of these terrifying weapons, and they can entirely destroy a corpse with them. Perhaps a skeleton would be more difficult to hit, but with sufficient ordinance, they would prevail over my skeletons as well. The creators of these tales added the part where the dead can bite and their bite kills to make it a believable tragedy, else none would believe that enough firepower could not overwhelm even the dead.”

Elias rather thought no one had done anything to the plots of zombie movies to make them believable, but he could see how a necromancer might have a different opinion. “So you’re telling me you’ve given up. That I don’t need to kill you or capture you because you aren’t interested in raising the dead to conquer, anymore.”

Gerlach laughed. “Interested, perhaps. But it will not work, and this I now know. There are far more dead today, but that is because there are far, far more living, and they greatly outnumber the dead. Most of the dead are locked away in boxes far too strong for a skeleton to break open. I know, for I have made them try, and try again.” He shrugged. “So it is not practical. And it is also hardly necessary.”

“Why unnecessary?”

“Men live like kings in your time, young man.” Elias was not a young man – he might actually be older than Gerlach was when he was trapped – but this didn’t seem like something worth arguing to a man born over 450 years ago. “You need no servants to bring you hot water for your bath – simply turn a knob, and hot water comes forth! Food of any kind can be had at any time, no matter the season! Music can play anywhere, whether musicians are there to play it, or not. Entertainments as rich as the plays put on for kings can play endlessly, never repeating, on a box of light in your home – a home which is heated in the winter and cooled in the summer, and both are done evenly, throughout the home, without risk of fire. And there are treatments for lice.”

That explained the shorter hair. “So you’re, what? Trying to be a good tax-paying citizen now?”

“I am told there will be great, great difficulties in becoming a citizen, as I cannot present papers to prove what nation I was born in, or what date, or when I came to this land. Apparently I am an ‘illegal immigrant’, and if I am found by the authorities, they will deport me… somewhere. Since my own nationality no longer even exists, I have no idea where. But my employers here are sympathetic.” He nodded at the funeral home. “I came here because I thought the presence of the dead plus the title Baron meant another necromancer was here, but that was not the case… as I suspect you know well. They’ve arranged for me to work here and learn their trade, for there are many techniques of preserving the dead that exist now but did not, in my day. Apparently they are paying me ‘under the table’, an expression I understand not, except to say it is a means of paying one with no papers to prove their identity.”

“It means they’re paying you in cash and not taking out your taxes, so I guess you’re not a taxpayer after all.”

“In my day, taxes were paid in grain.”

“Sometimes money is referred to as ‘bread’ in this day and age, but the days when you could actually pay tax in grain are long behind us.”

“I do realize that,” Gerlach said. “Have I satisfied your curiosity? Do you understand now that I present no threat to your world?”

“And you use your necromancy here?”

“As God witness, no, why would I do that? They have techniques for moving bodies and they know nothing of magic. If I were to use the power I have over the dead, now, it would perhaps be as a detective, who can hunt down dead bodies after they are murdered and hidden away by the murderer. I have watched many entertainments about detectives,” he said, in a tone as if he were telling a salacious secret. “In my day the profession didn’t exist, but today it seems a very popular job. I wonder that any murderers can go free, with so many detectives.”

“It’s… not actually that popular in real life. People just like stories about detectives. They like to see a mystery presented to them, so they can try to solve it, or enjoy watching the detective solve it.”

“Ah. Well, I have much to learn about this new world before I dare leave this job,” Gerlach said. “They provide me with a room here to live in, upstairs, but for food and clothing and a box for entertainments I must pay my own way.”

Elias shook his head in complete bemusement. All of the effort he’d put into, his whole life, to keep the necromancer contained, and this was what Gerlach did when he got free. “Well, there’s nothing I can charge you with and nothing you’re doing that warrants my interference… but I will be watching you.”

“That would be delightful!” Gerlach said. “It grows tedious sometimes, to have no acquaintances I can share knowledge of the past with, or my necromancy. You would make an excellent companion!”

I have worked all my life to keep this man in prison and he wants to be my friend. Well, it would help Elias make sure that Gerlach was continuing to not be a threat. “Fine, I’ll come take you out to lunch sometime.”

“I look forward to it greatly!”

As Elias left, he wondered how he was going to explain any of this to Rebecca.

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

From @writing-prompt-s, “ An ancient evil awakens to destroy humanity, only to find out he is no match for modern technology, thus forcing him to become a functioning member of society. “

#writeober 2020 #alara's october 2020 prompt fics #writing-prompt-s

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lurafita · 5 years

Text

Mob boss Tony x Baker Peter

Prompted by anon ask: click me

Because we all love mob boss Tony AU's and everyone needs to write one at least once.

-Insert title here-

The first time Tony had stepped foot into 'Ben & May's little Bakery', it had been 5:30 in the morning, and he had just executed a traitor.

Tony liked to take little strolls after especially gruesome bouts of violence (which Adrian's death had undoubtedly been. The maggot had dared to steal from him, and Tony had felt the need to make Toomes an example, for anyone who might entertain the thought of taking something that belonged to Tony Stark.)

The warehouse, in which Toomes had died a slow and painful death, had been in Queens, and so had Tony, when only a few blocks away from the grizzly scene he had left his people to clean up, it had started to rain.

Cursing up a storm, the notorious leader of the Stark family, the biggest and most dangerous crime organization in the United States (and possibly beyond), had ducked into the nearest open store.

He was assaulted by the warm, sweet and wholesome smell of freshly baked goods and recently ground coffee beans, as soon as the door closed behind him. A bell chimed, signaling his entrance, and a distinctly male, but softly pitched voice called out from the back

“I'll be right with you! Just one moment, please!”

Tony took the time to look around a bit.

The place was on the smallish side, but very quaint and comfortable looking. Some sitting booths and little tables and chairs all around, leading up to the traditional counter, that showcased a mouthwatering assortment of pastries.

The interior was kept in soft, pastel colors, with cleverly placed lights on the walls and ceiling that brightened the place up, without making it too grating on the eyes.

As he ventured closer to the counter (that in typical bar fashion, had some high chairs in front), his gaze fell on the marvel that was the coffee machine. Stainless steel, clearly multi-purpose for the preparation of different hot beverages, built-in grinder for fresh beans, and a high pressure nozzle for specific drinks.

God, judging from the machine alone, this bakery just had to have good coffee beans. And while Tony didn't usually have much of a sweet tooth, he couldn't deny that the brownies in the display had him nearly wetting his lips.

“I'm so sorry for the wait! I needed to get the rolls out of the oven before they burnt. So, what can I do for-”

Now Tony actually did wet his lips. A slight, but lean body, a bit on the short side. Slim hips, narrow shoulders, and yet despite what appeared to be a rather fragile stature at first glance, there were some clear signs of athleticism. Chestnut brown, fluffy looking hair, wide and innocent seeming eyes. Pale skin that only served to accentuate the blush currently spread over it.

He looked young, maybe college aged? Tony didn't think he was looking at a teenager (though that would hardly be an obstacle for him), but the man had a slightly boyish appearance.

The young man that had come out from the back in a flurry of motion and heavily flushed face (probably due to having been around the high temperatures of the bakery's ovens in the back), stopped short, mouth hanging open, when he saw the head of the Stark family waiting at the counter.

The reaction wasn't uncommon. Tony Stark being the boss of possibly the greatest mafia family was pretty much an open secret, mostly due to the fact that he was the prime suspect in every major police investigation.

But since no one had ever been able to produce any proof to convict him of the various and many crimes he had been accused of (some of which he actually had committed), well...

It was a bit like Schrödinger's Cat. Just as the cat could be thought of as both alive and dead, Tony Stark was both guilty and innocent. At least until the day that definitive proof of his crimes was presented. (Not that it ever would be. Tony was far too good at his profession to make such mistakes. And besides that, he had some very high ranking officials in his pocket, should things ever turn dire.)

Didn't change the fact that due to the many investigations that had been made upon his person, most of the public were more than a little wary of him. Sometimes being feared was fun. Other times, like when someone was possibly so shell shocked by his very presence, that they might mess up his order, it was annoying.

“A coffee, dark roast, as strong as you can make it. And one of those brownies. No cream on anything.”

For a moment, the younger man didn't move a muscle, but just as Tony thought he would have to repeat himself, the brunette shook himself out of his stupor and quickly started on the order. Tony was a bit taken aback as he watched the younger man operate the machine and plate a big, moist looking piece of the brownies with practiced ease.

The surprise and slight fear from only seconds ago seemed to have vanished from the brunette, which was unusual to say the least. People didn't just stop fearing Tony Stark for no apparent reason.

When the man, Peter – if the name on his apron was to be believed, set down both the fantastic smelling coffee and brownie in front of him, Tony couldn't help but say

“Now, don't get me wrong, sweetheart, because I certainly don't want you to panic, but most people I meet react much less... let's say casual, to my presence. May I take it that you aren't afraid of me?”

He honestly didn't know what he wanted the answer to be. Dealing with panicky and stuttering people was annoying and a waste of his time and patience. But thinking that he might be losing his edge was unacceptable.

Peter shrugged lightly, a half smile, half grimace on his lips. (And what pretty little lips they were.)

“Haven't made up my mind about you, I guess. On the one hand, the probability that you are every bit the dangerous man people say you are is very high, and I'm not exactly a fan of violence. Or guns. Or crime in general, really. But on the other hand, I believe in ‘innocent until proven guilty’ – and so far, you haven't been proven guilty. “Then there is the fact that ever since you and your... 'business partners' have come to New York, gang violence has actually gone down.” Peter leaned sideways against the bar opposite from where Tony had taken a seat on one of the bar stools, crossing his arms over his chest, a contemplative look on his (pretty) face. “I've seen this in wild life documentaries. When bigger and badder predators take over a new territory, various of the smaller and weaker predators either flee, or get killed by the new arrivals. ”There has been a distinctive lack of drug dealing close to my campus, lately, and walking my aunt home most nights doesn't even require us to go the long route, since there are hardly any street gangs out and about anymore we need to stay clear off.” Then Peter frowned a little. “Which, if it really is due to your presence in this city, that I don't have to fear so much about my aunt's safety anymore, I might actually have to thank you for that. Of course, that would only be the case if you really were the leader of, what everyone says is pretty much, the mafia.” Then he shrugged again. “So, yeah. Undecided.”

What a delightfully simple and yet complex way of thinking.

It was true that Tony had had his men taking care of all the little street gangs, when he first decided to branch out his organization from Italy to New York. He didn’t care about the individual criminals or dealers or murderers in this city, but there was simply no sense in allowing smaller groups the chance to grow into what might one day become a serious threat.

And as an additional benefit, the very act of removing these other ‘predators’ - as Peter had said, actually scored him some points with the general public. Well, the ones smart enough to connect the dots, at least. And Peter, delightfully pretty Peter, seemed to belong into that category.

Tony took a sip from his coffee cup (and oh, those were definitely good beans), and then grinned at the younger man.

“So, hypothetically speaking, if I were the reason for the absence of all those pesky little gangs around here, and consequently your and your aunt’s relative safety, how would you go about thanking me?”

He took a bite of his brownie, (which was just as supple, soft and delicious as he imagined Peter would be, when he took him to his bed to devour him), as he kept his eyes trained on the younger an across from him. Who seemed to be seriously contemplating the answer to Tony’s question.

And again, this threw the mob boss a bit. Peter looked like every bit of the shy, virginal college student, that would blush and stammer horribly, when being asked something as suggestive as this. Tony had put a very deliberatly seductive tone into his voice, after all. Which meant that either, Peter was more experienced and nonchalant about sexual acts than Tony had pegged him for (which could be fun in it’s own way), or, (and that thought was exciting enough that some of his blood was already starting downward) Peter was so inexpirienced and oblivious about these things, that the meaning behind Tony’s words had flown right over his head.

“Well, the obvious answer to that would be to let you eat and drink for free, here. But you are very clearly not hurting for money, so I don’t think saving a few dollars whenever you visit, is something you would find particularly rewarding. So, while we are still speaking hypothetically, how would you want me to thank you?”

Oh.

Oh, what a precious, precious little thing. How was it even possible for the cute brunette to be this smart and observant, and yet so naive and oblivious?

How curious, how intriguing, how fucking attractive Peter was to him.

All those sinfully delicious thoughts running through his head right then. All the things he would do to the college student (and part time baker). All the things he would make him feel. He would take him to his mansion, and have him in his bed for their first time. In his shower, the morning after. Draped over his couch, later that very same day. Tony would spread the nubile looking thing over every surface in the many rooms of his home. He would have Peter in his car, in his office, over the fucking counter his was sitting at right now.

His little baker could make all the delicious looking cakes and pastries his heart desired, and Tony eat them off of his naked body, maybe even dribbling some chocolate sauce over him.

Tony had never had much of a sweet tooth, but the images flashing through his mind had him almost salviating and craving it all.

But.

“I don’t know. The coffee here is pretty good, I might come back for a cup quite frequently.”

Haste makes waste.

“And I might want to try some more of your baked goods.”

He would have to pace himself.

A last fork full of brownie was washed down with the rest of his coffee, as Tony stood from his chair and reached into his inner jacket pocket.

“Are you always here this early, sweetheart?”

Again the younger man seemed oblivious about the endearment, but this time it might have something to do with the two 100 dollar notes that Tony slid across the counter.

“I... I uhm,.. yeah, I. Yes, I open the place up at 5 o’clock every day, and then my aunt comes in when I have to get to my classes... Sir, you really don’t have to pay for ... this is too much.”

Tony just smirked at him, as he turned casually towards the exit.

“It’s a tip. I’ll be seeing you, Peter.”

And when he would finally claim his prize, it would be the most delicious morsel of them all.

______________________________________________________________

I’m thinking of turning this into a mini-series. Maybe. Possibly. I don’t know yet. But who knows, maybe I will finally get a decent bit of smut written in.

Oh well.

Hope you liked it, thanks to anon for the original prompt!

#starker #peter parker #tony stark #au #no-powers au #no powers #mob boss tony #mafia #stark mafia #mob tony #baker peter #bakery #mentions of violence #dark!tony #mentions of organized crime #smut is hinted at #op lurafita

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waterfall-mirage · 5 years

Text

So I wanted to write some theif Chat Noir and Marichat and came up with this

Sorry if the spacing is off this is being Sent from iPhone™️

A criminal.

Explained simply by the dictionary: a person who has committed a crime. A lawbreaker, delinquent, villain, culprit. These are all words you’d associate with someone who lived a life of crime.

So clearly- speaking in an obvious term- one should not get themselves into any trouble of the outlaw type. Yet somehow the bad luck seemed to find Marinette everywhere she went. She didn’t know when the infatuation had started, but she could remember seeing him on the news a few weeks ago when she had gotten home from her internship with Agreste fashion. She had to stay late as Natalie had requested her to revise some upcoming fall designs. As tired as Marinette was there could possibly be no way she could turn down an opportunity to add her own touch to such a massive collection.

