#thank you game awards for a little piece of sanity this year it was an unexpected and pleasant surprise

[prototypelq]

I'm sure I'll love BG3 if/when I finally get to play it, but I am also sure I don't really want to touch that fandom with a 10 meter pole. Too big, too toxic, and they scream uncontrollably too much. It's like BG3 is their new religion and they've never played anything before.

I'm immensely glad and happy for Larian's success, they absolutely deserved and needed that win, but it's not the first nor the last good game out there, plus they have a lot of work to do for it still, as the quality control is all over the place, in last acts especially or so I've heard.

[saintorr]

The Most Beautiful Parts

by St.Orr c. 2017

             The most beautiful parts of myself glow when I have compassion for myself, for my pain, my joy and solitude; for the craters, bags and wrinkles that attach themselves to my face and body as I age. Along with these come the tears, smiles and feelings (stuffed and unstuffed) that constitute this lovely, divinely starborn (and sometimes stillborn) psycho-bionic being and oh so grounded human entity called myself. There are broken dreams and anger, the shadows of dark and the shadows of gold; both the ashes and the infinite parts of the pieces of the puzzle that make up the me, a man who thought he was a little girl, who then accepted the man he grew into, wrapped in all of the scars of that cocoon woven into a fleece of many colors, of many shadows, and seasons that make up a life.

            I can see the grace and beauty of those larger than life stars as they sit at their tables at the great awards shows, the Golden Globes, the Oscars, etc. I sit at home and watch and wonder at their flow, their luminosity, their electric energy broadcast through all the wireless waves and satellites and piped into my monitor; I feed on them, consume them and think to myself because I can see their beauty, their grace, that I have it too!  Because I can feel them glistening with unimaginable gentleness, grace, beauty and power, then I too must have those things in me. Or maybe some essence? Well, doesn’t every human being?

            When these luminous ones come together to make their art, they overshadow all the neurotic news of bombastic tyrants and terrorist statistics; they shine through the fear, bloodletting, violence and hatred of the current world, circa winter, 2017. But they shine their fake smiles on all the dreamers and poets who still scrawl, write, and scrounge through the bottom layers of silt seeking a chance at the glamour and the gold of this crap game called show business where beauty is elevated to an art form that can inspire and lift. Their beauty too can be a trap—for it is the A-list, in-crowd that the agents and managers feed on and fight over, the stars we worship and adore. For, let's face no one wants or cares to hear about the losers whose dreaming destroyed them.

            The only famous person I ever massaged was Clive Davis. Other writers have warned me never NEVER to use real names when I record my memoirs but here I go. My purpose is not to gossip or slander but simple illustrate how the high roads and pinnacles of great success can sometimes meet the everyday world of the common man and produce a strange concoction all its own. I was called to Davis’ black marble penthouse tower on Park Avenue late one Sunday evening. He was an elderly man, he owned his own massage table and after a very anti-climactic session he paid me partially in nickels and dimes. While I stood there, in his kitchen, receiving the coins in open palms, his sick, dying Cocker Spaniel had the audacity to throw-up on my shoe. I don’t think there were any pennies. Clive inspired me to write a song called “Park Avenue” which I later produced, recorded and played for him when he called me for a second massage. He didn’t seem impressed when he heard it. “Meh, it's not a killer” he said, shrugging his shoulders and curling his lips. So much for inspiration.

            There was one client who actually did pay me partially in pennies; a forgettable outcall in the West Village truly more deserving of the demeaning label of trick than that of massage client. Besides the backbreaking massage, this arrogant, cold-blooded white snake of a humanoid also demanded that I piss on him in his bathtub. I still recall the hideous, garish Kelly green and shiny silver wallpaper of that awful bathroom; and the urge to throw the carefully counted pennies that he doled out right back in his face as he paid me off, both of us standing by the door. God I so wish I had flung those pennies right back into his satiated, smirking face. This was after I rubbed him and worked him up to a sensual release as the bedside photo of his lover standing on some pristine Hamptons beach replete with foaming waves and pant legs rolled up in the sand looked on, a boyish smile sweetly singing into the camera.

