#when my brain combined jacob and closer i just

[apocalypticgargoyle]

𝙅𝙀𝘼𝙇𝙊𝙐𝙎𝙔 | 𝙠𝙖𝙧𝙡 𝙟𝙖𝙘𝙤𝙗𝙨 (18+)

∘ request(s):

Ooh maybe edgy!karl teaching skateboarding :o. I’m also in uni and I remember my first frat party was quite interesting 😂 -🦋

ahhhh part four of your edgy karl was soooo good!!! could i get jealous karl? maybe someone else is hitting on the reader at a party

please please please more edgy!karl if u can. like maybe where him and reader get into a fight because he gets like jealous and he just shows the reader who they belong to fjsjjsj thankyouuu !! 🤍🪐 x

∘ pairing: edgy!Karl Jacobs x fm!reader

∘ warnings: nsfw (18+ minors dni), smut, light bdsm, jealous, somewhat toxic behavior, crude language, frat boys (again), mentions of masterbation, biting, domination, spanking

∘ word count: ~3200

∘ links: 𐐪 ao3 𐑂 𐐪 previous part 𐑂 𐐪 submit an edgy!karl edit 𐑂

a/n: not me having to watch daddy tony hawk tutorials for this bc I'm uncultured and only skateboarded for like three months when I was 14 :)))

thank you for all the requests (especially 🦋 ily). if any of you have ideas for what I should call this series, lemme know! as always, have a great week and happy reading :)

♡ ᵍᵉⁿᵉ

The parking lot behind the campus union was barren. The morning dew in the air left a sweet smell to combine with Karl’s cologne as he walked beside you, his arm bumping yours as he listened to you nervously ramble on about one of your classes. You weren’t sure why, but the thought of falling on your ass in front of Karl terrified you more than anything. This man had degraded you and made you completely submit to him in the past, yet you were worried that not being able to master his ~craft~ would ruin his image of you. 

He dropped his skateboard, his feet settling on it lazily as he rolled beside you. You watched quietly as he stopped, kicking his foot down on the front of his board so it popped into his hand. “You won’t fall. I’ve got you,” he joshed, tugging on your hand so you were in front of him. 

He set the board down, his hands going to your hips as you stepped on it. His fingers dipped under the hem of your sweatshirt, your skin lighting up at his touch as if his hands belonged on you. “You look like an anemic Victorian boy. I don’t trust you as a safety net,” you grumbled, your hands covering his. You knew, roughly, how to skate from a middle school phase you had. Karl only promised to teach you a few tricks, but to say you were rusty would be an understatement. 

He chuckled darkly, nudging you closer to the middle of the board and peering over your shoulder to look at your stance. “I’ve fucked you without your feet touching the floor. I think I can catch you before you hit the ground, baby,” he chided, making you scoff. 

Your cheeks flushed with heat at his words. “Dirty, dirty boy,” you mumbled. He instructed you on how to kick the board up to where you needed it. His words were simple and almost plain like he knew you could figure it out. You attempted to push the board up, but crashed into Karl’s arms, your back thumping against his chest. 

He giggled slightly as he straightened you up, setting you back on the board as his foot kept it from rolling out from under you. His hands hovered over your hips again as he moved his foot, leaving you to balance on your own. “If you fall correctly, people will just think you were giving really good head,” he jested. You shoved his arms away at his words as he laughed at his own joke. 

You attempted a few more times and nearly had it down before Karl’s hands were on your hips again, giving you further instructions. You fought not to smile as his breath ghosted against your neck. You knew he cared about teaching you something that---on paper---was seemingly so easy, but his vulgar teasing was beginning to swarm your head. With his next steps set as your goal as well as the feeling of his hold on you, you kicked the board up and attempted to jump with it. While your brain was up to speed, your feet weren’t, sending the board out from beneath you and you to fall into its place. 

Karl snorted as choked back a laugh at you scrapping your hands on the concrete. “Come on, don’t be a pussy. Try again,” he chided, voice uneven and laced with whatever dark humor he was getting from watching you do this. 

You rolled your eyes playfully, letting him tug you up in front of him. As you wobbled on the board once again, you let his hands dig into your sides. Obviously, it seemed that he actually was worried about dropping you again, despite the fact that he was holding back some kind of sick laugh. “You would be great at teaching a kid how to ride a bike,” you quipped, the fact that he called you a pussy seeping into your mind. 