Stepping through the door she lazily threw on some sweatpants, let her hair down from a tight headache inducing bun, and flicked on the small box t.v that sat on her kitchen counter. There was a low humming noise from the device as it tuned to find a channel. Marinette rolled her eyes, she needed to save up for an appliance that wasn't almost older than her. She turned away grabbing the pink kettle off of her stove filling it with some water. Another classic dinner for a starving artist, instant ramen. Pulling her bowl and chopsticks from their designated spot she listened into the news channel. Chat Noir had struck again, this time a watch store. The helicopter cam followed him as he seamlessly bounced between the roofs of homes. Marinette stepped forward from her position of leaning on the stove trying to get a better look at the tiny screen. Dressed clad in black as usual the unknown street cat did what he does best vanishing in between two buildings, a considerably dark alley even for seven o’clock in late summer. The helicopter hovered for a moment before the screen changed back to Nadja Chamack. Marinette let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Turning back to the stove to finish her meal. Chat Noir was a force to be messed with, he had already stolen three paintings from the Louvre successfully, rumours saying his fourth was nearing soon. The police have no clue on where to look or how to find him. Nicknamed by the public Chat Noir was “the vanishing kitten”. The name undermined his work, so he claimed he was going to step it up a notch.

Although Marinette never agreed to be a part of it.

The sweetest of dreams were brought to her that night. A wonderful extravaganza of her showing off her very own fashion line at Agreste fashion. The theme was 1960’s era mixed into modern fashion. Blissful, teals, reds, ivories, yellow, pinks dancing along with patterns, skirts, and thigh high boots washed over her. An Airy white translucent button up blouse with bell sleeves paired with a deep red pencil skirt. She could feel her dreamself twitching to start the sketching process. However, instead of witnessing her dream unfold she was unfortunately startled out of it in her dark room. Marinette rubbed her eyes as the sirens of Paris’ police department whizzed by flashing red and blue lights briefly through her windows. Groggily she reached over smacking her night table until her hand came in contact with her phone. Squinting at the brightness the phone displayed the time of two in the morning. She groaned pulling the pillow over her head to try to drown the noise out. Until she heard a thud from her balcony. Blue eyes opening behind the soft pillow Marinette’s heart dropped at the sound.The wind must’ve knocked one of her plants over, that's all. She sat up peering over to her french doors there was nothing to be seen in the pitch blackness of the night. Marinette let out a sigh of relief, what was she thinking? She placed her pillow back in its original position laying back down.

“C’mon, Marinette” she whispers to herself. “Get a grip”. She closed her eyes once again.

Chk. Chk. Chk.

Then she hears it, a slight rattle. A familiar rattle, the same rattle she’d dealt with when she first moved in trying to unlock the door. She now knew there was a slight left turn jiggle she had to do to get it to unlock. But clearly this intruder isn't one of the friends Marinette told this trick to. She panics jumping out of bed, she has no place to hide in a studio apartment. In the dark she blindly reaches for any sort of weapon. Her small hand grasps the baseball bat her dad had given her as a defense weapon when she moved out. Of course at the time she laughed at it but still hugged her papa anyway, joking that she’d take up baseball soon. Her blood goes cold, what an awful thing to come true, she thinks.

The rattling stops Marinette lets out a mini sigh, maybe it was a Chat Noir copycat that just wasn’t cut out for the robbing life. She lowered the rod down her shoulders sinking a little. “Whew” she manages to let out.

Then the door swings open. Marinette holds back a scream lifting up her weapon “Whoever is trying to get in here I don’t have much but I will defend my life for it!” She pathetically calls out in no particular direction. Marinette can’t see much of anything until she spots them. Two glowing green eyes in the darkness of the room. She lets out a tiny shriek waving her bat around, she feels a “thwoop” in her hands. In fear of the unknown Marinette swings her arm frantically towards the wall her fingers just barely smacking the light switch. The baseball bat which she thought she had acquired was actually an umbrella, that was now spread. Still holding her guard Marinette lifts the “weapon” pointedly towards the black figure in her partially lit apartment.

A chuckle leaves the cats lips as he walks towards her. “Aw, Princess opening up so soon? We just met” he smiles coyly at her. The hairs on the back of Marinette’s neck rise. Up close Chat Noir is handsome, which Marinette decides is very unfair as she’s currently being robbed by him. However, she’s also certain he couldn’t be much older than her as well. Which gave her a bit more confidence to tell him off. As he approached she jabbed the umbrella at him which humoured the cat as he lifted his hands up in the air as if he had been caught in the act. A devilish smile displayed in amusement. Chat Noir began to move in closer and she got a better look at the thief. His golden hair disheveled in front of his face casting a slight shadow over his viridescent eyes which seemed to glow. There was a black mask covering his upper face from cheek bones to brow. Black cat ears were perky twitching as he moved as if picking up on things. He had a small black pouch tied around his waist which seemed to be full. Marinette speculated it was used to stash smaller items such as jewelry or watches as he had stolen earlier that day. His boots were somehow quiet as he maneuvered towards her. She tried to keep distance with the umbrella at arms length but quite true to his cat nature he slipped through the barrier. Red and blue lights flashed outside her apartment once again. Marinette left with only a few options left resorted to the cry for help. As she parted her lips the cat seemingly doubled his speed to prevent what he knew was about to happen his leather clad hand covered her mouth in seconds.

“Shh they’re coming.” He coo’s pointing upwards and winking as the sound of a helicopter chopped past them. Marinette noticed a puff of air that had left his chest. A sigh of relief most likely. “Chat Noir, charmed to meet you” He turned to her, sneaky green eyes burning a permanent image in her mind. He gently removes the umbrella from her grasp lifting her hand to place a kiss on her knuckles. Marinette makes a face in disgust retreating her arm back to her side.

“You are?” Chat continued on pretending Marinette had not just clearly shown she wanted nothing to do with him. A smile so sweet perked up his features even the baker’s daughter felt her stomach protest. Marinette confused, and quite frankly still scared gathered the courage to fiercely bark back at the mangy cat. “None of your business, now leave!” She crosses her arms over her chest. He sighs in a feigned love sick kind of way placing the back of his hand against his forehead gloved fingers curled. “Such a shame I don’t get to match such a pretty name to an even prettier face” his body language shifts and a devilish glint in his eye shows he’s toying with her, playing with his prey before he feasts. “However, I think Princess suits you well.” Chat practically purrs. Marinette can’t help the shiver that runs down her spine. Her cheeks heat up and she curses her body for being weak to even a compliment from a criminal.

“Relax, okay?” He spins the now closed umbrella between them. “I’m not here to rob you, i'm here for refuge” Chat states matter of factly before turning away from her and walking around her apartment like he owns the place. Spotting the kitchen a little “oh!” leaves the self proclaimed non-burglars mouth as he struts over to the fridge. Marinette who was previously frozen to her spot comes back to reality. Well who does this mangy cat think he is? She stomps after him shutting the fridge. Chat Noir mewls pulling his thumb out of the closed fridge door suckling on the injured digit. “I don’t know who you think you are, but you don’t just go around taking refuge in random peoples homes!” Marinette whisper yelled pointing at him. Chat rolls his glowing eyes still sucking on his thumb. “Now look at me im involved in your stupid crime” she pokes his chest which she refuses to admit is very hard at the moment. He gives her a deadpan as if to say “yeah, yeah, i’m listening”. This enrages the bluenette further.

“And give me my umbrella back!” She swipes the black umbrella from his greedy paws. Marinette marches over to the still open french door the cool August night breeze flowing into her apartment. “Out!” She calls pointing with the umbrella. Chat grins a cheshire smile appearing ear to ear. Marinette isn’t completely sure how to feel about his demeanor. A snicker leaves him and his shoulders bounce as if to show his amusement.

“Oh, i’ll go” Chat smirks walking towards her from the shadows of the kitchen.

“But I like you princess” he firmly states. Chat Noir saunters towards her in true cat fashion in long strides of his legs. Marinette's heart rate picks up as he nears. What is going on with her? He’s close, too close Marinette decides. When she takes a step back it’s into the door she realizes she can’t get enough distance between them. His nose mere centimeters from her face she blinks, once, twice, his glowing eyes still boring into hers.

“So I'll be seeing you again” he whispers. Marinette’s breath hitches, hands pressed to the glass door behind her. He salutes her with a wink “Goodnight, Princess, see you soon!” With that he leaps off of her balcony and into the night. Wide blue eyes stare at the bright white moon. Her hands clutch her chest wrinkling her newly made pyjama shirt. “Oh Marinette what have you gotten yourself into now” she whispered into the night. Marinette slid down the door continuing to keep eye contact with the moon. Safe to say she didn't sleep well that night.

#miraculous ladybug #i have more to post the word doc is 5k #just testing the waters loll #i havent written in a long ass time #sorry if its bad but it needed to be out of my word doc #marichat #marinette dupain cheng #chat noir #maricat #adrien agreste #miraculous tales of ladybug and chat noir #theif chat noir #ml fic #ml fics #mlb fic

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tanoraqui · 5 years

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*chinhands* so tell me about guinevere being gay and doing crimes in space

There are three rules that an e-space* Navigator lives by:

Know who you are

Know where you’re going

Know where home is (just in case)

*“espace”, more often; hyphens don’t survive casual parlance; it’s short for “extra-space” because scientists aren’t always good at naming things. just thank god for the one physicist who raised an early objection to “subspace”, even though in early models of layered reality, what came to be known as “espace” was, indeed, below our space.)

The third is easiest, because it’s drilled into every recruit from the second they’re brought to the Lighthouse - which is usually at an age so young they’ll forget having lived anywhere else before. There might be an official name for the headquarters of the Navigators’ Guild on paperwork somewhere, but inside the space station’s halls and outside it, on every ship and planet and empty space between stars in the galaxy, it’s the Lighthouse. There’s a general understanding of why: it’s where navigators call home, where they can look to for aid and succor when the seas turn rough, in this space and the other.

Most people don’t understand, though. Because most people are not navigators: they have never stayed awake while every other mind in the ship was sent very carefully and very deeply into sleep, while the ship passed across a crackling boundary between this reality and another. They have never held themselves together in a world where up was not quite down because neither of those terms applied, where colors were tastes were neither, where time and space were both only suggestions, and the map is a matter of focus in your mind.

You are lost as the default, in espace. Or, “lost” isn’t a term that applies, because all reference points are only in your mind, and if you don’t have your destination absolutely clear, you will be lost in the metaphorical sense as well as not quite the literal. So the politer, more bureaucratic line is that navigators (orphans, usually) are taken in so that their training can begin as early as possible, the truest truth is that it is so that when they begin their training, they will have somewhere to come back to. (Their very secretive training; it’s not, allegedly, sink or swim, but the Guild protects the secret of how it trains its navigators more closely than it guards anything.) So that no matter what, if they lose track of their destination - too unfamiliar, or even unwanted - they can always remember the Lighthouse. The bunkbeds and warm corridors of the dormitories; the creatively placed asteroid ring, more for agility practice in dart-fliers than anything else; the iconic long body of the station itself, modeled half-seriously after a lighthouse of old (symbols can matter in espace), floating amidst darkness and a starry background, the nearest planet several standard-orbits away for the sake of autonomy…the navigator’s last and truest port in a storm.

The earlier a young navigator-to-be can fix that in their heart, so surely that they’ll know the exact moment its closest, to fire the engines to make the jump back, the more likely they are to, indeed, return home.

The second has been touched on! Navigation in espace is a matter of focus and knowledge, intuition, sense of the shape of a world without shape and essence of a world - or rather, a very specific part of a world - in which its rarely manifest. Many navigators dabble in art of some kind - painting, sculpture, crochet, poetry - because it helps them capture what cannot otherwise be captured. Or maybe so much time in espace means they can’t help but see this world differently as well, and need an outlet…opinions differ. Among navigators. Person to person, you know?

Anyway, because of this quirk of interstellar travel, most planets have, gloriously from a worldbuilding perspectively, entirely in-canon motivation to have highly specific unique traits. The easier a planet or station is to remember, itself and only itself, the less likely ships are to be lost on the way to it. So there’s a planet in Alpha Centauri renowned for its deserts, and its annual global competition, bringing thousands of would-be bakers, confectioners, and more each year. There’s a space station circling Rigel where every citizen proudly gets a new tattoo each year, and so does the station itself, vast stenciled artworks commissioned by the ruling council and drawn by artists in space suits. There’s old Red Mars itself, now more a tourist trap than anything but still just as proudly rust-colored, the closest any interstellar ship is allowed to the nature reserve of Earth.

So, know where you’re going, because going back to the Lighthouse gets you safe, but it doesn’t get you paid. The Guild cares for its navigators, it really truly does…on average. But there are bureaucrats and business managers in there, too, and they know they’re sitting on the galaxy’s most valuable monopoly.

And first: know who you are. Nothing in espace is real the way it is in standard space, including the self. Don’t worry about the crew or the passengers, or even the materiality of the ship itself - the ship AI will keep track of them, as well as of time as it should be passing. Nothing determinedly holds to numerical time like a digital mind. They’ll keep track of the navigator’s physicality as well - that’s what the biotagging chip is for. But most navigators do some sort of dance, martial art, or other exercise as well, to give themselves a better sense of, well, themselves - it’s always good to have a backup. Any passengers and crew are so unconscious that they may as well be inanimate, which is why an AI can keep track of them jus fine - the navigator, of course, is awake for the whole voyage.

So, the woman who in another life might be named Guinevere…

Her first name is Djinn, because a lot of navigator orphans are named after mythical creatures or heroes, from one culture or another, that can fly. A lot others are named after mythical heroes or creatures known for sight. The people in charge of children at the Lighthouse are a bunch of nerds, really, or they were once, and tradition stuck.

Her last name is probably Navigator, because being named after your profession is as old as civilization, and there are fewer things its easy to be proud of than being an official Guild-licensed navigator. You get to choose a surname when you get your license, and like many before her, Djinn chose that.

Once a navigator has their license, they’re more or less loosed unto the galaxy, if they want to be. You’re welcome to work as an independent contractor, so long as you still pay your percentage back to the guild of every navigating fee, and don’t undercharge the Guild minimum.

Djinn elected not to do that, actually. She wanted to travel, of course, to fly, to spend as much time as possible in hte giddy twistedness of espace. But she didn’t want to manage her own business, and she didn’t mind the Guild taking a little higher percentage to have jobs lined up for her. And she was good, oh, she was good, so it wasn’t long before she was flying precious cargos and even passenger ships - small ones, to start, and not particularly pricey (not used by the affluent, that is, who would pay more for a more experienced navigator, with more successful trips under their belt). But still, a very promising career, and she was comfortable.

She always has a sketchbook, luxurious paper so she can save or destroy the drawings as she wants, rather than wipe them clean from a laminate. Physical rather than digital, because she’s drawing this world, she says, so it has to have real mass - but she almost only ever uses pale colors. Bright things, she saves for paint, when she has time and space and money for an easel, and that art is twisting and bright and incomprehensible to everyone but a fellow navigator - and even then, most understand what she means, but now how she’s representing it. No one really experiences espace the same way.

She’s short of stature and of hair, skin probably #C26604-ish? and walks with a dreaminess in her eyes and the confidence of someone who knows she’s weird - as most navigators do. Also, definitely practices some science fiction equivalent of judo. Has slightly more energy than she needs at any given moment, and when she decides to move fast, will do so. Physically, emotionally, and in terms of decision-making - will put off decisions if they’re unpleasant, but will make them quickly if they’re not, and commit 100%. Stubborn or determined, however you want to phrase it; holds grudges…but if pushed to reconsider something, will do so, and will willingly change her mind. Often in the 100% opposite direction from before.