            The little boy in me has followed the man to the places where touch replaced sanity as the ultimate actor's “Survival Job” and the worship of the ecstasy of the orgasm was all, was enough, was better, truer and more real than any other form of working in the mundane “real world” could ever be.

            Now, I am emerging from that cocoon. Emerging from all my years that are spread out like a long, murky dark night of the soul. Older, wiser, a bit slower and a bit less generous with my body and hands to the hungry, horny minions of men; for what choice does one have when the downtime waves come lasting for a week, two weeks, or two months? In years past, when I was younger, the downtime could be measured in hours or days, there was always an endless supply of male (and sometimes female) clients in and out and up and down the one flight of stairs leading to my one-bedroom East Village flat. Then I recall all the hours spent in spas, the Plaza, the Waldorf, the crème de la crème of the best hotels and spas in the city; those passive aggressive, peach and crème-colored torture chambers with their silken linen smells and serenely smiling blond aestheticians working the front desk, making bookings, taking payments, listening to the complaints of the rich and not-so-famous. How many times was I initiated into the true meaning of the embalmed slave-state of the so-called service industry mentality? The place where New age serenity smiles are glued in place like impenetrable plastic masks. Oh the ache of the pressure of hands on bodies, hour after hour, giving until there’s nothing left to give; to have to smile, to have to fight attitudinal managers over incorrect paychecks, explain yourself like a criminal when some cunt complains about something you did or didn’t do (“too much peppermint oil on my thigh, it started to burn!” "So sorry to rock your bliss lady, but the cap was loose and came off in my hand!” or “During the massage, his fingers felt much too close to my inner thigh;" or "he stole my Rolex watch”). Oh what joy to be jumping like a trained circus dog when the cruel but handsome, Latin bisexual manager snapped his fingers “Room 4-Go!” at the West Village “Nickel-Spa for men.” That was the summer of the blackout I remember. There, in a tiny massage room, in the dark, a client lay prone, waiting. And there, light from outside glowed through a slit in the door like some view into a World War II NAZI gas chamber that "Hector” would peep through to check up on you, his eyes searching and accusing, making sure you weren’t doing anything naughty! In the darkened room while you massaged, sometimes you fantasized about lunch, the end of the shift, fantasizing the clock speeding up so the hour would go faster. Also, sometimes there were mysterious energy shifts and exchanges. You would begin the massage with a sore wrist, back or an upset stomach and simply through the mindful meditation of touching--of giving--your malady would disappear. Miraculous. After many a massage too, the clients would reappear looking pleasantly-sleepy, refreshed and years younger. Healing hands are so underrated. There is a lovely Zen quality to simply touching and being paid for it. It’s a pure physical, intimate work on a much higher level than office 9-5 drudgery. I’m grateful too for all the joys the sexual release work have given me through the years. Talk about “sweet labors of love.” So it almost appears strange that after all this physicality and all this time I wonder why is it that now, when I find myself servicing a client’s sexual needs that an intense nausea rises in my gut and I’m forced to fight the almost overwhelming urge to vomit? Interesting that after what?--some thirty years of doing massage (I started in 1990) that this very ethereal thing called self-integrity that I thought I’d lost or abandoned years ago, (my lost soul perhaps?) has come back to own me with a vengeance. Or maybe I’m owning it, my dear, sweet self-soul, after all these years. Thank you, God. I guess there’s a point where every man grows into his skin and outgrows his tired, cock-heavy adolescence. It’s as if my gut is telling me “You HATE this.” But I ignore the feelings and my urge to puke when repulsion grips me. I know the hour will soon be done and this strange “stimulation/torture/meditation” meshing and merging of energies, fluids and fantasies called M4Mmassage will help me pay yet another month of my over-priced New York rent. In my new vision of this my “third ace,”  I see myself fleeing this inflated, over-hyped, hollow, over-populated and all-too-neurotic place called New York City. Please God, soon, I pray, just the vista of the ocean and a small garden and I’ll be fine. Oh, and no more massages please, unless he’s my lover and not a client.