You gasped slightly as you slipped again, this time Karl’s arms wrapping around you tightly, pressing your body against his. “Awe, you want me to put a baby in you, pet?” He jeered with his lips near your ear. You shrugged out of his grip, breaking up your indecent thoughts at his comment. 

You could feel the heat rising to your ears as you balanced on his skateboard again. “Stop, you perv,” you deflected, hoping he couldn’t tell how hard you were having to bite back a smirk. 

After your skateboarding escapades, you sat typing away at your computer, Karl occasionally looking over his phone to peer at you. His legs were thrown lazily on either side of you as he stretched out on his pillows. 

An alarm went off on Karl’s phone, startling you in the process. He fought against smirking at your surprise as he sat up, crawling over to you. “Okay, I gave you two hours,” he stated, leaning forward to press his lips against yours and gently close your computer. The taste of him on your tongue was like a drug for you, leaving you constantly wanting more. 

You smirked into his kiss as your brain finally caught up with you. “I hope that document saved, asshole,” you groaned, pushing him back into his pillows as he chuckled at you. His fingers dragged up the length of your thighs, squeezing the flesh in his hands as you straddled him. “Fucking weirdo, timing me. Who are you, my dad?” You teased, pressing a kiss to his neck and digging your fingers into his hair. 

He moaned lowly, grinding against you. “Oh fuck yeah. Call me daddy,” he cantered. 

“No,” you answered simply. You sat up, reaching over to his top drawer in search of protection, but running your fingers over a lacy garment instead. Your brows knitted together as your gaze shot to the drawer, your underpants dangling from your finger. Karl tucked his hands behind his head, looking up at you nonchalantly as your mind flashed with memories of your time in the bathroom. 

Before you had the opportunity to ask him what he was still doing with them, his door popped open to reveal one of Karl’s roommates, his name beginning with a D but slipping your mind. “What are you guys doing in here?” He asked with a rather dopey smile, gesturing to Karl still between your legs. “Everyone’s downstairs, come on.” You and Karl shared a look as he left. 

You leaned back down to him, kissing him briefly before pressing your lips to his neck again. “Wanna come over instead?” You suggested softly, your lips ghosting over his ear. 

Karl loped down the stairs in front of you, a heavy layer of smoke hanging in the air above your heads. A mass of people crammed themselves together, finding solace in each other after the long week. If you weren’t so hung up on getting into Karl’s pants, you might have considered joining them. 

Before the two of you could reach the door, someone called out for Karl. Their voice boomed over the loudness of the music, making Karl wince slightly. His face flattened into a frown as “Todd” waved at the two of you. Karl took a few slugging steps to stand close enough to Todd’s group that they wouldn’t have to yell at each other. You settled your hand on Karl’s hip as you wrapped your hand around his waist, leaning against him. Todd’s eyes traced over you. 

He wet his lips. “You guys leaving already?” He asked, leaning back in his chair and accepting the joint offered to him. From an outsider’s perspective, he looked like the king of the castle. Luckily, you knew better. “Come on, play a game with us!” He suggested, patting the empty spot beside him. Even though you couldn’t see his face, you could tell Karl was rolling his eyes. “I got a seat warmed up for you, baby girl,” he nodded towards you. 

You perked an eyebrow in his direction and Karl slipped his hand into yours nonchalantly. “Thanks, but no,” Karl stated. 

“Come on, Karl. Don’t make me pull pin.” At Todd’s words, Karl groaned reluctantly, the sound barely audible. You furrowed your brows at him. “Fifteen minutes. We were gonna play Never Have I Ever.” 

You leaned towards Karl. “What’s pulling pin?” You mumbled. 

“Flexing rank,” he grunted back. He tugged you with him to join the group. Before you could sit down, Todd pulled you into the spot beside him. You laughed nervously, watching as Karl’s features darkened as he sat across from the two of you. Todd handed you a drink, which you took but avoided sipping out of. 

A boy beside Karl piped up. “Okay, so never have I ever graduated high school. My degree is literally fake.” The boy smiled before taking a drink, making you giggle slightly. Todd draped his arm around the back of the couch where you were sitting. He wasn’t touching you exactly but every ounce of his being was getting under Karl’s skin. 