(It’s hazardous to go into espace unsure of what you want in life.)

Also, she’s not actually a licensed navigator anymore, by Guild rule. See, I said she was good, right? Really good? So, most navigators have a seat on the bridge - they don’t really need to be there, but it feels right - and that’s where they stay for the duration of the espace journey. Easier to focus if you don’t need to move, don’t need to think about anything but where to go and when (”when” maintained by the ship’s clocks) exactly to make the jump back to get there. There are probably IV tubes and catheters and everything, because it can be a several subjective hours sometimes, and better safe than sorry.

But Djinn was good, oh, she was really good, and she didn’t need that stuff. She didn’t want that stuff. Always a little more energy than necessary for the moment, remember? So her knee jiggled, and that was fine. She stood and stretched, and that was fine. She paced the bridge, alone save for the AI, and thought about the swirling patterns on the outer skin of that one station, or the best donut she’d ever tasted on that one planet (she always wanted to be more of a sweet tooth than she actually was.)

None of this was per regulation, but it was the sort of thing that got comfortably ignored by the Guild, if you admitted it - and you were encouraged to, for your own safety as a navigator and that of your ship, and in the interest of more data gained about espace travel. And then not reported on to whoever’d chartered the navigator, so long as the nav was back in their seat by the end and got the ship to its destination just fine, because what the layperson didn’t know couldn’t hurt them.

But, well…

It doesn’t get much harder to hold yourself and everything under your care together as they are the longer you’re in espace - additionally, but not multiplicatively, much less exponentially. Time and space still function in a way, so trips between this planet and that are known to have a certain average amount of time, but it’s flexible. If a navigator can confidently know themselves through, and the ship AI has a confident grasp on everything else, there’s no reason she shouldn’t pause in her destination-seeking, or at least not focus quite so hard, and just…wander the ship for a while. See the sights (that aren’t quite, here.) Enjoy the upsideways-tasting sensations.

So, Djinn met an AI with whom she really got along, did a couple trips in a row on that ship specifically, and then talked them into covering for her while she stole stuff from the passengers. More for fun than anything, honestly. But she got…well, she got caught, mostly, more than she got anything particularly valuable (probably?). (She got away with it like a dozen times, first, though.) And stealing from passengers while traveling through espace, while nearly unprecedented, is illegal by the laws of every place of origin she flew from…which is what applies on-ship until the destination is reached, by interstellar law.

More importantly, it was against Guild rules. They claimed precedent, because the Navigators’ Guild looks after its own, so Djinn wasn’t imprisoned anywhere. But her license was revoked for 7 years.

We meet her sometime in year 4, maybe 5 of that probably, I think on the equivalent of Jackson’s Whole.

#uhhhh #my fic #original fic #science fiction #arthurian legend #astria et al #hermionehair goylebrain

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d2kvirus · 4 years

Text

Dickheads of the Month: October 2020

As it seems that there are people who say or do things that are remarkably dickheaded yet somehow people try to make excuses for them or pretend it never happened, here is a collection of some of the dickheaded actions we saw in the month of October 2020 to make sure that they are never forgotten.

After months of the Tory government fucking up their response to the Covid pandemic you would think that they’d have some baseline of competence by now, but no, it turns out that the Test & Trace program they were so proud of was nothing more than an Excel spreadsheet - an Excel spreadsheet that lost the data of at least 16,000 people, while also begging the question how they spend £12bn of taxpayer’s money on an Excel spreadsheet, to which the answer is...they didn’t, it was existing software, they just pocketed the cash

It comes as no surprise that proven liar Boris Johnson puts the blame on the rising Covid numbers in the UK on the public - because it's definitely not been his master advisor breaking the lockdown rules to pop to Durham with his family after testing positive for Covid on what just so happened to be his wife’s birthday, not the Tory government changing the rules on masks when Michael Gove was spotted in Pret Manger without one, and definitely nothing to do with cases rising significantly within two weeks of the double whammy of the Tory government saying children “must” go back to school and people must go back to work as they can now be fired if they don’t. Definitely not their fault, Not at all...

The approach of the Tory government to Manchester being upgraded to Tier 3 boils down to initially promising to provide the fully-costed £60m package that Mayor of Manchester Andy Burnham requested, only to turn around and give them £20m instead and try and justify it by saying it boils down to £8 per head for the entire population. After all, if Burnham really wanted that money, he’d have been one of Dominic Cummings’ mates and completely unqualified for the job, as that’s the quickest way to open the purse strings as wide as he’d like

It was quite impressive that Margaret Ferrier came to the conclusion that, having tested positive for Covid while in London, obviously the best course of action would be to take a train journey 400 miles back to Scotland before self-isolating, because of course nobody else used that train

...although some of the Tory MPs criticising Ferrier really should have paused before commenting, mainly to check whether they were the ones vociferously defending Dominic Cummings for his 300 mile drive to Durham after testing positive or his subsequent drive to Bernard Castle to test his eyesight

Not only did the Tory government vote against giving free school meals to children a mere ten days after awarding Marcus Rashford an MBE for his work in trying to give underprivileged children free school meals, but they tried all manner of excuses to defend it best exemplified by Nicky Morgan saying she voted to let children starve because Angela Rayner called one of her parliamentary colleagues “scum”, while Twitter troll Ben Bradley claimed that people spent their free school meal vouchers in crack dens and brothels, before claiming he was “misquoted” - which is Tory code for “I have deleted that tweet, because I do not understand how screengrabs work”

Remember how Rishi Sunak has been presented as the human face of the Tory party? I have to ask, since he decided to yank £1000 a month from Universal Credit payments, and for some reason the “centrists” of Twitter who have been lionising him for several months have been oddly quiet

The batshittery of the Home Office has now extended to coming up with increasingly ludicrous plans to prevent migrants, with the latest bright idea of Priti Patel (and don’t pretend it was anyone else) being to have ships in the English Channel using pipes to blow air into the water that will create waves to send them back to France - as if a dinghy wouldn’t just steer around the ship, or that they wouldn’t make Calais and Sangat the best surfing destinations in northern France overnight

...and it got worse when we learned that Priti Patel was informed that a knife-wielding man stormed into the office of a migration solicitor spouting the exact same rhetoric and injured the receptionist, to which her response was to double down on the rhetoric as if she and proven liar Boris Johnson weren’t inciting violence at this point

...which makes smirking cretin Priti Patel issuing a statement expressing sadness at a couple of child migrants drowning in the English Channel about as sincere and reassuring as a card from Harold Shipman expressing sympathy for the death of an elderly relative

Not for the first time Keir Starmer managed to take all the focus off the Tories and onto the Labour party with his moronic approach to running his own party, namely by suspending Jeremy Corbyn for the crime of...hang on, he actually hasn't said what infraction Corbyn committed by responding to the EHRB report into antisemitism in the Labour party, but he suspended him anyway

...while Lisa Nandy supported this by using a blatant strawman argument saying “There are some on the left” who believe blatant anti semitic tropes...blatant anti semitic tropes that she invoked in the exact same sentence as her obvious strawman argument

Suspected rapist Brett Kavanaugh has been busy using legal loopholes to try and claim that votes in Wisconsin only count if they were tallied up on Election Day and no day past that. Because as we know, US Presidential Elections have often been straightforward affairs where both vote counts and recounts are always necessary, as Kavanaugh obviously remembers as he was working for George W Bush’s campaign in Florida after the 2000 election

How nice of the Tory government to use a parliamentary loophole to completely avoid allowing a vote on whether or not the UK should import chlorinated chicken, therefore enshrining both the importance of democracy and the importance of food safety standards - in the EU

Once again Keir Starmer seems to think “Opposition” means “Whip your MPs into abstaining”, this time on the Covert Human Intelligence Sources Bill, because as we all know letting legislation pass that absolves the police of any and all illegal activity is definitely going to win voters around

Good guy Rishi Sunak took the Tim Martin approach to worker relations by telling musicians to get another job if they were so worried about their finances - which not only ignores the fact that plenty of musicians do already have more than one job, but also begs the question why this same advice hasn’t been given to the landlords carping about rent holidays etc

Not only did The Sun blatantly lie by claiming a photo of Jeremy Corbyn taken at a wake was at a “posh dinner party” as obvious rage bait for their knuckle-dragging readership, but it has to be asked where they got the photos from as they weren’t shared publicly on Twitter or Instagram

...although the Freudian slip by the BBC when reporting the non-story, calling Corbyn “the Labour leader”, not only sums up just how shit they are at reporting facts these days, but also underlines he’s doing a better job of rattling the establishment’s cages than Keir Starmer has

Definitely not a conspiracy theorist Julia Halfwit Hartley-Brewer claimed that the government are combining Covid numbers and flu numbers so that they could...anyone got any idea what the point of making this up was?

Instead of keeping Robert Jenrick locked in a cupboard until the whole “Getting backhanders which influence who he gives property contracts to” thing goes away (spoilers: it won’t) instead they sent him out to justify £25m to a Jake Berry’s constituency - to which he said it was fine, as Jake Berry gave £25m to Jenrick’s constituency so there’s no reason to say anything dodgy is going on

For some strange reason Dominic Cummings doesn't have to face any charges for his failure to pay £30,000 worth of council tax on a property he also broke planning laws to have extended. Yes, there’s a reason I put this directly after the phases “Robert Jenrick” and “backhanders”...

The ridiculousness that is Liz Truss started the month proudly stating that post-Britait trade negotiations with the US would undermine Britsh farmers - and this wasn’t a flub, she genuinely meant to express this - and ended with the frankly baffling crowing from the Department of Trade about how “soya sauce” which was being sued by Great British Bake Off contestants would be cost the same post-departure thanks to the UK-Japan trade deal, which ignores the fact that most soy sauce is imported from China - also that paying zero tariffs on £100k of stilton being exported to a country with high lactose intolerance while Nissa, Toyota et al face no tariffs when importing tens of millions of pounds of cars a year is not what anyone should be calling a victory...unless they work for Nissan, Toyota et al, anyway

Convicted criminal Darren Grimes learned that there’s such a thing as “responsibility” when he learned that the police were investigating his interview with David Starkey for incitement of hatred, which could have easily been avoided if he was in any way competent or if he admitted he isn't a journalist - and of course, the usual voices of Toby Young, Laurence Fox and Julia Halfwit Hartley-Brewer all came running to his defence...and shut up when they were informed this ruling was introduced by Thatcher

Somebody should have explained to WWE that, when their move to ban their employees independent contractors from third party platforms such as Twitch already cast a remarkably negative light on their shady employment practices, they should ramp it up by demanding their employees independent contractors hand over those third party platforms and then out of the goodness of their hearts WWE would hand them a percentage of those earnings

As if Steve Baker describing himself as “the hard man of Britait” isn’t reason enough to include him, his demanding that the Church of England be disestablished if it doesn’t fall in line with their No Deal death cult certainly is

It has to be asked why Ross Clark saw Jacinda Ardern winning a a record mandate in the New Zealand elections so decided it was in his interests to write a Telegraph article claiming her Covid has been a disaster...you know, a country which currently has 0 cases and a total of 25 deaths since February. It’s almost as if the thought of a left-leaning leader who hasn’t had a disastrous response to Covid being rewarded by the electorate has Clark worried for some reason...

Professional victim Laurence Fox has identified the biggest problem in modern society: Sainsburys supporting Black History Month. Of course, it definitely wouldn’t be something like Laurence Fox calling anyone who disagrees with him a paedophile, that’s all part of a healthy society...

The latest idea of Tim Davie to make sure that BBC newsreaders remain compliant drones was to bring in a set of rules saying they are never allowed to state an opinion ever (no doubt aimed at Emily Maitlis, who did) and to ban that favourite buzzphrase of the right, any form of “virtue signalling” no matter how worthy the cause...except for wearing poppies, that’s still allowed, in spite being a clear example of this “virtue signalling” that Davie is banning

Complete and utter nutcase Dan Wootton is dangerous as well. That’s both the entry, and also a quote from Labour MP Chris Bryant in response to him banging on about herd immunity as if he's an expert and not The Sun’s showbiz bottom feeder who has been elevated for no logical reason

Once again Laura Kuenssberg is quoting anonymous “sources” critical of the Opposition - meaning she’s either not a very good journalist as she can’t even name her source, or she doesn’t have a source so she's a liar. Has anyone else noticed this is a regular occurrence with Kuenssberg yet?

How thoughtful of Manchester United and Liverpool to pitch a wonderful idea that the Premier League be reduced to eighteen teams, while also christening the concept with the definitely not Orwellian moniker of Project Big Picture under the guise of helping the Football League and not, say, easing their fixture lists by four league games per season. Of course, they’re volunteering to give up their Premier League places, aren’t they?

Once again Isabel Oakeshott just had to be on the wrong side of a story, this time howling in outrage that an anti-lockdown petition with 15,000 signatures is being ignored - signatures including Harold Shipman, Bernard Castle, Dominic Cummings of Bernard Castle, Dr Johnny Bananas, Dr Person Fakename, and last but by no means least, Dr Corona McCoronaface...

Former wrestler Joey Ryan is dealing with his wrestling career being over due to a wealth of allegations of him being a sexual abuser in the most healthy manner possible, namely filing lawsuits against literally anyone he can blame, be it the accusers, his former employers, or random people who call him out via social media

So far it appears Shaun Bailey is planning on winning the London Mayoral election with batshit promises to allow corporations to sponsor London Underground stations and change the names appropriately (which won’t be confusing for tourist guides...) and try and say that Sadiq Khan is at fault for fans not being allowed into football stadiums nationwide

Clueless grifter Tim Pool came up with a genius answer when asked why his “centrist” podcast only ever seems to have right-wing guests and that was to claim that his setup couldn’t handle remote interviews - which would make sense if a.) He hadn’t been saying how much money had been poured into his setup, b.) Zoom didn’t exist, and c.) We forget all the times he’s done remote interviews in the past

Your would think that Lars Sullivan would have learned to not potentially jeopardise WWE’s efforts to promote him after a combination of injury and also not mentioning him for months due to being a creepy bastard online, but no, as soon as he returned to TV he was being a creepy bastard to a yoga instructor - while using his official WWE Instagram account to be a creepy bastard

Not only did Alex Hutchison open himself up for criticism by outright stating that Twitch streamers can count themselves lucky that they don’t have to pay licensing fees to stream games and their careers would be over if they did, he also opened himself up for ridicule when his aforementioned idiotic statement led to Google seeing his Twitter bio and telling him that, no, he was not a lead designer for Stadia and needed to change that shit PDQ

Once again Arsenal showed their lack of understanding of juxtaposition, with them announcing their longtime mascot was being let go for cost-cutting measures - and then a few hours later announcing they’d signed a player with a £200k a week wage

Some faultless logic from Apple regarding the the iPhone 12: the box won’t include a charger or earbuds to reduce packaging...yet it cost the same as if it did, while also meaning people have to buy chargers and earbuds separately that requires far more packaging

To nobody’s surprise it’s clear that Kim Kardashian does need it explained to her that saying how haaaaaaaaaaaaaard it is to spend two weeks being screened and self-isolating so you can go to the private island for your birthday is galling most of the time, but outright disgusting during a global pandemic

Oh dear, it looks like Eric Trump tried being clever again asking how Joe Biden owns a house that’s worth $4m on his senator’s salary of $174k...only to be told that Biden bought the house for $185k, sold it in 1996, pays more than $750 in taxes and loves his son

And finally, testing positive for Covid, is Donald Trump - but he assures us that he is fine and definitely not a contamination risk having been pumped full of steroids and aborted foetus cells which are available to so many people, and definitely didn’t need a better Twitter password

#dickheads of the month

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aswithasunbeam · 5 years

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March 1807

A fork clattered onto the floor as Hamilton’s morning coffee splattered across the clean, white tablecloth. His newspaper had a smear of syrup streaked across an advertisement on the back page from where he’d slammed it onto his plate, his eyes wide as he read the latest news of Burr’s supposed plot to make himself an emperor. “Burr’s been arrested!”