[fifteenstrawberries]

You have one piece fic I know you have one piece fic please post a one piece fic :D

I still don’t know why you like this one so much?

For those of you who are not my twin sister and beta reader, this is a scene from a One Piece/Castle crossover I wrote a couple years ago, basically imagining how the Water 7 arc from One Piece would happen if it was set in the Castle universe. 

Castle is a police procedural show where a wealthy and eccentric author and a hard-nosed by the book detective team up to solve murders. One Piece is crazy anime pirates getting into crazy shenanigans in a crazy world.

If you’d like to see something else, check out this post for the full list.

And without further ado, here’s the fic!

“Are you sure we shouldn’t be going after this guy without more backup? I mean, he is a pirate.”

“He’s not a pirate, Castle. He just has a pirate flag on his boat. Plenty of people do that without actually being pirates.”

“But what if that’s just what he wants you to think? Maybe he’s just waiting for us to get up there and as soon as we do, the rest of his pirate crew will come swinging over from the next building with cutlasses between their teeth— maybe we could hire some ninjas instead–”

“Castle, are you going to take this seriously?”

“I am taking this seriously!” Award winning author Richard Castle pouted at his partner, Detective Kate Beckett, as the two of them climbed the stairs to the hotel roof, “You’re the one who’s dismissing the very real possibility of a pirate attack.”

Detective Kate Beckett of the NYPD paused on the landing, sighing and rubbing at the tension headache that inevitably formed whenever Castle got stuck on one of his ridiculous theories. “Castle. For the last time. We are here to question suspects in the attempted murder of Thomaso Ghiaccio. Not to accuse them of piracy. That’s the coast guard’s jurisdiction, not ours.” She continued climbing, “I’m still not sure why we’re on this instead of Major Crimes.”

“The chief probably just wanted his best detective on it.”

“That’s what he told me, but I’m homicide. I don’t usually get cases where the victim is still breathing.” She grimaced, remembering their trip to hospital to get witness statements from Ghiaccio’s teary secretary and the rest of his shaken employees. She’d seen the doctor’s report. The guy was lucky to be alive.

“It makes a nice change. To be able to stop a killer before they’ve actually killed someone instead of hunting them down after the fact.” Castle offered.

“It does,” Beckett admitted, “But still, this case! A prominent Italian engineer gets gunned down in his apartment without any sign of a break in. His employees are split between accusing a rival ship-building company or their most recent disgruntled customers, and are ready to lynch both of them, just in case. The rival company apparently has mafia ties, the customers sailed into town a week ago flying a pirate flag—they’re not really pirates, Castle, don’t even start. It sounds like something you would write, honestly…” She stopped dead, looking at the man beside her—the wealthy, well-connected, best-selling author, who had installed himself in her precinct and her life in search of ‘inspiration’ without so much as a by-your-leave—with growing disbelief. “Castle. You didn’t.”

Castle at least had the grace to look guilty. “You said so yourself, it’s a really interesting case.”

“Castle. Tell me you did not use your influence with the chief to land us this case because you wanted to investigate pirates.”

“…”

“Castle?”

“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.”

“… I hope your pirates make you walk the plank.”

“Hey—! Wait, do you think Alexis would avenge me? She takes fencing. And she’ll probably bully you into helping her track them down… I can see it now. ’Allo, my name is Alexis Castle, you killed my father, prepare to die. No Alexis, don’t give in to the dark side—!”

“Focus, Castle.” Beckett instructed, rounding the corner of the final flight of stairs. “The roof’s just ahead.”

“Sorry,” Castle dropped his arms, running a little to catch up with Beckett, “You really think they’ll be on the roof? And if they’re not, ooh! Could we start a man-hunt? Because the only thing that would make this case better than it already is would be a city-wide manhunt for the attacker.”