Todd smugly shook his head. “No, Zeke. Those aren’t the rules. You have to say something that’s not true about you. Like…” he trailed off slightly, his gaze settling on you before his mouth twisted into a smirk. “Never have I ever slashed someone’s tires.” 

You humored him with a subtle smile as if to ask if he was serious. He gestured towards Karl, who took a drink. You bit back a grin. “Well, never have I ever masturbated to a girl my roommate’s sleeping with,” Karl retaliated. Your eyes grew wide, suddenly happy to watch the event unfold before you. 

Todd took a drink after glaring at Karl. He leaned closer to you, this time his arm dropped to pull you against his side. “Do you wanna take a turn?” You shook your head, flashing your eyes to Karl before looping your fingers with Todd’s. Karl chewed the inside of his cheek, looking like he was holding back another laugh. “Alright, I’ll go.” Todd brought your hand up to his lips, kissing your palm. “Ah, I know. Never have I ever betrayed the secret oath of the frat and called the police.” 

Karl took another sip, his eyes on you. “Yeah, because never have I ever set the house on fire trying to light a bong,” he answered, making you snort. 

You let your free hand settle on Todd’s knee. “Awe, I’d light your bong for you,” you chided, making Todd laugh as he took a drink. 

“I bet you could do a lot for me, Princess,” he flirted, his lips nearing your ear. You raised your eyebrows in Karl’s direction, who was sitting with his chin in his hand. His expression was darkly entertained as you flirted with Todd. “Speaking of,” Todd looked to Karl again. “Never have I ever fucked someone on my roommate’s bed,” he teased, tucking his nose in the crook of your neck. 

Karl smirked. “You’re right, you probably haven’t,” he stated simply, downing the rest of his drink. Todd tensed slightly beside you. Karl stood, ruffling the hair of one of the other Brothers that were in the group before holding his hand out for you to take. As the two of you left, you heard one of the guys whistle and say something about never having peed in a pool before. 

As the two of you left the house, you walked in time with Karl’s heavy steps, swinging your entwined hands as if you were completely oblivious. “I can’t believe I made you jealous,” you taunted. You could practically see the steam rolling off his shoulders as he opened the passenger car door for you. Before you could slip into the seat, Karl’s hand gripped the back of your neck, bringing you to press your lips roughly against his. He pinned you between him and the cool metal of the car as the taste of beer spread across your tongue. 

His fingers dug into your hips, his other hand tightening around your throat. The coolness of his tongue ring was a welcomed sensation as you attempted to find friction against his hips. Your fingers moved to close around his wrist as he pulled away, leaving you gasping for air. His face was expressionless as his gaze danced from your lips to your eyes. “I’m going to fuckin’ ruin you for the way you acted,” he ribbed, stepping away from you. 

You nearly slid down the side of the car at his words. “Okay,” you whispered, heat rising to your cheeks and ultimately to your core. 

Karl’s calm exterior followed you until you finally got your apartment door open. Karl pinned you against the wood of your bedroom door, reaching to twist the lock as his lips began to commandeer your own. His hands dragged up your thighs beneath your skirt, squeezing at the flesh roughly. He yanked your shirt off, grinding his hips up and against yours as his teeth moved to nip at the skin of your neck before returning to badger your lips. 

The taste of beer on his lips blended with your flavored chapstick as your tongue slipped into his mouth. In a mess of tugging and biting each other, your body melted into his rough grasp. You wanted whatever repercussions his twisted mind could come up with. You wanted him to do whatever he wanted to you. You fought against diving your hands into his jeans to beg him to continue, but he broke away from you as you fought to catch your breath. 

Your lips were buzzing as the feeling of him still lingered. He brought his hand up to your jaw, tipping your chin up to him. “Fucking slut,” the devil’s grin painted across his face before he continued, pressing his lips against yours once more, his grin dragging your bottom lip between his teeth. “You act like I don’t fucking own you,” he nearly growled, his face hovering over yours as his hand squeezed your throat. You moaned quietly as he regulated your breathing with his hand. You wanted to drink in his dark, commanding appearance. 

He pushed you back on the bed, making you instinctively crawl up towards the pillows. He smirked slightly, undoing his belt and slipping it into his hands. He put the garment on your bedside table. After tugging his shirt off, he was on top of you again, pushing you into the pillows and the fluffy comforter. Karl’s lips seared yours, showing you how much command he had over your body. He ground his hips against yours, the fabric of his jeans digging into you to elicit a moan echo from your mouth. You could feel his erection hardening against your leg, the tension deep within you tightening at the prospect of what he was going to do to you. 