“Alexander,” Eliza sighed. She adjusted the inkwell he’d upset on the table, moving it further away from the ledger she’d been scratching in all morning. “Was that really necessary?”

“Here, Papa,” James said, reaching down to retrieve the fork from the floor.

“Look at this!” He scanned the front page again, taking in more of the details around the arrest. “Burr was discovered in the Mississippi territory. Nicholas Perkins took a detachment of men to Major Hinson’s home, after giving instructions to two mysterious men. One of the men ‘had on a white hat with a brim rather broad than otherwise, a long beard, a checkered Hankerchief around his neck, and a great coat belted around him to which as hanging a tin cup on one side and butchers knife on the other.’ This reads like a scene from a damn novel.”1

“Alexander,” Eliza’s voice turned sharp as she glanced pointedly at William, who was watching him with rapt attention.

His eyes continued to scan over the accounts of the arrest and Burr’s subsequent escape. “They have him in disguise, fleeing from Federal forces. They’re already laying the groundwork for a treason charge. This is outrageous.”

“Is it?” Eliza asked coolly.

“Ugh, and this: ‘Burr was a great rascal when he attempted to kill Hamilton.’ Ha! As if they cared. But now the Federalists believe that as Burr seeks ‘to divide the Union, destroy the Constitution, turn Congress out of doors, assassinate Jefferson, and establish a monarchy – he is a pretty clever fellow again!’”2

“Did Mr. Burr plan to assassinate President Jefferson as part of his plot?” James asked, craning his neck to look at the paper for himself. “I hadn’t heard that.”

“Nobody’s heard it. Jefferson’s lost his mind. He’s descended into paranoid delusions. There’s no way he can actually believe any of this, can he?”

“Why shouldn’t he?” Eliza removed her spectacles and set down her quill. “Burr’s proven himself plenty dangerous when provoked. And he hasn’t distinguished himself as a paragon of loyalty or virtue recently, either, has he?”

“That was different. Burr didn’t hide in the bushes to attack me from the side of the road like an assassin. He called me out as a gentleman. It was my own folly that I answered him.” He looked at James as he spoke, hoping to instill with words the example he’d so spectacularly failed to set with his actions.

“I don’t know anything, except I watched you almost die because that fiend had his feelings hurt over a newspaper article. Perhaps Jefferson isn’t so far off the mark on this.”

“It’s the beginning of our very own reign of terror, Eliza. Don’t you see? No better than a witch hunt.”

“You’re so certain Burr’s not a witch?” she asked, seizing the metaphor.

“That’s the sort of thinking that leads to mass hysteria.”

“He’s ambitious. Viciously so. He’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants. I, for one, don’t think the charges against him are so outrageous.”

“Only because you’re still angry with him.”

“Yes.” She looked hard at him, unrepentant of her position.

“That’s a reason to let him hang for a crime that lives almost entirely in Jefferson’s imagination?”

“You don’t know that. You’ve been as quick to judgment as everyone else. You’re so set against Jefferson, that you’re willing to believe the best in a man who tried to kill you not so long ago. Burr’s committed crimes enough to justify me believing the worst.”

He stared at her for a long moment, unused to disagreeing with her so vehemently about politics. It’s not that she blindly took his side on things typically, but even where their opinions diverged, she wasn’t usually so concerned that she’d spend much time arguing with him over it. Not unless he asked her to, of course, so that he might better craft his own arguments.

She was hard set against Burr, though, uninterested in any view that set him as a pawn in Jefferson’s bid to take power for himself. Which made the idea formulating in his head even more problematic.

So much was happening in the wider world, while he stayed ensconced in New York, taking on paltry insurance cases and coming home to his family each evening. He’d needed that while he recovered: the predicable schedule, the short hours, the cocoon of his loving home. But he was starting to chafe at the restriction now. Burr was being chased across the continent like a desperado while he sat safe in his country retreat.

“The trial will be in Richmond over the summer,” he observed.

Her mouth drew into a tight line.

“That’s not such a great distance away, really. Especially considering I’ll be going to Philadelphia for work already—”

“No.” She doesn’t raise her voice, but her nostrils have flared, anger boiling behind her dark eyes. The refusal left no room for argument.

He fought not to bristle at the abrupt interruption. “We could take the little ones with us. And time away would give me a chance to focus more on my new project. You know how hard it is for me to research and write with visitors and business on the doorstep at all hours.”

“No, Alexander.”

“Betsey—”

She shook her head, pushed back from the table, and snapped her ledger book shut.

She avoided him for much of the rest of the day.

It wasn’t hard for her, exactly. She’d already been spending most of her time at the New York Orphan Asylum, after having been named Second Directress of the new organization. Her nose was constantly in her ledger book, tracking donations, paying bills, keeping the whole charity afloat as they housed, fed, and educated the most vulnerable and unfortunate children in the city.

It was well past dark when he finally heard the front door open. He was sitting in the parlor with little Eliza and Phil, an assortment of books laid out on the table before him as he scribbled notes down. His planned essay series on governments throughout history had been too long delayed by his injury, but with Gouverneur Morris and James Kent’s assistance, it was finally underway.

“Like this,” his younger daughter was explaining, holding her palms face out to her little brother. “Patty cake, patty cake, baker’s man, bake me a cake—no Phil, you clap my hands there. Watch again.”

Hamilton smiled at the children, though his shoulders were tense as he heard Eliza approaching. She paused in the entryway, watching their two youngest at play for a long moment before entering. Then he felt her gaze land on him. She regarded him silently, sighed, then came around to stand behind his chair. Her arms slid around him, her nose nuzzling his neck affectionately.

“Hello, my love,” she whispered. All traces of anger had gone.

“Hello,” he said, wary, but welcoming. “Are you done saving the world for the day?”

“Saving the world is a bit of a strong description for a day of balancing a budget and singing nursery rhymes.”

“I disagree.”

She laughed, soft and low, her breath a warm puff against his skin. “Of course you do.”

Relaxing back into her arms, he reached back to brush his hand over her cheek. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” Her lips ghosted over his ear lobe. “Have you eaten?”

“Yes.”

“The children?”

“We all managed to feed and water ourselves in your absence. Much as I depend on you, I’m not as useless as that.” He made sure to keep the tone of his voice light. The work she had undertaken was as wonderful as it was important, but he knew it bothered her that it took her away from her own family for long stretches of the day.

“I know, sweetheart,” she assured him. “But it’s my prerogative to worry over you.”

Phil clapped as he finished the rhyme with his sister, their hands having moved perfectly in unison for the first time. “Again!”

“Faster, this time,” little Eliza said.

He and Eliza both laughed as they watched their two youngest flail their hands about, creating a flurry of little fingers. Phil, in his excitement, missed his sister’s hands completely and nearly sent her toppling backwards on the last clap. “Phil,” she whined.

“Again,” the little boy demanded.

“Maybe we should do it slower again.”

Eliza sighed behind him. “Are you ready to talk about our disagreement this morning?”

“If you are.” He hadn’t been the one to lose his temper and stalk out, after all.

She grasped at the back of his chair and wheeled him from the parlor to his office, clicking the door closed behind them. When she had him settled in front of the desk, facing the interior of the room, she sat down in the armchair before him, and waited. Apparently, this talk wasn’t going to begin with an apology, or an admission that she’d seen the error of her ways.

“I haven’t changed my mind,” he said.

Her jaw clenched.

“I want to go. I need to go. I’m tired of reading about momentous events in the papers, Betsey. If I’m not going to act, I might as well have died on the field that morning with Burr.”

“Don’t say that,” she snapped, pained.

“It’s true.”

“It’s not. You have me, our family, your law practice, your health, mostly. Why can’t that be enough? Why do you have to go meddle in business that has nothing to do with you?”

“It has everything to do with me. I live in this country. I spilled my blood to see it free. I’ll be damned if I let Jefferson drive us into a dictatorship, like the Napoleon of North America. For all he says about Burr, he’s the one in the prime position to seize power. I can see now why he felt so warmly towards the French Revolution.”

“Alexander.” No heat remained in the interjection, only a weary note of caution.

“This is important to me. Very important. This trial will go down in the history books one way or another, and I need to be a part of it. I can make a difference. I can ensure things turn out right. But I can’t do it without you. I need you with me. Please?”

She tilted her head slightly, then sighed again. “For you. And only for you.”

“I don’t understand why you can’t forgive Burr, when you forgave me so freely.”

“I’m not in love with Burr,” she answered immediately.

He laughed, then sobered, unsure how felt about that being the sole ground for his own pardon. “So, if you weren’t in love with me, you would still be nursing a grudge?”

“If I weren’t in love with you,” she echoed, seeming to turn the words over on her tongue. Her eyes closed for a long moment. “You know, I can’t begin to imagine such a world.”

He smiled at that. They were so tangled up with each other, their lives so tightly entwined, he hadn’t the first notion of what life would be like without Eliza’s love. “I hope I never live to see it.”

She rose, leaned in, and pressed a tender kiss to his forehead. “You never will.”

“So, you’ll come with me to Richmond?”

“Yes,” she agreed at last. “I’ll come with you. But I make no promise of cordiality towards Burr.”

“Just so long as you’re with me,” he said.

#hamilton fanfic #alexander hamilton #eliza hamilton #life hereafter #hamliza

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itsthecupbros · 5 years

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Afraid of Your Own Shadow: Muse is unnaturally skittish and afraid of everything around them.

What Are You, Chicken?: Muse gets the chicken pox. Anon decides if there are any magical side effects.

Man Overboard!: Muse develops an intense fear of water.

Feeling Guilty: Muse is convinced they are wanted for a crime they have commited. Anon can decide what the crime was.

?yako uoy erA: Muse is cursed to speak backwards.

Happy Days: Muse is forced to keep a permanent smile.

Do Not Pass Go: Muse is put in a small prison without escape or bail.

All About the Money: Muse becomes obsessed with money and refuses to spend any of it.

My Big Day: Muse believes they are to be wed to the person of anon's choice.

I'm Melting!: Muse cannot stop bleeding from the mouth, nose, or eyes (anon's choice). Muse cannot pass out from blood loss.

Holy Halo: Muse is dressed like an angel and can float.

The Living Dead: Muse dies and becomes a living corpse. Comes back to life when time is up.

S-S-Stop!: Muse develops a bad stutter.

The Invisible Man: Muse's body becomes invisible; this does not apply to clothing.

Thou Wretched Fool!: Muse believes they are a medieval knight.

Poet In Hiding: Muse can only speak in rhyme.

Awkward Stage: Muse becomes a teenager. If Muse is already a teenager, they become an adult.

The Reaper Crys!: Muse becomes obsessed with death. Anon decides if it is another Muse's death or their own.

Frozen to the Core: Muse becomes extremely cold natured and seeks any form of warmth.

Shut the Blinds: Muse becomes allergic to the sun.

1ST JUL 2013

2,049 NOTES

Baker Baker: Muse won't and refuses to stop cooking.

Russian Roulette: Muse is given a gun with one bullet that must be used to shoot someone/something of Mun's choosing. Ends when shot is executed.

All That Glitters: Muse becomes obsessed with shiny objects.

Just Shut Up!: Muse hears voices in their head. Anon can pick whose voice it is.

Bury the Hatchet: Muse believes they have a murder weapon, and will try to hide it at all costs. Anon can choose the murder weapon.

Achoo!: Muse becomes allergic to something precious to them. Anon can decide what this is.

Just Like Rapunzel: Muse has extremely long hair that cannot be cut.

For Science!: Muse suddenly has the urge to become a test subject. Anon may choose who's subject he is.

That's Not Punny: Muse feels inclined to make a pun about almost everything.

Nice Boxers: Muse believes they are stripped down to their underwear, even if they are fully clothed.

The Fairest Queen of Kings: Muse must dress in drag/drab.

Mankind's Best Friend: Muse feels the need to keep their pet or some animal with them at all times. Anon may choose which animal Muse desires.

Insomniac: Muse desperately wants to go to sleep, but cannot.

It's Pouring!: Muse keeps a cloud over their head, which will rain depending on their mood. Anon can decide what mood it rains on.

Technologic: Muse is turned into a robot.

You've Got Mail!: Muse believes they have an important message for the person of Anon's choosing. Anon can also choose what the message says.

Sufferin' Succotash!: Muse develops a lisp.

The Life of Mime: Muse becomes a mute and is forced to wear a mime outfit, along with proper mime makeup.

Freeze!: Muse freezes up for a few seconds whenever a certain word is said. Anon may choose the word.

Round and Round: Muse develops vertigo, and cannot stand, walk or run too much without feeling dizzy and/or sick.

1ST JUL 2013

439 NOTES

The Premature Burial: Muse has catalepsy, thought to be dead, and is buried alive with no provisions and no hope, for ____(duration specified by anon)

The Black Cat: Muse is a perpetual drunk prone to abuse, be it animal or domestic, for ___(duration specified by anon)

The Pit and the Pendulum: Muse is a convicted felon and sentenced to death. Anon specifies form/duration of torture.

The Raven: Muse is masochistic for ___(duration specified by anon)

Annabel Lee: Muse loses their one true love and suffers from a broken heart (duration specified by anon; muse can die from broken heart should the anon choose it).

The Masque of the Red Death: Muse is afraid of death and has a lethal disease whose symptoms include sharp pains, dizziness, profuse bleeding, and red stains, causing him/her to be shunned from society. Lasts for____(duration specified by anon)

The Tell-Tale Heart/Murders of the Rue Morgue: Muse is paranoid of others and upon killing them, tries to hide the bodies of his/her victims, all while evading arrest through use of wiles. Lasts for____(duration specified by anon)

Fall of the House of Usher: Muse becomes a shut-in consigned to the hospital, incapable of caring for him/herself and in need of special, degrading attention. Lasts for ___(duration specified by anon)

Ligeia: Muse is deathly ill and dies, but resurrects in the body of another person. Anon specifies duration and the body of the other deceased.

William Wilson: Muse is manipulated by their alter ego and believes his/her rival to physically exist; but being unable to escape his/her personal demons, ultimately commits a murder-suicide in an attempt to vanquish said rival.

1ST JUL 2013

122 NOTES

Scary Monsters and Nice Sprites: Your muse feels the need to hide from everyone. Anon specifies the time length.