“The manager saw one of them headed up these stairs.” Beckett said, deciding to ignore the bit about a city-wide manhunt for the sake of her sanity, “It’s as good a bet as any. Though why the alarms wouldn’t sound—ah,” She frowned at the wires hanging loose in front of the door, yanked out of the roof alarm, “They’re lucky we’re not building inspectors.”

“Thank God. Can you imagine trying to write a book about building code violations instead of murders? ” Castle said, and opened the door.

The first thing Castle noticed about the teenager leaning against the air-conditioning unit opposite the door was his hair. How did he even get it that color? It was a bright, almost glow-in-the-dark green. Combined with three piercings in one ear, cargo pants, ratty white wife-beater, and sullen glower, he looked like every boy he’d ever warned Alexis about, distilled into the archetypical punk.

The first thing Beckett noticed about the teenager was the unsheathed katana in his left hand.

Her hand dropped to her holster, drawing her gun and clicking off the safety in one move, “NYPD, drop your weapon.”

The teen glanced at her, his gaze dropping to the badge on her belt before he grunted in acknowledgement. “Yes. Choto, I am almost done.”

Beckett stiffened, about to demand that he put away his sword now, not when it suited him, but the teen had swiped a piece of thin paper along the edge of the blade and sheathed it before she could do more than open her mouth. He shifted onto his knees slowly and placed the sword on his far right, just out of easy reach. Then he leaned back again, slouching against the air conditioning unit, and raised an eyebrow as if to say, happy?

Castle was impressed. He wasn’t sure if it was teenage insolence or straight up arrogance, but either way, it took major guts to bait Beckett when she had her game face on.

Beckett twitched, eyes narrowed, looking like she still had half a mind to arrest him on general principles. But she holstered her gun, the only concession to still-twitching nerves the hand she rested on the grip. “We’re looking for Lufisacio D. Monkey.” She said, “Do you know where he is?”

That earned them a sharp look that even pulling a weapon on him hadn’t gotten. But his gaze shifted somewhere behind them, to the billboard toward the front of the building, and he yelled, “Oi, Luffy!”

“Hã?” Another boy’s voice called out, somewhere above them.

“Satsu-yo.”

“Satsuyo?” Beckett asked under her breath, not really expecting an answer as she looked for the owner of the second voice.

“Japanese slang for the police,” Castle replied, just as soft. He was still watching the green-haired teen, eyes alight, “You know, I think this guy might actually be yakuza! Well, no maybe not, no tattoos and he still has all his fingers. On a more important note; why didn’t you tell me that our prime suspect’s name was Lufisacio?”

“Because I knew that you wouldn’t shut up about it if you knew and it was a long drive.” Beckett muttered, then called louder, “Sir, would you mind coming out please?”

Gravel exploded beside them. Another teenager—shorter than the first, wearing a red basketball jersey and cut-off jeans– landed in a crouch. He straightened, placing the straw hat hanging around his neck back on to wiry black hair.

Beckett noted bandaged limbs and wondered where he had gotten the scar beneath his left eye.

Castle noted the sixteen foot difference between the top of the billboard and the roof, and wondered if the young man made a habit of jumping from high places.

Lufisacio D. Monkey glanced between the two of them, “Zoro said you are a polícia?”

“Yes,” Beckett said, “I’m Detective Kate Beckett, this is my partner Richard Castle.”

The teen, somewhat surprisingly, brightened, “Richard Castelo? O autor?”

“If, by that you mean the famous, best-selling author that has been translated into dozens of languages around the world, then yes, that’s me.” Castle smirked a bit, holding out a hand.

“Que barato!” The teen grinned widely, seizing Castle’s hand and shaking it enthusiastically before turning back to his friend. “Zoro, mee-te!”

“Ah, ah, wakkatte.” The green-haired teen waved lazily, then linked both hands behind his head and closed his eyes.

Unperturbed by the lack of enthusiasm, he turned back to face Castle and Beckett with the same wide grin, “Nami and Robin read your stories all the time to us. They are very good!”