His fingers tugged at your skirt, gripping the material in his fist and dragging it down your body as if it was nothing. He flipped you, your elbows crowding the pillows as you felt him sit on your back, snapping the belt in his hands again. You let out a short breath as Karl’s nails raked up your back before his fingers dipped in your hair, tugging your head back to look at him. “I want you to scream my name tonight,” he groaned. You obliged as he dropped his grip on you. 

He pulled your wrists between the bars of your headboard before binding you to the metal with his belt, yanking the leather to sinch against your skin. He dropped his head to press his lips against your shoulder, a tender nod of affection you knew would be the last. You leaned on your side to watch him sit back on his knees to unbutton his jeans. “Be gentle,” you leered, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth to fight your grin again as you watched him spit into his hand and stroke himself in preparation.

He chuckled. “I’ll take good care of you, sweetheart,” he murmured darkly through a smirk. He pulled your hips up and against his own, forcing your face into the mattress. Your hands tightened around the metal bars, as he angled himself at your entrance before driving himself into with an act of force you knew you deserved. A moan of his name slipped past your lips as his fingers dug into your hips, thrusting into you to drive himself deeper into you. “That’s right. I want the neighbors to know who’s fucking you,” he groaned, snapping his hips against yours. 

Moans of pure bliss escaped your lips as his head neared yours. Karl used your hips as leverage for his unwavering pace, leaving you a mess of pleasure beneath him. His lips found their way to your neck as he nipped against the sensitive skin. You wanted him to mark you, to claim you, and he deserved to. His hand from your hair became wrapped around your throat as he began to reach his peak. 

His hand slapped your ass with such force you knew there was a handprint, but you were too overwhelmed with the noises escaping his lips and your climax threatened to disobey your control to be concerned with the sting. If anything it threatened to push you over the edge. Your hands pulled against the leather of his belt as he pounded into you. 

Your toes began to curl as he leaned over you, his breath fanning against your shoulder as you bit back heavy moans of pleasure. Karl’s hand was knotted in your hair again, his other fisting the sheets beside you. “Who’s making you feel this good? Huh?” You moaned out his name as he punctuated his sentence with the thrusts of his hips. “That’s right, you fucking slut.” You tightened around him, your orgasm sweeping over you with an element of shock. 

You could practically hear Karl’s smirk as he moaned at the sight of you coming undone beneath him. He continued to ride you, finishing rather abruptly. He pressed his lips between your shoulder blades before loosening the belt around your wrists. Your back popped as you were finally able to move freely. He bit back a chuckle as you gingerly snuggled beneath the covers beside him. You slipped your hand across his torso, hugging his side against your chest as he rested an arm behind your head. 

As you laid your head on his chest, his heartbeat began to steady, his fingers lightly brushing against your skin. “I’d rather eat my own feet than sleep with Todd, you know,” you croaked, realizing just how much your voice was weakening, breaking the silence between the two of you. 

Karl chuckled softly. “Me too,” he commented, making you smile slightly. “I’m actually…” he paused slightly before continuing as if searching for what he wanted to say exactly. “I’m actually not sleeping with anyone else.” 

You couldn’t fight the smile spreading across your face. “I’m not either.” You hugged him tighter, letting his fingers twirl into your hair. “I’m good with you.” 

“I’m good with you, too,” he mirrored, a smirk evident in his voice as his other hand traced over the red marks on your wrists from his belt. 

Tags: 

@mrwinemaker @madsbbg @idiotinnit @xxtakechancesxx

[singtotheskiies]

“how are you so perfect?!” // karl jacobs fluff alphabet

a/n: the mcyt brainrot continues so i am coping with the fluffiest karl hcs my brain can summon,,,,,,, i am affection-starved send help please

summary: a look into the abcs of dating the one and only sweetheart karl jacobs!!! (fluff alphabet template by @snk-warriors)

activities - what do they like to do with their s/o? how do they spend their free time with them?

karl loves doing literally anything and everything with you; he just loves your presence and company so much!! whether it’s late-night target runs, playing minecraft together, or just collapsing into your arms after a long, late-night stream, being with you instantly lifts his mood.

beauty - what do they admire about their s/o? what do they think is beautiful about them?