Rise and Shine Little Bitch: Your muse has just woken up from an excruciating hangover that lasts one day.

Pretend it's a Video Game: Level up! Your muse is now a video game character. It lasts for 5 days.

With you, Friends (Long Drive): Your muse suddenly feels extremely adventurous. Anon specifies the time length.

Bikinis and Big Booties Y'all: Whoo! For one entire night, your muse suddenly wants to get drunk and party.

Never Gonna Get This Pussy: Your muse is feeling so fragile that if anyone touches them, they're mentally impure. Anon specifies the time length.

Smell this money: For one night, your muse has an urge to go and rob something. Anon Specifies where they rob.

Park Smoke: For one night, your muse stays outside {with an optional cigarette}, due to their belief that if they go inside their settlement, they'll get sick of slow suffocation and die.

Your friends ain't gonna leave with you: Your muse is afraid that everyone they care about will forget about/leave them.

Ride Home: Your muse gets extreme nostalgia that doesn't go away until {Anon specifies}

Son of Scary Monsters: Muse acts like a stubborn child that must scare everyone for {Anon Specifies the time length}

Big 'Ol Scardy Pants: Your muse is afraid of everything. Everything. Lasts 2 days.

Scary Monsters on Strings: Your muse is a puppet on strings. 3 days.

Lights: Turn the lights on! Your muse has a sudden addiction to lights. All lights are beautiful. Must look at lights. Lasts a full week.

1ST JUL 2013

32 NOTES

Castle in the Sky Your Muse see a Castle in the sky and goes up to the sky and see it real For__

Angel of Darkness Your Muse become evil with dark powers and become The Angel of Darkness and Try to take over For__

Earth Wind Water & Fire Yous Muse Have power(Ex.Earth powers) For__

Roses are Red Your Muse Is love with (anon tell to who) For__

Bumble Bee Your Muse Has a feeling love for(anon tell to who) For__

Superstar Your Muse Become Rich and Famous For__

Dam Dadi Do Your Muse Dance Non-Stop For__

1ST JUL 2013

1,204 NOTES

The classiest M!A list you’ll ever see compiled by yours truly and Tomas mun. All times are specified by anon or mun.

Taming of the Shrew: Your muse turns into an obstinate, headstrong person who has to be tamed into being compliant and good again

The Tempest: Your muse has been caught in a terrible shipwreck and is stranded on a seemingly uninhabited island (other muses can be on island too if mun agrees)

Romeo and Juliet: Your muse has fallen /desperately/ in love with the one person they know they can’t have

As You Like It: Your muse has to pretend to be the opposite gender for whatever reason the anon or mun think is appropriate

Macbeth: Your muse is convinced they have killed someone-or maybe they really have- and is going mad with guilt

A Midsummers Night Dream: Your muse is now some strange part them part animal hybrid (anon specifies animal)

The Merchant of Venice: Your muse owes a large sum of money to someone on pain of death (anon specifies when the money is due by)

A Comedy of Errors: Your muse either develops an evil twin /or/ the muse goes around pretending to do loads of things and blaming it on their 'twin'

King Lear: Your muse is descending into complete madness

Richard III: Your muse wants to trade really important items for really menial ones

Winter's Tale: Your muse is frozen and can’t move but they can hear and see fine.

Hamlet: Your muse is overcome by a death or tragedy in their past, and seeks revenge on whichever character/person they believe to be most responsible for it.

Much Ado About Nothing: Your muse unashamedly attempts to seduce as many characters as he/she can

Henry V: The muse embarks on war/battle against a character/threatening force

Julius Caesar: Your muse thinks everyone is stabbing them in the back, literally or metaphorically

Othello: Your muse thinks his/her lover is cheating on them with their best friend. Alternatively, if you prefer / if your muse has no lover, your muse plots to convince /another/ character that /their/ lover is cheating on them with their best friend

Twelth Night: Your muse disguises themselves as the opposite gender/as someone else, which either directly or accidentally creates an awkward love situation or a love triangle.

Sonnet: Either your muse can now only speak in sonnet form /or/ they are going around pronouncing their undying love for everyone.

1ST JUL 2013

50 NOTES

Ico: Muse now has horns protruding from their head.

Yorda: Muse has to be literally led by the hand everywhere. If left alone, they will just stay in one spot.

Queen: Muse wants to take over someone's body to continue living. (Anon decides who)

Wander: Muse slowly becomes paler, and dark splotches will form on their skin and clothes over time.

Mono: Muse is dead, and will only wake up after a certain amount of time.

Dormin: Muse is disembodied and can only go back in their body when they are given sixteen of a particular item. (Anon decides what item)

1ST JUL 2013

131 NOTES

All M!As are inspired by the tv show "Animalia"!

The Mists of Time: There are ancient, elephant-sized, ravenous frogs everywhere. Perhaps your muse is hallucinating, perhaps not, but either way, they're scared of being eaten. 7 hours.

Catcher in the Rhyme: Your muse suddenly can't stop speaking in rhymes. If they say a word without a rhyme, their muscles cramp up and they get cold, freezing themselves stiffer each time. 5 hours.

Forget Me Not: Long-term and short-term memory loss. Who are you? Oh, ok. Wait, who are you? 3 hours.

Long Story Short: Did you hear about...? Gossip is being spread from the mouth of your muse, and it keeps getting worse and worse because they aren't really listening to anyone but themselves. 3 hours.

Speechless in Animalia: Your muse just wants some peace and quiet! And they get it... in spades. Deaf and mute. 1 day.

Don Iguana: Your muse just started reading Don Quixote and is inspired to fight crime! They become d'Avenger of d'Whatevercountrytheylivein. They lose sleep while fighting crime, eventually being to hallucinate. They really should have finished that book first... 2 days.

Over and Beyond: One day your muse meets a unicorn. And the next they are held captive by a dragon. 2 days.

Being Peter Applebottom: Your muse suddenly thinks they're a genius. A condescending, pompous, arrogant genius who hates laughter and playfulness. "Comedy is low, sophomoric, crass. I don't practice it." 2 days.

Brain Drain: Your muse swaps intellect with another muse. 1 day.

The World According to Iggy: Your muse is a hero! Well... in their eyes they are! They've got a sudden desire to tell everyone of fantastical tales -starring themselves- that are extreme exaggerations. 1 day.

Gettting Over the Glums: Your muse inhales the pollen of a strange plant. They become lethargic and depressed, and slump on the nearest couch. The only cure is a good, long laugh. (And ticking won't work!) 12 hours.

The Day Zoe Listened: Your muse makes a vow to go a day without talking. But as the silence goes on, your muse starts to hear whispers in the trees. Hallucinations? Dryads? Who knows. 1 day.

Alex's Treasure Island: Time for a treasure hunt! Your muse is searching high and low for Captain Flint's hoard, getting greedier all the time. That pretty necklace around that other muse's throat... why, it's a part of the trove! 16 hours.

The Animal Within: OOOGAAAAH. Suddenly, your muse is acting like a wild animal. Eating with their face, scratching themselves, grunting... 7 hours.

Scary Story Go Round: Your muse is now the hapless victim in a horror movie. Tripping, screaming, rallying the rebels to take on the monsters. 1 day.

The Ballad of the Creeper: Your muse is a blethering ninny. "Whacka-doo, whacka-doo, whacka-doo!" 3 hours.

From 'A' to 'Z': Your muse starts forgetting words. "Could you please move that ch... ch... that thing! That thing that you sit on! What's it called again?" 12 hours.

The Dragon and the Night: Your muse is afraid of non-existent trolls and the dark, and is too embarrassed to admit to either. 12 hours.

Tomorrow: Your muse thinks the world is going to end tomorrow. 1 day.

Guardians of the Core: Your muse can't stop singing and dancing. Whatever song pops into their head, they will perform. 3 hours.

Back to the Present: Your muse is traveling back home, perhaps one day to return, perhaps not. 12 hours.

What the World Needs Now: Your muse gains the powers of a god. They can change the world to their ideals... but should they? 7 hours.

1ST JUL 2013

3,876 NOTES

Paint it Red: Muse becomes blood-crazy. They want to see it, taste it, and feel it in any way or form.

Overprotective: Muse becomes obsessive of the next person in their inbox.

Over the Edge: Muse's mental health has skyrocketed down, making them very unstable.

Burning Up: Muse feels extremely hot and can't seem to get cool.

Hypochondriac: Muse thinks they have an illness (chosen by anon), even though they are completely healthy.

Heartache: Muse feels a sharp pain in their chest every time they think of their lover (or someone/thing they love).

Not Yourself: Muse has the personality of a character of anon's choice.

Double Trouble: Muse has an exact copy of themself to deal with. Only the copy secretly wants to kill them.

Heavily Accented: Muse's voice has an unfamiluar accent to it, which is chosen by anon.

Night Owl: Muse has trouble staying awake during the day and going to sleep at night.

A Holy Man?!: Muse takes everything literally.

A World of Color: Muse becomes colorblind. If Muse is already colorblind, they can now see colors.

Congratulations!: Muse is given a baby and told it's theirs. Anon can tell them who the 'other parent' is.

A Haunting I Will Go!: Muse becomes a ghost that must haunt the person of anon's choice.

Bittersweet: Everything Muse eats turns to candy in their mouth. The reverse effect goes for actual candy, which turns into a random food.

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korkrunchcereal · 6 years

Text

Red Crown Rebellion

Bal-Varos Eyvor had always detested winter. It was a bitter experience of starvation and struggle that left men dead or weak. As lord of the Okenwald, it was his duty to ensure his people were safe. Yet winter had come, brought on by invaders from beyond the sea. As the snow fell, Bal-Varos was forced to bend the knee to a tyrant. He had been forced to listen to the orders of an Indaris and a High Elf simply to survive. He did what he needed to for his people, yet now the time had come to do what he needed for his country.

The letter had arrived three days previous in secret, borne by a man Bal-Varos had never met but had slipped through to his command tent. The man had spoken not a word as he swiftly passed on the letter, before departing. Bal-Varos had spotted immediately the seal of House Indaris upon the letter, yet more importantly the color.

A red seal.

Three days past agonizingly slow, due in no small part to the tenuous wait. He hated the waiting; always did. Time gave way to hesitation and the uncertainty of choice. Yet he needed to wait for the various pieces of the plan to move into position. Three lords of the Gilded Lands had plotted in secret before the High Elf occupation, and it was time to see their plots to fruition.

Bal-Varos wrapped his black furred cloak around himself, staring upwards at the walls of Waycrest and the high elven guards. The small city had been host to a scheme most foul, headed by its former Lord Moonsworn and his son. Yet their plotting had failed, leaving a broken home and an empty throne. For a moment, Bal-Varos mused over the irony that yet more treachery spawned in the northern holding. Would his own plans fall to ruin, much as Moonsworn’s did?

His boots crunched against the snow as he began walking. The tents of the Gilded army lay sprawled out in the near blinding whiteness of frost. Overheard, the sky had turned grey with clouds swollen with rain, or perhaps snow. It was a dark and dreary day and Bal-Varos could not help but shudder at the cold. Around him, soldiers offered salutes, bows and simple acknowledgements to the Lord of the South.

Much of the army was made up of his own men. The Eyvorian Guard were the best fighting force in all the Gilded Lands. None within the golden holdings could match the rangers in accuracy and speed, or the guard in their prowess for they clashed often with the forest trolls and thus were born of combat. It was why Eyvor remained strong and maintained the borders from troll excursions. Winter however bought some respite from the marauding warbands of the south, enough to pull troops away for this moment.

The rest were smatterings of troops levied from the multitude of lords and ladies. It was a rainbow assembly of colors near overwhelmed by the green, yellow and black of Eyvor, but their addition would prove useful. It was a force numbering near six hundred men in total, yet they were not alone. Bal-Varos cast his gaze northward along the wall, spotting the faint outline of tents. Aurelian had called on the Greyhall tp to send troops, and thus had brought them into the plot.

Their force was much smaller, perhaps some three hundred men though they were the elite of the province. Among their number Bal-Varos knew was the vaunted Greyflame Knights, led by his son in law Hyserian. As well were peerless storm-magi and sharp-eyed rangers and though small in number they were quite formidable. Notably absent were forces from House Squallcrest and Blacksand, though such was the plan of Indaris and the Lady of the Tempest.

“Lord Eyvor.” A familiar woman’s voice escaped behind him, Bal-Varos turning with a smile.

“Ranger Captain.” Bal-Varos gave a nod to his daughter Elandril. “Come, walk with me.”

“As you wish.” Bal-Varos waited for Elandril to approach, before he began walking. “The captains have been briefed as per your requests and await your signal, as have your bodyguards.”

“Good, good. And the governor?”

“He has been informed you wish to speak at the Manse and awaits you there.”

“Ah, excellent. What do we know of the north?”

“My husband confirmed that Lord Saderis’ plan worked…weasel bastard.” At that Bal-Varos chuckled, nodding.

“Aye, the Lord Mistborn as he likes to be called now is a bit of one, but he’s been useful so far.”

“Yes, but how long until the snake turns against us?”

“As long as it's more profitable for him to help us, he won’t. But if he decides to be a snake? Well, we’re neighbors.” Elandril rolled her eyes at his statement.

“As you say, my lord.” She looked over, noticing the morose expression his face as he looked up at the opened gates. “What’s wrong?”

“This whole damn mess. We should have seen the war coming.”

“We did, but we can only do so much. The other lords and ladies were too prideful and ignorant, and it comes back to bite them.”

“So goes the history of the Gilded Lands.”

“It didn’t help that Indaris pulled his stunt.” The name Indaris was spoken in a curse, as if the word was a disgusting taste on Elandril’s lips.

“No it did not, but what choice did he have? What choice did we all have?”

“We could have fought,” She suggested.

“And we would have been put under arrest like Saderis the elder or the various other lords that then went missing or be killed. No, sometimes the hunter must be the prey.” Elandril let the statement hang, remaining silent as the two walked through Waycrest’s streets. Snow covered the ground, and very few people were out. Those that were outside were Quel’dorei, who eyed the two in suspicion. Once or twice they saw a Sin’dorei scurrying through the streets, heavily cloaked due to the weather.

“Bah.” Elandril muttered. “It was a mistake letting the High Elves into our lands.”

“There have been many mistakes in this war, but the return of our brethren is not so great a mistake.”

“Father?” She had dropped Bal-Varos honorific, confusion in her tone.

“Look at them, my daughter. They are bakers, craftsmen, statesmen; common people who only wish to live in their former home. They sailed with the ‘High King’ to seek their old way of life. For many here this is the first time in over a decade they’ve stepped foot on Quel’thalas soil. The only crime they committed was leaving when Prince Kael’thas turned to darker paths to survive. They simply chose another way to survive.”

“I suppose so…”

“Of the many injustices Merik has done or proposes, the unity of our dying people is not one of them.”

“What of the soldiers that march under his banner? That slay our people?”

“Ah, that is the question isn’t it? I suppose in time we shall see. For now however we must focus on the presence. If I recall my studies of Waycrest’s layout correctly…ah yes, there we are. The old Moonsworn manse.” Just ahead was the half-damaged remains of the former House Moonsworn’s estate. Half of it had been blown away, leaving a massive hole in the building. The other half had been all but sealed off by the governor who, for some strange reason, had taken the cursed estate as his abode. Perhaps it was because it was abandoned, or perhaps that despite the damage it still remained on the non-destroyed side one of the nicer locations in the city.