“Glad you enjoyed them,” Castle was matching him grin for grin by this point, “It’s always good to meet a fan.”

“You will sign our books?”

“Sure!”

“Unfortunately,” Beckett broke in, “I’m afraid neither of you will have time for that.” She was immune to Castle’s reaction at this point, but she wasn’t quite prepared when they both turned puppy eyes on her. She had to steel herself before continuing, “We just have a few questions for you, Mr. Monkey—”

“Vovô?” The teen interrupted, looking around in alarm.

His friend snorted, mumbling something that sounded vaguely like, “aho, teme-ga.”

Whatever it was, Luffy relaxed, turning back to them with a grin, “My name is Luffy. Mr. Monkey is my vovô, my grandpa. Entendes?”

“Luffy is a lot better than Lufisacio.” Castle said, with a sympathetic smile at the awful name.

“Sim.” Luffy made a face, and glanced at Beckett, “Detetive, you have questions?”

“Yes.” Beckett said, pulling up a picture on her phone. “Do you recognize this man?”

“Avô Tom. Yes, I know him.” Luffy nodded. “He looked at our ship when we brought it for repairs.”

The president of the entire company personally evaluates a ship for damages? There’s got to be something up with that. Beckett nodded, making a mental note, “And were you satisfied with his work?”

Something in Luffy’s face shut down. Aha, Beckett thought. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Castle lean forward.

“Sim … talvez.” Luffy stared down at his feet, “Não.”

“English please, Luffy.” Beckett said, a touch impatiently.

“He said Allons-y Allégrement could no longer sail.”

“Is that your ship?” Luffy nodded, “Did you have an argument?”

“Sim,” he shrugged, “I wanted Avô to fix her. We brought lots of dollars to show we could afford the repairs, but he said it did not matter how much money we had, it was impossible.”

“Why was that?”

“Allons-y Allégrement is a wood ship. Her quilha, her keel … he said it was broken.”

“Did you believe him?”

To Beckett’s surprise, that question made him rally, He lifted his head, looking her in the eye. “I do not know how to fix ships,” He told her, “Meu tripulação does not know how to fix ships. If Avô Tom and his friends say she cannot go on, I must trust him.”

Which was not a ‘yes.’ Definitely something to look into.

“Still,” Castle interjected, “That must have been pretty difficult, just giving up on your ship like that. We saw pictures of her; she looks like she’s been through a lot.”

“Eh,” Luffy shrugged again, uncomfortable, “We need to keep moving. We need to buy a new ship. I wish it was not necessary, but it is what we must do.”

“Speaking of moving,” Castle said, “According to our records, you’re docked down at Liberty Landing Marina.” At Luffy’s nod, he continued, managing to sound only curious about a detail he was convinced would crack the case. “I can understand wanting to see the Big Apple, but what are you doing all the way in Brooklyn?”

“Cheap hotels.”

… Damn. Luffy can’t lie at all, can he? Beckett thought. If he was closed off before, he was positively stony now, and the contrast between that and the cheerfulness he had greeted them with made his reluctance to answer painfully obvious.

Hiding or not, Castle’s pet theory was going to have to wait. It was time to get down to business. “When was the last time you saw Mr. Ghiaccio?” Beckett asked.

“Yesterday.” Luffy glanced at her curiously. “Why? Is he lost?”

“Mr. Ghiaccio was shot last night in his home.”

“… Heh?” Luffy was staring, eyes wide and shocked, “Avô Tom was … fala serio!”

“He was shot twice in the front and three times in the back.” Beckett had to squash an instinctual rush of sympathy at Luffy’s expression, bearing on brutally. “He’s still alive. But only barely.”

“Não.” Luffy shook his head in denial.

Beckett and Castle shared a glance. Neither of them had understood all of what Luffy had said, but Beckett had broken the news of a loved one’s death to enough families that she could guess.

Which begged the question. Luffy was a suspect. The only possible suspect, according to Ghiaccio’s main foreman and quite a few employees.