while karl appreciates and adores everything about you, i can definitely see him being a sucker for your eyes. he loves how they sparkle in certain lights, how big and happy they are when you’re looking at him, how they crinkle when you laugh, and how your pretty eyelashes flutter against your cheeks when the two of you cuddle. he often finds himself getting all blushy when you guys maintain prolonged eye contact:)))) i think he’d also love your hands and shoulders too!!

comfort - how would they help their s/o when they feel down/have a panic attack etc.?

karl is no stranger to anxiety and is incredibly empathetic. the combination of these two things makes him the BEST person to have around when you’re not feeling good. if you’re sad, he’ll instinctively know just what to do to put a smile on your face again. he’ll crack stupid jokes or put on music and dance with you—anything to make you happy. if you’re anxious, he’ll talk softly to you and, if you’re feeling up to it, will hold you so you can safely come down from your panicking. he’ll definitely cradle the back of your head with his hand as he holds you close, just breathing with you.

dreams - how do they picture their future with their s/o?

karl is definitely the type to fall hard relatively quickly in a relationship. thinking about the future is sometimes scary for him, but with you in the picture, he finds it less threatening—beautiful, even. he doesn’t know exactly how he wants everything to turn out, but he does know that he wants you by his side through all of it.

equal - are they the dominant one in the relationship, or rather passive?

equality in a relationship is INCREDIBLY important to karl. he respects you so much and wants to make sure that your opinions and ideas are heard. the two of you 100% thrive on mutual communication and input.

fight - would they forgive their s/o easily? how do they fight?

i don’t see karl as the type to get upset easily; he’s pretty chill and is very forgiving since he hates conflict. i can see the odd argument popping up if he’s tired or stressed and accidentally snaps at you, but he’d be clinging to you five minutes later and begging for forgiveness (which, of course, you can’t resist giving him—he has an unfair amount of cute privilege).

gratitude - how grateful are they in general? are they aware of what their s/o is doing for them?

karl is sweetie #1 and never fails to appreciate the people in his life (or let them know). you could get him a monster from the fridge and he’ll literally pepper your face with kisses while chanting “thank you thank you thank you” like you just saved his life or something. he’s such a cutie and never fails to show you just how much he appreciates everything you do:)))

honesty - do they have secrets they hide from their s/o? or do they share everything?

as i said before, karl thrives on communication. however, he’s often hesitant to tell you when he’s feeling down or upset. even though he knows you probably wouldn’t mind, he doesn’t want to drag you down or burden you with his problems. his tell for feeling down is getting really quiet, so if you notice this, a few gentle questions will get him to open up to you. he’s working on being more open because you always help him feel so much better!!

inspiration - did their s/o change them somehow, or the other way around? ex: trying out new things or helping them overcome personal problems?

without a doubt, you have both changed each other for the better!! he’s helped you appreciate the little things and the quiet companionship that so many people take for granted. he’s also been a huge constant and has helped you through tough times. you’ve been a huge calming-yet-brilliant force for him and have taught him that good things always come in time. y’all are really an unstoppable pair and mean so much to the other!!

jealousy - do they get jealous easily? how do they deal with it?

karl doesn’t get jealous as much as he gets insecure. if he’s feeling uncomfortable, he’ll just get super quiet. after all, who is he to stop you from having fun?? maybe you’re better off with this person in the moment,,,, anyway, you’ll have to make it up to him with a cuddle session and reassuring him about how much you love him between soft head kisses:)))

kiss - are they a good kisser? what was the first kiss like?

karl’s kisses are LOVELY—soft and sweet with his hands gently cupping your cheek or jaw or even holding your own. he just loves being able to feel you and be close to you. the first kiss probably happened during a cuddle session—he would just be so caught up in your presence and softness and scent that his face would move closer to yours without him even trying. you’d make soft, shy eye contact for a brief moment before his mouth met yours. help he’s so cute ajcividiahhdjfd

love confession - how would they confess to their s/o?

god, he’s SUCH a cheeseball—he’d either do it on your birthday, delivered with a shy smile and giant bouquet, or just blurt it out of nowhere at 2am while the two of you are tired and slap-happy out of your minds. either way, he says it with such hushed reverence that your heart forgets how to work for a few minutes. so many kisses after;))))

marriage - do they want to get married? how would they propose? what would the marriage be like?