As the two approached, several Quel’dorei guards, had been lazily leaning on a nearby wall, perked up. Gods Bal-Varos could weep at the discipline they had. Then again, they didn’t expect any real threat. This was their city now, for there were more high elven troops in the city than Sin’dorei outside. Yet some instinct at least warned the Quel’dorei to investigate the large man and the woman that approached.

“Halt; what business have you with governor Feron?”

“Lord Bal-Varos Eyvor requested an audience with the governor. I am sure you were at least warned of that?”

“Ah, right. Weapons, please.”

“Weapons? I am a lord of the Gilded Lands. I carry them where I please”

“And you’re to be in the presence of the governor. He’s more important than you, blood elf. Weapons…now.” Elandril narrowed her eyes, a hand slowly moving to the sword at her side.

“Alright, alright. If the Governor is so damned paranoid about two lone blood elves in a mansion filled with his soldiers, so be it.” Bal-Varos unlatched his scabbard at his side, offering it out the High Elves. It took both hands for the High elf to grab it, the man gasping in surprise at both size and weight. Begrudgingly Elandril followed suit, offering out a pair of daggers, her bow and quiver, and her sword to the guards.

“Proceed, Sin’dorei.” Bal-Varos gave a nod of his head as he lumbered into the manse. Behind him, he could overhear the guards muttering to each other.

“That was the Bear?”

“I’ve seen cats put up more of a fight.”

“He knows his place here.”

“They insult you, father.” Elandril’s fists were clenched as she walked alongside Bal-Varos, knuckles near white at the indignity.

“Aye, but we must play this game just a little longer. It has been many years since I’ve been in this dreadful place. If I recall correctly…we go down this hall.” Past a multitude of armed guards they walked, ignoring the suspicious glances and glares thrown their way. Ahead they can hear distant murmurs behind a guarded door which, as Bal-Varos correctly assumed, was where the governor was currently. The guards opened the door for the two, letting them hear the conversation.

“-and that is why these Sin’dorei need to…” The pale faced and spindly Governor Duke Feron paused mid-sentence as he became aware of the entrance of the Eyvors. His lip curled up, arms crossing. “Hello Bal-Varos.”

“Governor Feron.” Bal-Varos gave a bow of his head in respect, his daughter following suit. Quickly his eyes darted over the room and at the individuals inside. It was a handful of various high elves in different uniforms that Bal-Varos could not place but nevertheless assumed meant these were ‘distinguished’ individuals among the occupation force. “My thanks for allowing me to speak with you.”

“Yes, well I am a busy man considering the supposed rebellion in the Southwest, but your messenger was very insistent on the need to speak. What do you want?”

“You had yesterday wished to, as I heard, ‘report to me the offenses of my soldiers’?”

“Ah yes, of course! I was just speaking with the good captain Heroux here about the situation.” Feron waved a hand to an armored and scarred high elf at his side. “Your ‘soldiers’ if such a name is fitting for such brigands have been stirring up trouble in the taverns and inns of the city.”

“My men are just enjoying all the taverns this city has to offer, governor. I was not aware such was a cause for problem.”

“It is when they assault my own men.” Captain Heroux finally spoke up. “Harassing and assaulting Quel’dorei soldiers off duty and starting bar fights is hardly fit of a proper military.”

“Have they now?” The doubt in Bal-Varos’ tone was plain for all to hear, some shifting uncomfortably as the large man crossed his own arms. Even unarmed, Bal-Varos was a large and imposing man whose very presence commanded respect. Governor Feron, however, gave none.

“I don’t know how it is done in the backwater south where your lands are, but among civilized society there is nothing like your men have been doing.” Bal-Varos snorted at that, smirking.

“Captain Elandril; tell me, have the men reported any of these so called ‘bar fights’?”

“No, my lord. Nor did I assume they started any fights, for none of them have returned from being off duty with any kind of injury. Unless of course this ‘proper’ military of yours has no idea how to even throw a punch.” Feron’s lip pulled up in annoyance, eyebrows rising in contempt.

“Charming, girl. You will not be so insolent once the High King hears of this dismissal.”

“Ah, not to worry governor I will ensure the men receive a proper talking to of their conduct. They are simply…chafing at being forced outside the walls.”

“For the people’s own protection.”

“Bah; near a thousand Quel’dorei troops in this city can’t protect the people? Come now governor you’re beginning to insult me if you think my soldiers so barbarous as to threaten civilians.”

“Would they not? Your lands are quite close to the trolls; I wouldn’t be surprised if you shared some of your ‘culture’. It would explain quite a few things about your captain. She is quite the dire looking one.” That brought a chorus of snickering from the high elves, but not from Bal-Varos or his daughter.

“Careful governor; your tongue is getting the best of you. Would be quite a shame if I had to rip it out of your pretty little head.” There was a ringing of steel as swords were drawn, the near dozen high elves armed at the threat.

“No, it’s not the troll’s fault for your daughter, Bal-Varos. It’s you.” Feron stepped right up to Bal-Varos, looking up in order to meet his gaze. “So brutish and uncouth. No wonder Aurelian became prince; at least him and his soldiers have proper civility.” Bal-Varos ears’ perked, the great bear staring down at Feron.

“Are you suggesting, governor, that Aurelian’s soldiers are in any way superior to my own?”

“Ah, I see subtlety is actually beyond you Eyvor. Let me explain more clearly. Aurelian for all his obnoxiousness at least knows how to conduct himself to his betters, as do his soldiers. There is a reason the High King requested Indaris troops. Not Eyvor ones.” Bal-Varos’ ears perked again though not at the conversation at hand, the faint ghost of a smirk visible on his features. They couldn’t hear it.

“Let’s get one thing straight, Duke.” Bal-Varos leaned down, eyes not leaving Feron even as the other high elves approached.

“It’s alright; he wouldn’t dare put a finger on me or Merik would annihilate his lands, his house and his family. He’s a dog that thinks himself a bear. Go on, Eyvor. What is this one thing?” At that Bal-Varos grinned, noting now the unease Feron had in his surprising reaction.

“Indaris’ toy soldiers are nothing compared to my men, and you all made the grave mistake of leaving me my troops.” Before Feron could respond further, shouting escaped outside the doors. Bal-Varos lifted his head slowly as the Quel’dorei looked past him.

“What is going on out there?” Screaming was the answer, followed by the thud of something heavy on the floor. The doors flew open as figures streamed inside. Neither Bal-Varos or Elandril turned, knowing precisely who it was. They simply watched the expressions of the others, taking great satisfaction at the confusion, surprise and fear written plain on their faces.

They were dead before they could utter a word in shock, as green fletched arrows pierced throats and hearts. Governor Feron was the only one left standing, though now panic spread across his face. He tried to stammer out anything, stepping back and falling hard on the ground. He looked down, shrieking as he realized he had tripped over the corpse of Heroux whose mouth, opened wide in a scream, was stained by the blood oozing from where his eyes had been.

“Wh-what is the meaning of this!” Twelve Sin’dorei adorned in the emerald cloaks and hood of the Eyvor rangers stood beside their lord, bows drawn. Troll bone jewelry and trophies jingled on their persons while their fists had been stained crimson, giving the air of barbarity to the elves. Feron had been right about one thing; the Eyvor soldiers had picked up some things from the Trolls.

“Come now Feron, where was that confidence you had earlier? Something about I wouldn’t touch you? See, down in the South,” Bal-Varos began, boots making a thud as he paced before the fallen governor. “The soldiers of house Eyvor skirmish with troll warbands constantly. It makes them stronger as a fighting force, more so than any other military in the Gilded Lands. Indaris? Dolls in armor compared to my men.”

“You’ve doomed yourself! Your men! Everyone! The garrison here outnumbers your men. This little rebellion will end as swiftly as it started, and when they finish the other garrisons will turn on the lords and ladies. You created a slaughter, Eyvor!” A great booming laughter was the response, Eyvor turning to place a boot on Feron’s leg. He pressed hard, causing a shriek of pain to escape.

“You think your pretty soldiers will stand a chance? While you’ve been sitting in this cursed mansion plotting and planning, I too have been planning. For the week we’ve been here, I’ve had my men study the layout of the city. If you knew anything about House Eyvor you would have noticed the lack of training we had been doing. We studied. We watched. We waited. As for the other garrisons? Well, Captain? Did Lord Dawngrasp get my letter?”

“Indeed, as did the other lords and ladies.”

“Letters?!” Feron stammered out between screams as Eyvor pressed harder and harder, cracking bones with his great weight. “What letters!”

“"Right. Forgot to tell you. You know the new Lord Saderis? Weasel shit of a person, but even shit has its uses. It's an open secret the little lord of Mistborn is a thug and a cheat, but not as many know he's a demon with a quill. The rat's sent your garrisons southwest, on 'official orders' to deal with a rebellion that isn't there."

"What!?" squawked Feron.

The old bear laughed, flailing his hand about like one of Aurelian's pompous flourishes. "That's right; there never was a rebellion in Wyrmstorm's lands. Your pretty little soldiers are outside the walls of our homes...and Vaeldris Dawngrasp is waiting for them. Whatever survivors manage to crawl away from that massacre are going to find they have nowhere to run. When winter flees and spring comes once more, our fields will be rich in high elven blood. "

“Wh-wha…how. Bah, even if you take out the garrisons, there’s still the army in the Coast! Merik will have your heads!” Eyvor lifted his foot, before bringing it down hard on Feron’s other leg. Bones snapped as Feron screamed in agony, tears beginning to build in his eyes.

“Ah yes, about that. If I am correct, right now the army in the coast is marching north, under the orders to reinforce Shallowbrook.” Eyvor relished the disbelief in Feron’s expression, along with his pain. Worms deserved to be stomped out, after all. “By the time they realize the deception, my army will have marched into the coast to reinforce my son-in-law and I would love to see your armies break upon the walls of Seahallow. But all of that means little if Aurelian is able to keep his end of the deal. By tomorrow your kingdom will be without a king.”

“Treason! It is treason!” Bal-Varos lifted his foot, turning to walk to the nearby window. Outside he could hear panicked screams as his men went to work. Tavern trips had been much more than that. They were information gathering, patrol watching; anything to help for this day. He had watched and waited with the patience of the wolf. The time to switch from prey to hunter had begun.

“Treason? No. I commit no treason in ridding Quel’thalas of your ilk. The real treason was Merik assigning you to our little corner of the kingdom. He didn’t know it then, but he sent you to your death. Do you hear that outside? You were right; I have created a slaughter. But it is not my men being slaughtered. It’s yours.” He didn’t turn to look as Feron tried to stammer something out, only to be replaced by a wretched gurgling sound. His body barely left a sound as it collapsed.

“Your orders, my lord?” Bal-Varos finally turned around, watching his daughter wipe blood off of a curved dagger.

“Secure the center of the city, then rendezvous with your husband and ensure the northern district is taken care of. The Tempest forces are strong but small, and I don’t want them being ambushed. The Quel’dorei may know more of the city then we expect. Get captain Syrene to the west, and Garo to the east. I will take the south.”

“What of the civilians?”

“They think us animals, but we are not. I don’t want a single hair harmed on the common people. Those that surrender will be allowed to stay in the city under our occupation until the situation with the Kingdom Reborn is resolved. Those that fight back? Capture, but do not risk your life if they threaten it. “Oh, and as to your earlier question on the soldiers that fight for Merik? Make a lesson out of them.” Elandril grinned, offering a salute.

“By your orders, my lord.” Bal-Varos nodded, watching as his daughter left. For now, this mansion would serve as his command center and rallying point. He could not help but be amused in the irony, of this mansion now being host to yet another betrayal. His amusement faded quickly however as he heard a distant explosion, lips threatening to pull into a frown.

“Your plan had better work Indaris, or we’re all doomed.”

#Aurelian Indaris #Skullcrusha Writing #The Phoenix War

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airisuwatoson · 6 years

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my friends got me on a dgs2 high recently, and it got me thinking a lot about Iris Watson

(major, MAJOR dgs2 spoilers, right up to endgame)

*******

iris’s relation to her real parents wasn’t really a “big deal” in the grand scheme of things, and i’m okay with that.

despite this tumblr’s URL being her, i struggled with iris’s place in the narrative for a long time. while i adore iris a whole lot, and her familial bond with sherlock makes me cry for a million years, her place in the narrative was a complicated subject for me. her relationship with klimt felt a bit like an afterthought, answered at the end of the story. i didn’t know if it was “wasted potential” or not.

but, recently, as i went home one day after discussing the game and its writing with my friends, i finally have an answer. and yeah, i’m sure there’s people who won’t agree with me, but iris’s story is fine. heck, i love it, now that i’m given time to think.

- to me, iris’s involvement in the story is more character-driven; rather than providing us The Clue to solve the conspiracy, we would instead watch her develop as the story goes on and we jump headfirst into the swirling darkness of the conspiracy.

in the first game, we spent the first case solving her presumed father’s murder. when ryuu and susato go to london, they meet iris, who claims to be john watson’s daughter. we get an “Oh, Shit” moment as we now struggle to consider whether we should tell her about her father’s demise. during her conversation at the attic with gina, ryuu and susato, she expresses that she misses her father, even when gina expresses her grievances regarding parents.

in the second game, we get in depth about the mystery, and how iris feels about her missing father. we learn how desperate she was to find out who her father is, even going so far as to have stolen government documents just to learn her father’s name. she is crushed to learn that not only is john watson just a nobody to her, the man who wrote the manuscript for sherlock’s cases wasn’t her father either.

it’s important that we got the scene in the middle of chapter 5 where iris feels a bit sad that she wasn’t yuujin’s daughter (as that would’ve made her susato’s sister), showing how she is still yearning for that biological connection. after susato and ryuu tell her that they’re perfectly fine in being her siblings despite having no blood relation, that’s when she starts to change her mind.

plus, with this exchange, we get an astonishingly heartwarming scene about the baker street family’s bond, even though only two of them are tied by blood. (”ryuu: i’ve got the strongest family backing me, after all” “me: my eyes are sweating”)

and in the end, we see that iris, who has certainly watched how the trial went down while having tea with Queen Victoria (lol), finally decided to stop trying to look for her biological father. she stops yearning for someone who most likely isn’t coming for her, someone who may not be the good father she may have imagined him to be... because she has sherlock, an amazing father who has been by her side this whole time, even if he may be eccentric and flawed.