Why was he acting like a victim?

“Quem—” Luffy began, stopped himself, and began again in English. “Who would shoot him? Why? He is a nice man, todos o amam. Who would shoot him?”

Beckett raised an eyebrow, letting her silence speak for itself.

When the silence crossed the line from ‘telling’ to ‘awkward’ and Luffy looked no closer to getting the message, Castle coughed slightly. “We were hoping you could tell us.” He said delicately.

Luffy gave him an exasperated look. “How can I know? We only come to town a week ago!” He crossed his arms with a considering frown, “Castelo tells good stories, but maybe he is not so good with real life mysteries?”

Beckett had to bite her lip to keep from laughing as Castle swelled indignantly. “I am too!” He all but squawked, and abandoned all notion of subtlety. “Why do you think we’re here talking to you? You’re the suspect!”

“Hãããããã?!?!?!?!” Luffy’s jaw dropped and eyes bugged as he gaped at them.

It would have been funny if they weren’t accusing him of attempted murder.

Any humor she felt at the situation evaporated. “Luffy,” She said, catching his attention, “Where were you between nine and eleven pm last night?”

“By a marina. Maybe in the park? Then walking to the hotel.”

“Is there anyone who could verify that?” Beckett asked, opening her notebook to write down names.

“Sim. My friends. We had lost one, but …” Luffy trailed off, looking positively grim before he shook himself and finished answering, “Todos de meu— all of my friends were there but her.”

Castle stayed quiet as Beckett asked the questions needed to complete Luffy’s alibi, considering the dark look that had crossed the boy’s face. It actually took some real effort for him to snap out of that, Castle thought, intrigued.

What are you hiding, Mr. Lufisacio D. Monkey?

Beckett was looking rather grim herself, though she hid it well under a layer of cool professionalism. “Would you mind coming down to the station while we check out a few things?” She asked.

“À delagacia?” Luffy blinked.

“Is he arrested?”

Castle started, glancing over at where the green-haired teen was no longer asleep.

The teen glowered suspiciously at them, “Is Luffy arrested or no?” He demanded.

“We just want to verify a couple parts of his alibi.” Beckett said smoothly, “He’s not under arrest.”

Yet, hung unspoken in the air. The teen’s eyes narrowed, trying to stare Beckett down.

Castle was rather glad that he wasn’t on the receiving end of that glare. From either of them. The green-haired teen was brimming with suspicion and hostility, and looked frankly dangerous despite his young age, while Beckett watched him with all the calm assurance of a senior detective of the NYPD, hand on the grip of her gun as if daring him to try something…. Darn it, why is there never popcorn when you need any?

“Dai jo bu, Zoro,” Luffy said easily, cutting through the tension in the air. The teenager broke off his staring contest with Beckett to give Luffy a worried scowl, “Even if I am arrested, está bom. We did not think to look in prison.”

“That woman would never allow herself to be caught unless she meant to be.” Zoro shot back.

Luffy shrugged, “Sim. But maybe a polícia know what we do not? Either way, I will go.”

Zoro scowled deeper for a moment, before sighing, “Shi, capitao.”

Luffy nodded, satisfied, then seemed to think of something and turned to Beckett in alarm, “Do you think Zoro is a killer too? His a-lee-by is to be with me, and if I must come with you—”

“Your friend isn’t under any suspicion.” Beckett assured him. Giving Zoro a look askance, she added “But if he wants to come with you, that would be fine.”

“Hmmmm.” Luffy crossed his arms, considering. He made a decision, going to crouch down beside his friend. “Zoro. You want to come?”

“… No.” Zoro rubbed his face, suddenly looking tired in a way that had nothing to do with his recent catnap. “No. I will wait.”

Luffy nodded, then stood up, walking to Beckett and Castle without hesitation, “Vamos!” He yanked the roof door open and ran down the stairs. His voice and footsteps echoed up the staircase as he called up to them, “You have a police car, yes? With sirens and lights? You will turn them on, yes …?”