like i said earlier, karl can get a bit overwhelmed when thinking about the future. however, he does know that he wants the utter joy you bring him every day to keep going. he likes the idea of a small, pretty wedding with the people you’re closest with, but he’s also fine with just enjoying what you have. as long as he gets to be with you he’s happy:)))

nicknames - what do they call their s/o?

i get the vibe that he’d call you by your first initial or “baby” when he wants to be more casual (but he somehow imbues “baby” with so much meaning,,,,, hhhh). uses “sweetie” sometimes and also “honey” after you’ve been in a relationship for a while. basically just uses the absolute CUTEST names,,, they come naturally to him bc he loves you so much:’))

on cloud nine - what are they like when they are in love? is it obvious to others? how do they express their feelings?

it is PAINFULLY obvious that karl’s in love with you. he’s always gushing about you to his mr. beast and minecraft friends, so full of fond stories that everyone groans at so much of a mention of your name (everyone secretly thinks it’s adorable tho). the two of you have had so many people compliment you on how cute of a couple you are—your joking, fond chemistry is palpable.

pda - are they upfront about their relationship? do they brag about their s/o in front of others? or are they rather shy to kiss, etc. when others are watching?

while it’s common knowledge karl’s love language is physical touch, he’s always considerate of your boundaries while the two of you are around others. he’ll likely keep pda to hand holding and an arm slung comfortably over your shoulder. it’s just enough to let you feel each other without being too clingy.

quirk - a random ability they have that’s beneficial in a relationship.

karl is super unselfish—meaning his closet, nail polish—and yes, even his prized monster energy drinks—are also yours. he truly believes that sharing is caring, and it makes him incredibly happy when you’re wearing one of his iconic sweaters or giving him a grateful smile as he hands you half of his taco bell order.

romance - how romantic are they? what would they do to make their s/o happy? cliché or rather creative?

karl is a complete angel and always puts others first, meaning he’s an absolute GOD when it comes to romance. he’s always laughing and joking with you, and he never runs out of fun things for the two of you to do. at the beginning of your relationship, he’ll stick to the tried-and-true formulas of giant teddy bears, chocolate, and shared sweaters. as he gets to know you better, though, he’ll take pride in giving you super personal gifts and crafting special date nights he knows you’ll love. he’s the absolute sweetest:’’))

support - do they help their s/o achieve their goals? do they believe in them?

karl is your biggest fan first and your boyfriend second. he never fails to cheer you on every step of the way and remind you just how incredible you are when you’re struggling. he truly believes you can do anything—he is an angel. an ANGEL.

thrill - do they need to try out new things to spice out their relationship? or do they prefer a certain routine?

the two of you have a happy, comfortable rhythm in your relationship. however, you guys definitely try things together. watching a new cartoon, trying a quirky restaurant, or doing weird challenges with each other on stream never feels too much like stepping out of your comfort zone since the two of you are so in sync. even if something backfires, you’ve got the safety net of the other person to catch you.

understanding - how well do they know their partner? are they empathetic?

karl has incredible amounts of emotional and interpersonal intelligence. he believes in the innate dignity and beauty of all people, and LOVES getting to know every single bit of who you are. he’s completely committed to you, and is the perfect person to help you with whatever you’re going through.

value - how important is the relationship to them? what is its worth in comparison to other things in their life?

he considers your relationship to be the best part of his life. you’ve been with him through so much, and looking back, it’s incredibly clear just how much your presence in his life has changed him for the better. he loves you so much!!!!!

wild card - a random fluff headcanon.

karl often rants happily on and on about his newest cartoon or gaming obsession while the two of you are cuddling. he’s just so cute, and more often than not you’ll end up kissing all over his freckled cheeks and soft hair. he melts into you like a cat and the two of you just breathe the other in with pure contentment:))))) send help y’all are so cute:))))

xoxo - are they very affectionate? do they love to kiss and cuddle?

this goes without saying, but karl is a cuddlebug supreme. if you’re not super into cuddling, he’ll understand but try and ease you into it so that he can love you the way he really wants to!! copious amounts of cuddles, kisses, and affection are central to his ideal relationship.

yearning - how do they cope when they’re missing their partner?

poor karl gets so lonely without you!! you’ll facetime him when you’re gone for even a night, and he’ll pick up wearing one of your sweatshirts. “miss me that much??” you tease, and he can only nod and pout. expect millions of wish you were heres and miss you babys and can’t wait to hug u agains spam texted to you. lots of snapchats of him giving puppy dog eyes to the camera and cuddling stuffed animals will also be sent. he can’t help it—he just adores you and is constantly pouting until you’re back.

zeal - are they willing to go to great lengths for the relationship? if so, what will they do?

you’re karl’s everything, and he’ll do anything to make sure that your relationship is happy, healthy, and beneficial for both of you. thankfully, though, he’s such a sweetheart that making sure things are running smoothly isn’t much of a task at all!!