- (insert me crying for years)

- when iris has her talk about seeing sherlock as her father, she says how she’s caused so much trouble for everyone during her quest to find her father. and it’s true - in the first game, gina goes to the pawn shop to look for the manuscript and gets arrested for murder, while sherlock gets shot; and in the second game, she stole the document about klimt’s autopsy report, which is just?? a bad thing to do??? daughter no

speaking of that, i really appreciate that moment because it’s iris acting out of a strong desire to connect with her father. i’m so glad that it’s plot relevant that susato and ryuu gain access to the document (which also reveals who sherlock’s partner really is), and also a character moment of a sad little girl who’s desperate enough to commit a crime. it kind of reminds me of pearl fey in 3-5, when she does That Bad Thing for a “good” reason? yeah

- i also think that iris serves as another person linked to the overarching theme of “Family” in the dgs series.

we have asougi & genshin, susato & yuujin, barok & klimt. except for ryuu, who is the lens we see this story through, the core cast has a family member, and we seen how... troubling these relationships are.

genshin and klimt’s deaths, as well as their actions before those deaths, have haunted asougi and barok for many years. we also know that susato and yuujin has a rocky relationship, due to how he straight up left the family after susato’s mother passed away. genshin, klimt and mikotoba aren’t 100% good people - and klimt is a heck of an understatement - and it’s caused varying degrees of emotional harm to the younger ones.

i suppose the only one who doesn’t have that is sherlock. he is, instead, linked to iris as her adoptive father. and it makes for a powerful scene when iris, one of the people haunted by the idea of “biological family”, calls him her “papa”. he is genuinely touched by that, considering her gratitude to be the most moving of all, compared to the many thanks he received from people he met in the past.

also sherlock is dadlock and i love the baker street family so much

on a lesser note is gina & gregson. in the first game, gina comes from a lonely past, jaded by how her parents abandoned her. in the second, she goes under the wing of gregson, who is yet another person who has committed numerous atrocities, but is well-meaning in general. in a way, gregson is an unstated father figure for her, and even if he may be bad, he still contributes to her growth. basically gina & gregson also make me cry a lot

to conclude this point, the “found family” narrative is one we see time after time in many stories, but the way DGS expresses this is wonderful.

- another thing is that, the reveal that klimt was iris’s father, felt less like a reveal, and more like the answer to “why hasn’t sherlock and yuujin told iris about her father, despite knowing who he is?”. for me, when i got to the reveal, my reaction was “ahhh, so that’s why they didn’t want iris to know!”

it’s also precious characterization for Klimt van Zieks, the man who committed crime after crime because he felt despair towards the darkness of london’s evils. klimt refused to tell barok about his unborn child, instead trusting this secret to genshin and asking him to help his family. klimt didn’t want iris to be raised in the van zieks household, and then known forever as the professor’s daughter, in case the true identity of the professor is revealed.

it shows that he may have strayed from the path of justice, it also shows that he still loves his family despite everything. after all, vortex managed to blackmail klimt by threatening to harm his wife.

if the dgs games were localized, i have a feeling we’d get so much discourse about klimt, lmao. but to me, it’s nuanced character writing. and if you know me, you know how much i love my flawed characters. klimt is a murderer, and don’t get me wrong, let’s not excuse his crimes, but he feels very human. and this is something we can explore in fiction. klimt van zieks is a tragedy, a good man who faced evil with justice and became the villain in the end.

- in a way, it’s also characterization for sherlock and yuujin, the latter to a lesser degree. they didn’t want iris to find out who her father is at her young age, because they were worried that they’d find out about the atrocities her father committed in the past.

they never intended to let iris know the name of her father, either - it’s only through her discovery that she found the document signed by john watson. at that point, sherlock had to go along with the lie, because to him, that’s better than telling the truth about her murderer of a father, and let her shoulder that truth for the rest of her childhood. he cares about iris, as cruel as his actions may be.

of course, lying to a little girl and letting her believe that her father is a complete stranger isn’t GOOD. but like i said, it feels nuanced, that our good lovable cast is very much imperfect. imo sherlock holmes is Good when you show how hecked up he is as a human being alongside how good he is as the famous detective

- “but john watson WAS involved in the professor case!” the imaginary person in my head says. “iris could still be his daughter, and it could still keep the idea that iris’s parentage would be problematic to the public.”

this is coming from a place of hindsight and being able to see the big picture as a player, but, like. between one of the few people centrally involved in concealing the truth of the the professor’s crimes... and THE guy, the person who committed said heinous crimes? the man who, in this particular narrative, is much more important to learn more about? i’d give the characterization to klimt every day of the week, no question.

and maybe it’s because i don’t have as much of an emotional connection to the sherlock holmes canon, but i don’t really mind that the man named John H. Watson wasn’t as important in the narrative as takumi’s original characters. just because takumi wanted to write sherlock holmes fanfiction, doesn’t mean he has to completely rely on the characters and conventions of sherlock’s stories, i feel?

i mean, we have Mikotoba Yuujin. just because the guy named john watson isn’t the man we know and love in THIS story, doesn’t mean our “sherlock” and our “watson” isn’t still there. i’m okay with takumi and the writing team twisting sherlock canon to fit their narrative. and besides, i’m going to be vague because spoilers, but it’s not as if certain TV shows adapting sherlock holmes haven’t changed the characters to fit their own narratives.

*******

it’s funny to say this, but after writing all that, i feel like i have much more of an appreciation for iris watson’s story, and dgs’s narrative in general. it’s such a good game, and i’m so glad i got to experience this story myself.

#dgs azumisc #i just checked the word count and it's got 1.7k words....... amazing #i even got the '17' number like the idol trash that i am! incredible. astounding. i am unsurprised by my shamelessness #but yeah. i have a lot of feelings about iris watson

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dfroza · 3 years

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we’re all reaching out for Love

even when people don’t even realize it.

the heart desires the healing of Heaven because this world is so flawed. and so in faith we hold the purest hope within, trusting to make it through whatever this temporal life is.

and we’re here as children of Light conserving spiritual truth in the face of lies.

Today’s reading of the Scriptures from the New Testament is the 1st chapter of the Letter of Titus:

Paul, servant of God and emissary of Jesus, the Anointed One, on behalf of the faith that is accepted by God’s chosen people and the knowledge of the undeniable truth that leads to godliness.

We rest in this hope we’ve been given—the hope that we will live forever with our God—the hope that He proclaimed ages and ages ago (even before time began). And our God is no liar; He is not even capable of uttering lies. So we can be sure that it is in His exact right time that He released His word into the world—through the preaching that God our Savior has commanded into my care.

To you, Titus, my dear son birthed through our shared faith: may grace and peace rest upon you from God the Father and Jesus the Anointed, our Savior.

I left you on Crete so you could sort out the chaos and the unfinished business and appoint elders over communities in each and every city according to my earlier orders. Here’s what you should look for in an elder: he should be above suspicion; if he is married, he should be the husband of one wife, raise children who believe, and be a person who can’t be accused of rough and raucous living. It is necessary that any overseer you appoint be blameless, as he is entrusted with God’s mission. Look for someone who isn’t pompous or quick to anger, who is not a drunkard, violent, or chasing after seedy gain or worldly fame. Find a person who lovingly opens his home to others; who honors goodness; who is thoughtful, fair, devout, self-controlled; and who clings to the faithful word that was taught because he must be able, not only to encourage people with sound teaching, but also to challenge those who are against it.

You see antagonists everywhere; they are rebellious, loose-lipped, and deceitful (especially those who are from the circumcised lot). Their talk must be quashed—their mouths sealed up because impure teaching is flying out of their lips and overturning entire families for the sake of their own squalid gain. I’ll tell you, even their own prophet was heard saying, “Chronic liars, foul beasts, and lazy gluttons—that’s who you’ll meet in Crete.” And he’s right! This is why we have to scold them, sometimes severely, so they will be sound in the faith and be able to ignore Jewish myths as well as any commandments given by those who turn away from the truth.

Listen: to those who are pure, all things are pure. But to those who are tainted, stained, and unbelieving, nothing is pure because their minds and their consciences are polluted. They claim, “I know God,” but their actions are a slap to His face. They are wretched, disobedient, and useless to any worthwhile cause.

The Letter of Titus, Chapter 1 (The Voice)

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 37th chapter of the book of Jeremiah that documents Jeremiah’s arrest after a false accusation was charged against him:

Zedekiah (son of Josiah) was made king of Judah by Nebuchadnezzar, king of Babylon. He reigned instead of his nephew, Coniah (son of Jehoiakim) who had already been deported to Babylon. Neither young Zedekiah nor his inexperienced advisors nor the people of Judah themselves listened to what the Eternal said through His prophet Jeremiah.

Zedekiah one day sent Jehucal (son of Shelemiah), along with the priest Zephaniah (son of Maaseiah) to ask the prophet Jeremiah, “Please pray to the Eternal our God for us.” Now Jeremiah had not yet been put in prison, so he was free to move about the city. This happened when the Chaldeans pulled back from their siege on Jerusalem because they heard Pharaoh’s army was marching out of Egypt toward them. It was then that the word of the Eternal came to Jeremiah the prophet, who faithfully delivered it to the king’s messengers.

Jeremiah: This is what the Eternal God of Israel has to say: “Tell the king of Judah, who sent you to ask for My help: ‘Look! Pharaoh’s army—which you hoped would help you—will turn back to Egypt to protect its own land. Then the Chaldeans will come back to attack Jerusalem. They will capture this city and burn it to the ground.’” The Eternal says this to you: “Do not fool yourselves into thinking the Chaldeans will leave you alone. They will not! Even if somehow you defeated their entire army, their wounded soldiers lying in tents would come out and burn this city to the ground in a fiery blaze.”

Now during this time when the Chaldeans had pulled back from Jerusalem to face Pharaoh’s army, Jeremiah started to leave Jerusalem. He was heading back to the land of Benjamin to settle his affairs regarding a piece of family property there. But as he was leaving through the Benjamin gate on the north side of the city, the captain of the guard, Irijah (son of Shelemiah and grandson of Hananiah), arrested him.

Irijah: You traitor! You are trying to desert to the Chaldeans!

Jeremiah: That’s not true! I’m not deserting to the Chaldeans.

But Irijah would not listen to Jeremiah, so he arrested him and brought him to the city leaders. They were already angry with Jeremiah because of his predictions of destruction and his advice to surrender. So they had Jeremiah beaten and placed him under arrest in the house of Jonathan the secretary (which they had made into a prison). He was placed in a dark, damp cell below ground and left there for a long time.

Eventually, King Zedekiah had him secretly brought to the palace so the king could talk with him.

King Zedekiah: Have you received any more messages from the Eternal?

Jeremiah: Yes, but they haven’t changed: you will still be handed over to the king of Babylon. But while I’m here, let me ask you— what crime have I committed against you, your advisors, or this nation that I should be imprisoned? I told you nothing but the truth about Babylon from the beginning, so why am I in this cell? Meanwhile, your so-called prophets keep telling you, “Don’t worry, the king of Babylon will never attack you or this land,” and they go unpunished? Please, I’m asking you, my lord the king, do not send me back to that cell in the house of Jonathan the secretary, or I will die there.

Though the news he heard was not encouraging, King Zedekiah granted Jeremiah’s request. He gave the order and had the prophet transferred to the court of the guard. He also gave strict orders that each day Jeremiah be given bread from the city’s bakers until the supplies ran out. That is how Jeremiah ended up a prisoner in the court of the guard.

The Book of Jeremiah, Chapter 37 (The Voice)

A link to my personal reading of the Scriptures for Sunday, September 19 of 2021 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible along with Today’s Proverbs and Psalms

A set of posts by John Parsons about the Historical significance of Sukkot:

It’s that time again! On the Torah’s calendar, there is a quick transition from the somber themes of the Jewish High Holidays (Rosh Hashanah through Yom Kippur) to the week-long celebration of Sukkot (called “Tabernacles” in the Christian tradition). If the High Holidays focus on the LORD as our Creator, our Judge, and the One who atones for our sins, then Sukkot is the time when we joyously celebrate all that He has done for us. Prophetically understood, the seven days of Sukkot picture olam haba, the world to come, and the Millennial Kingdom reign of Mashiach ben David. If Yeshua was born during Sukkot (i.e., conceived during Chanukah, the festival of lights), then another meaning of the "word became flesh and 'tabernacled with us" (John 1:14) extends to the coming kingdom age, when He will again “sukkah” with his people during the time of his reign from Zion.

Since it represents the time of ingathering of the harvest, Sukkot prophetically prefigures the joyous redemption and gathering of the Jewish people during the days of the Messiah's reign on earth (Isa. 27:12-13; Jer. 23:7-8). Indeed all of the nations that survived the Great Tribulation will come together to worship the LORD in Jerusalem during the Feast of Sukkot (Zech. 14:16-17). The holiday season therefore provides a vision of the coming Kingdom of God upon the earth, when the Word will again “tabernacle with us.”

This year Sukkot begins just after sundown on Monday, Sept. 20th (i.e., Tishri 15 on the Jewish calendar). The festival is celebrated for seven days (i.e., from Tishri 15-21) during which we "dwell" in a sukkah -- a tent or “booth” of temporary construction, with a roof covering (schach) of raw vegetable matter (i.e., branches, bamboo, etc.). The sukkah represents our dependence upon God’s shelter for our protection and divine providence. We eat our meals in the sukkah and recite a special blessing (leshev Ba-Sukkah) at this time.

In addition to the Sukkah (tent), the most prominent symbol of Sukkot is the Arba'at Ha-minim (אַרְבַּעַת הַמִּינִים) - "the Four Species," or four kinds of plants explicitly mentioned in the Torah regarding the festival of Sukkot: “On the first day you shall take: 1) the product of goodly trees (etrog), 2) branches of palm trees (lulav), 3) boughs of leafy trees (hadas), and 4) willows of the brook (aravot), and you shall rejoice before the LORD your God for seven days” (Lev. 23:40). We wave the “four species” (held together as a bouquet with the etrog) and recite a blessing (netilat lulav) to ask God for a fruitful and blessed year.

Sukkot marks the conclusion of the Jewish Fall Holidays and is the last of the three Shelosh Regalim (שלוש רגלים, i.e., the three annual pilgrimage festivals: Pesach (Passover), Shavuot (Pentecost), and Sukkot (Tabernacles) (Deut. 16:16). It can be argued that Sukkot is the climax of all the festivals in Scripture: Everything leads to it as a culmination in God’s prophetic plan. It is interesting to compare the use of words relating to simchah [joy] in the description of these three festivals. Regarding Pesach, the word simchah does not appear at all (Deut. 17:1-8); regarding Shavuot, it appears only once (Deut. 17:11); but, regarding Sukkot, simchah appears several times. For instance: "You shall keep the Feast of Sukkot seven days, when you have gathered in the produce... You shall rejoice in your feast (וְשָׂמַחְתָּ בְּחַגֶּךָ אַתָּה)... because the LORD your God will bless you in all your produce and in all the work of your hands, so that you will be altogether joyful" (Deut. 16:13-15).

Sukkot is called “z’man simchateinu,” the “season of our joy.” Indeed, in ancient Israel, the joy of Sukkot was so renowned that it came to be called simply "the Feast" (1 Kings 12:32). Sukkot was a time when sacrifices were offered for the healing of the nations (Num. 29:12-40), and it was also a time when (on Sabbatical years) the Torah would be read publicly to all the people (Deut. 31:10-13).