[damn-d4niel]

my eurovision top 10 ✨

eurovision is coming up and i can't wait any longer, so i decided to share my favourites before the show!!

1 lithuania: monika liu - sentimentai

this is my favourite song by far this year!! i was completely hooked after the first time i heard it, it's just right up my alley and brings something to the contest that we haven't seen many times before, monika is an amazing artist and i just adore this song!!!

2 italy: mahmood & blanco - brividi

italy, everyone's favourite eurovision country <3 soldi was my winner in 2019 and i've known some of blanco's music for a while now too and the chemistry of the two of them is so so good, the song is incredible and i wouldn't mind a back to back win this year!!

3 ukraine: kalush orchestra - stefania

ukraine is once again sending an amazing song, the combination of traditional and more modern music is incredible, i love this one!!!

4 sweden: cornelia jacobs - hold me closer

finally a real and authentic song from sweden!! and it's amazing!! (and really the only good song that was in the mello final) her voice is what carries the entire thing though, if anyone else sang it i would probably feel very different about it

5 portugal: maro - saudade, saudade

i love love looove portugal's entries in recent years and this is no exception!!! i feel like this song just gets better with every listen, the harmonies here are just perfect i can't get enough

6 slovenia: lps - disko

this song is really underrated by the fandom so far but i love it!! it's super catchy and overall the vibe is so good!!

7 latvia: citi zeni - eat your salad

this is exactly the type of fun entry that makes eurovision so great and i love that!! it's extremely catchy and the blonde guy's energy on stage is just amazing!! also i love the instrumental, like the guitar in the second verse is so gooood

8 greece: amanda tenfjord - die together

my expectations were quite high when amanda was announced for greece but they didn't disappoint! the buildup on this song is amazing and i don't know what it is exactly but the bridge makes my brain tingle in all the right ways

9 spain: chanel - slomo

this simply SLAPS, chanel's stage presence is immaculate and i'm convinced this is what's gonna get spain out of the bottom 5 and to the top for once!! in the past week it grew on me so much i'm obsessed

10 san marino: achille lauro - stripper

a great song, it's super catchy and i can't wait for the crowd in turin to go crazy once this is on omg (on that note - i would've never envisioned mahmood, blanco and achille lauro all participating in the same eurovision edition but it's happening and i'm obsessed with it)

[mywonuderful]

Sweet n' Sour Chicken

anon request: hi, can I request a fluffy college au with Jacob from the boyz? 🥺

pairing: college!jacob x college!reader

genre: college au, fluff

warning: cursing and some anatomy terms for those KINE students out there 

a/n: thanks for the request anon! I had lots of fun writing this so I hope you like it :)

main masterlist

You knew you fucked up.

2 minutes

You sprinted, your bag swinging in all directions as you opened the doors of the building, jumped ran down the stairs and finally reached the doors of your practicum.

‘it literally take 10 minutes for me to travel from one building to another. why does my practicums have to be on opposite side of the campus?’ You caught your breath, wiping the sweat that was falling from the side of your face. You peaked through the half opened door, hearing the instructor explain the lab as you scanned the room for any empty seats.

'Second last row, beside the guy in a demin jacket' You took note as you quietly opened the door, hoping the instructor doesn't noticed as you tippy toed your way to the empty seat.

"Excuse me." You pointed at the empty seat beside him. He mouthed a 'sorry' before he moved his guitar bag and stood up for you to pass through. You eyes lingered at the guitar for a moment before you threw your bag on the table, chugging your water.

'A musical major taking an anatomy course? What is he thinking?' You resting your head on your hand, glancing over at him, observing his appearance. His hair was dyed to a honey brown color, looking soft as a pillow. He was wearing a demin jacket with a plaid and t-shirt underneath and you could hear his metal accessories clink every so often when he moved.