From a spiritual perspective, Sukkot corresponds to the joy of knowing your sins were forgiven (during Yom Kippur) and also recalls God’s miraculous provision and care after the deliverance from bondage in Egypt (Lev. 23:43). Prophetically, Sukkot anticipates the coming kingdom of the Messiah Yeshua wherein all the nations shall come up to Jerusalem to worship the LORD during the festival (see Zech. 14:16). Today Sukkot is a time to remember God’s Sheltering Presence and Provision for us for the start of the New Year. For more information, see the Sukkot pages on the Hebrew for Christians web site. [Hebrew for Christians]

The Torah describes Sukkot (“Tabernacles”) as a holiday of joy and gladness: “You are to rejoice in your festival.... for seven days you shall keep the festival... so that you will be altogether joyful” (Deut. 16:14-15). Nevertheless we may wonder how we can celebrate in a world filled with suffering, tyranny, death, and misery? Since God commands us to be joyful, however, we must therefore understand joy to be something more than temporal elation or fleeting pleasure, but rather as the result of *the decision to believe* in healing and life despite the appearances of this realm. “The world to come, the perfect world, we at least believe in; but this material world, this one here and now, how can anyone believe in it? The only thing to do is to run to the refuge of God” (Nachman). The "deep" joy of Sukkot, then, is the joy of hope, the conviction that “all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.” Darkness will be overcome by the light; evil will become undone; all that is untrue shall be made true; and every tear shall be wiped away... The sukkah symbolizes the “Clouds of Glory” that surround our way in the desert – the “Divine Presence” beheld in faith. We find joy as we choose to believe in the reality of God’s sheltering love...

Torah states: "You shall dwell in sukkot (booths) for seven days. All native Israelites shall dwell in booths, that your generations may know that I made the people of Israel dwell in booths when I brought them out of the land of Egypt: I am the LORD your God" (Lev. 23:42-43). The sages say that the booths commemorate the Clouds of Glory (עַנְנֵי תְּהִילָה), seven clouds that encompassed and protected the people during their sojourn in the desert (Sukka 11b). We recall the Clouds of God's glory as the gift of his sustaining love and care during our journey to freedom. Indeed the clouds represent the holy Shekhinah (שְׁכִינָה), the ruach Hakodesh and indwelling presence of God that protects us and gives us comfort. Just as the ruach fell on the generation of Moses' advent, so with the generation of Messiah: the Spirit brings strength to heart, protection from evil, and guidance for our way (John 14:26).

All of Torah is grounded in emunah (faith), as the very First Commandment of Torah is to trust that the LORD is God for you (אָנכִי יְהוָה אֱלהֶיךָ). Moreover Scripture also says: "All your commandments are emunah" (כָּל־מִצְוֹתֶיךָ אֱמוּנָה); and, "you are near, O LORD, and all your commandments are faithul" (Psalm 119:86; 151). Indeed faith is the "substance" (i.e., ὑπόστασις, reality, essence) of hope, the conviction of the unseen good (Heb. 11:1); without emunah it is impossible to please God (Heb. 11:6). We celebrate Sukkot because God calls us to know our heritage and to believe in the light of His surrounding Presence. Say Amen. [Hebrew for Christians]

9.17.21 • Facebook

Today’s message (Days of Praise) from the Institute for Creation Research

September 19, 2021

The God of Glory

“And he said, Men, brethren, and fathers, hearken; The God of glory appeared unto our father Abraham, when he was in Mesopotamia, before he dwelt in Charran.” (Acts 7:2)

This Scripture is the beginning of Stephen’s speech given before his martyrdom. He is reciting Israel’s history as he counters the charges that he had spoken “blasphemous words against Moses, and against God” and “against this holy place” (Acts 6:11, 13). He identifies the Lord as the “God of glory,” and his Jewish audience may have remembered that this title was used in Psalm 29:3—“The voice of the LORD is upon the waters: the God of glory thundereth.”

But most likely they would have connected it with the various instances where God’s glory filled and sanctified the tabernacle in the wilderness (Exodus 29:43; 40:34-35) and later the temple in Jerusalem (1 Kings 8:10-11). Thus, this title for God was rich in meaning to the Israelites.

But Stephen challenged the tradition that God’s glory was only associated with the Jerusalem temple and the earthly land of Israel by starting his speech with the God of glory appearing to Abraham in a pagan land (Mesopotamia). In the New Testament dispensation of God’s global redemptive plan through Christ Jesus, the active place of His glory is no longer restricted to a physical temple but is present in His redeemed people; “know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost which is in you, which ye have of God, and ye are not your own?” (1 Corinthians 6:19).

And this redeemed life is connected in like manner to Abraham, who, “when he was called to go out into a place which he should after receive for an inheritance, obeyed; and he went out, not knowing whither he went” (Hebrews 11:8). And because of Abraham’s unwavering faith in the God of glory, “he looked for a city which hath foundations, whose builder and maker is God” (Hebrews 11:10). JPT

A tweet by illumiNations:

@IlluminationsBT: With your prayers and gifts, the Cambodian Jarai people in Vietnam will gain access to Scripture in their own language!

Visit http://illuminations.bible and type "Cambodian Jarai" in the search bar to learn more about this project.

9.18.21 • 9:00pm • Twitter

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catsandtruecrime · 4 years

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What happens when “justice” doesn’t feel like justice?

This morning I was listening to Morbid, one of my favorite podcasts for true crime and all things spooky. In particular, I was listening to their episodes on the Galveston 11, who were 11 girls, murdered in and around Galveston, TX in the 70s. Links to the two part episode can be found below in the references section.

Technically, the murders are still unsolved, though they’re commonly attributed to Edward Harold Bell, who confessed to the murders while in prison for the unrelated murder of Larry Dickens in 1978. Aside from his confessions (he had actually confessed multiple times to multiple people), there was also a mountain of circumstantial evidence that linked him to each of the Galveston 11 murders, including the nature of his known offenses, proximity to the victims’ abduction sites and/or dump sites, and witnesses who reportedly saw Bell at the locations where some of the victims disappeared on the same day and time that they went missing.

Even though pretty much everyone attributes the murders to Bell, he was never actually charged with any of them as he spent his life in prison from the time of his sentencing in 1993 to his death in prison in 2019 at age 79. At the time of his death, he was about 26 years into his 70 year long prison sentence; he wasn’t getting out any time soon, even if he hadn’t died in 2019.

Some people would say that since he was spending his life in prison anyway, justice was served even if the exact crimes carried out against the Galveston 11 were never definitively linked to Bell. This doesn’t sit right with me.

As I dive deeper and deeper into the world of true crime, I feel like I keep finding case after case that just leaves me with an icky feeling; I’m sure this is partially just part of hearing about murder and some of the most depraved acts humans have ever committed, but some of that can be curbed if the case ends with, “…and in the end, Jeffrey Dahmer, who received 15 consecutive life sentences, was brutally beaten to death by a fellow inmate. The end.”

The sense of justice you get almost lets you breathe a sigh of relief as you learn that the murderer finally got what they deserved. For a petty person like me who loves a good dose of revenge, there’s nothing better than a vicious murderer or sex offender getting their comeuppance in prison after being publicly held accountable at trial for their crimes.

Sometimes, though, even when “justice is served,” it’s still not good enough to make me feel like the perpetrator got what they deserved. One great example of this is the Golden State Killer case.

If you’re not familiar, the Golden State Killer case is a lengthy, horrendous case that spanned decades as Joseph James DeAngelo began by burglarizing homes around Northern California. He soon escalated to rape and eventually murder, ultimately burglarizing around 120 homes, raping 50, and murdering 13 people across the state of California from 1973 to 1986.

The case went unsolved until April of 2018, JUST THREE YEARS AGO, when he was finally apprehended after detectives used DNA data collected from GEDMatch, which is a DNA database that collects and compiles DNA data from sites like 23 and Me, Ancestry, and other similar sites. Comparing DNA collected when the crimes occurred, detectives were able to identify a relative who had submitted data to one of these sites, which eventually lead them to DeAngelo as a suspect.

Once they had him in their crosshairs, they were able to compare the DNA from the crime scene to DNA they were able to collect from a tissue DeAngelo had used and discarded. From there, it was confirmed that DeAngelo’s was a match to the crime scene DNA and that he was without a doubt, the Golden State Killer.

He was taken to trial and charged with his crimes, accepting a plea deal that took the death penalty off the table. He’s now serving multiple consecutive life sentences without the possibility of parole for his crimes. Which is all well and dandy…except for the fact that HE’S 75 YEARS OLD. He’s been married, has three daughters, and worked as a police officer and mechanic not only during the time of his crimes, but also afterwards as he built a life as a family man with his wife and children. He eventually retired and was living life as any retiree would at the time of his arrest.

Like, COME ON. For arguably one of the most prolific serial killer/rapists in America, he got to live out his life and while he’s behind bars now, for what? FOR WHAT?! It makes me so unimaginably angry that his victims have had to live for so long, knowing that their rapist was still out there, unknown and unidentified; he could have walked by them at the store and they would have never known it was him. I can’t imagine the terror and stress that would cause, not to mention the 13 PEOPLE HE MURDERED. And then just…went on living his life. With no consequences. Until he was 75 YEARS OLD. He got to live totally normally for such a long time, after destroying the lives of so many people. Tossing him in prison when he’s nearing the end of his life anyway and calling it justice would make me absolutely livid if I was one of his victims.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s awesome that he was caught at all, and the DNA matching with GEDmatch that’s being utilized now is absolutely incredible, but the petty, revenge seeking side of me can’t get over the fact that this is all he gets for the immense terror he inflicted. Sure he’s being held accountable for his crimes finally, but he’s really not losing anything by spending his last few years in prison. His punishment seems so small compared to the crimes he committed, and it really doesn’t feel like justice at all to me.

A few other specific cases that get me fired up in my search for justice are some that I plan to write about eventually, but that I have to take the time to dive into in a way that doesn’t make me want to completely rip my hair out. The murders of Sylvia Likens and Zahra Baker are two that immediately come to mind, and Israel Keyes is another giant pile of trash that didn’t get even close to what he deserved. These cases all have a lot to unpack so just…stay tuned for those.

All of my past English teachers are going to want to crucify me here, because this is probably about to be a mish-mash of contradictory, stream of consciousness statements, but bear with me. Perhaps I’ll try to edit this for once to try and make the inner workings of my mind and my qualms with the justice system more cohesive…

Justice is something that’s hard to define and hard to carry out in a balanced and objective way, and I think this is part of the reason that even when “justice is served” according to the law, it can seem like it’s not enough in the eyes of society. Or in my eyes. Because I’m a petty person who wants revenge if someone proves to be a murderous piece of shit.

For example, in the past (and still in some parts of the world), theft could be punished by cutting off the thief’s hand. To me, and to most people, this seems incredibly extreme and unnecessary.

On the other hand, though (haha, get it?), I do think that banning “cruel and unusual punishment” was a bad move on the part of our founding fathers. When I say this, I’m sure some people will inevitably think I’m insane, but hear me out, even though I’m sure there will still be people who strongly disagree with me…probably most people to be honest…

To me, in cases where someone has tortured, raped, and murdered countless people, perhaps even children, life in prison isn’t enough. Especially when they readily admit to their crimes and show no remorse, life in prison isn’t NEARLY enough, and neither is the death penalty.

The death penalty is often seen as the most extreme sentence that can only be handed out for the most extreme, heinous crimes, but to me, that’s far too easy. It gives the perpetrator an easy out so that they don’t have to live with the consequences of the unimaginable pain and suffering they’ve caused. This is probably a hot take, especially in the liberal circles I run in, but I think those people deserve to be tortured. THAT would be justice to me.

NOW I HAVE TO CLARIFY. Part of the reason I’m still on the fence regarding the death penalty is the argument that “sometimes the system fails and you get the wrong person.” This is a completely fair and true argument. I’m not advocating for torturing someone that “we’re pretty sure” did it. I’m strictly talking about the people that, once caught, gladly give themselves up, proudly and without remorse for their crimes. Normally this would be the most depraved of serial killers, child molesters, etc. Like we’re talking the absolute SCUM OF THE EARTH. I think that for those people, “cruel and unusual punishment” is the only thing that will truly feel like justice; causing them the same pain and suffering that they caused for so many innocent people.

“BUT WAIT! If we do that, what makes us any better than them?!” you say. And I don’t have an answer for that. They’re bad and we’re not? We’re simply showing them what they’ve done to others? The Golden Rule, if you will? I really don’t know.

I fully recognize that this way of thinking brings up a whole host of ethical dilemmas; where does the line get drawn on the spectrum from “here’s a ticket for speeding” to “here’s a life of torture and confinement for whatever horrible crime against humanity you don’t regret committing?” I have no answer for this; let’s just put me in charge and I’ll address it on a case by case basis, Kristin for President 2024, vote for me and my “Let’s Torture Serial Killers” platform. Just kidding.

In all seriousness, though, when I say that these people should be tortured, I don’t necessarily mean that we should break out The Rack or The Iron Maiden or send someone in to flay them. Although in some cases…not a bad idea…just kidding, that’s a little too dark, even for me.

For example, if it were up to me, I would have some of these people in solitary confinement, in straight jackets, with nothing but their thoughts to take up the rest of their days. Force them to sit in absolute and endless BOREDOM and LONELINESS with no way out of it. Just in case hell doesn’t exist, let’s make them live in it while they’re still here.

“BUT THEN we have to pay for it with our tax dollars!” you all yell. YES I KNOW. Obviously it’s not the most ideal system, but neither is incarcerating someone at 75 for horrendous crimes, long after they’ve already been given the privilege of a life well lived.

As someone who seeks endless suffering and pain as penance for the most horrific crimes, it’s incredible to me when victims’ families or victims themselves forgive their assailants. Maybe it’s a character flaw, but I couldn’t imagine ever forgiving someone who tortures and/or murders one of my family members. It blows my mind when victims’ families address their loved ones’ murderers at trial and they don’t tell them that they hope that they rot in hell for the rest of eternity. I commend their strength, composure, and willpower to move on, but it could never be me.

I honestly don’t even know where I was going with this blog post other than to express my frustration with the fact that justice is so hard to serve in a way that feels sufficient, especially in many true crime cases that I learn about. Hearing a story about a child who’s endlessly tortured until finally being murdered, for example, feels like it needs a much more grand conclusion than, “…and now their murderer is in prison and may be eligible for parole in 9 years.” It’s just not fair, and YES I KNOW that life isn’t fair, but it’s one part of true crime that can really take a toll on you. It’s easy to keep your head up and keep bingeing cases when you know that the murderer really has to pay for their crimes in the end, but when that doesn’t happen, it feels so defeating.

As someone who believes so strongly in justice and holding people accountable for their actions, it can be challenging to stay optimistic and to have faith in the justice system. It makes it feel more like the “justice” system than the justice system. And while I don’t have any real answers on how to fix that (other than bringing back cruel and unusual punishment, Kristin Drew 2024, let’s go), I can’t help but feel like each case I share is helping to bring some sort of justice to the victims. Even if it’s just letting one more person know what a piece of shit their murderer was, that’s one more tiny drop of justice in the victim’s bucket as one more person learns their story.

Maybe one day we’ll develop some better system that doles out justice that really feels like JUSTICE. Until then, I’ll just have to keep writing.

REFERENCES AND OTHER STUFF

Morbid Podcast on the Galveston 11: Part 1 and Part 2 on Spotify

I’ll Be Gone in the Dark, about the hunt for the Golden State Killer, a miniseries on HBO

#true crime #opinions #hot takes #justice

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