“Miss ‘late for the nth time’"You heard your instructor yell as you snapped to reality.

“Yes!” You answered, immediately feeling embarrassed as you knew he was calling for you.”

“You’ll be pairing up with Jacob, the guy you’ve been staring at for the past 5 minutes.” The guy so called named Jacob turned to look at you as you darted your head away, cheeks heating up as you heard a few people chuckle. The teacher went on explaining the purpose and procedure of the labs as you had your hand on your forehead, staring down at the sheet of paper as you mentally cursed at yourself for always being late and for checking out the man who turned out to be your lab partner. The room was filled with student’s voices overlapping each other as everyone got to work. You faced the wall, too ashamed to face your lab partner as you heard him clear his throat, trying to get your attention.

“Hey, so I’m Jac-”

“I am not interested in you.” You cut him off as his eyes widen from your statement. “I wasn’t checking you out.”

"Umm. Okay.” He slowly nodded, as you followed, whisper a ‘yeah, not interested’ to reassure yourself. 

“I didn’t ask.” Your eyes looked up to his as you both stared at each other before he broke into a smile. “Anyways, I’m Jacob.” He stuck out his hand, waiting for you to shake it.

“And I am sick and tired of labs.” You rolled your eyes. He still hand has hand extended, waiting for you to shake it as you narrowed your eyes at him, noting his unique behavior. “Y/N.” you shook his hand.

“Shall we get started on this practicum then?”

"Let me just say this first." He looked at you, waiting to continue as you lost your words for a second in his eyes. "We're going to get this over with, then part ways and never see each other again okay? I don't care what mark I get in this lab nor do I really care in general about labs." You looked at him, regretting the words that left your mouth.

"Cool. let's get started then?" Your heart stung from his response as you hesitantly nodded your head.

Unlike what you said, the both of you didn't part ways and never see each other again after that lab. Instead, you would purposely accidently meet him in lectures, other courses and around the campus where you found out that the two of you shared many common interests and that the both of you were in the same program. As those 'unexpected' encounters became more and more regular, your interest in him become more and more clear as his quiet, soft yet observed actions would always catch you off guard. But whenever that happens, you made sure to not like your feelings get in your way, as you know you aren't up for that kind of commitment.

-

"Where does the mandible articulate?"

"Uh... temporal bone?"

"Good. What joint does the mandible and temporal bone form?" You pressed your brows together, deep in thought. "We went through this 10 minutes ago."

"Cut me some slack, Jacob. I can only stuff so much information in this small brain." He smiled at your response. "Why do you always smile in the most unexpected moments? If you keep this up, I don't know what I'll end up doing." You mumbled to yourself as he waited for your answer

"That didn't sound like the rig-"

"I don't know! The temporalmandible joint or something?" You gave up as he slightly nodded. "Wait, did you hear what I said before that?" Panic started to form as you felt the cold sweat in your hands

"Close. Temporomandibular joint. And no, it just sounded longer than the actual answer." He corrected as you groaned, banging your forehead on the table as he slid his hand under so you won't end up bruising your forehead. "You're going to lose brain cells if you keep banging your head." You shot your head up, looking at him with a defeated face.

"But I'm already stupid!" You cried as he shook his head, patting your head.

"I'm joking. It takes more than just banging your head." You glared at him.

"Then why get me all worked up?"

"So you could stop ruining that beautiful forehead of yours?" I'm sorry but that sounds weird even as a complement You leaned back, taken by surprised before you snapped back to reality. "Look, there's a little trick on memorizing it. Just combine the two words together." He pointed at the pictures on the computer as you tried to focus. He would lean closer to you every so often as he pointed at the diagrams as your heart would race when he did.

"So the joint connecting the tibia and fibula would be the tibiofibular joint?" You asked as you pointed at the picture. He turned to look at you with wide eyes before he broke out into a chuckle.

"Correct!" The both of you laughed as the remaining of your study session went on.

-

By the time the two of you were finished with studying, it was already the late evening as one of the cafe employee came over to inform the customers that it was closing time. You glanced out the window, seeing rain drops slowly fall. Jacob was packing up beside you, as he followed your vision.

"The weather forecast did say it'll rain these couple of days." He mentioned as you stared out the evening sky, rain drops falling harder by the second.

"God, even mother nature hates me." You sighed as you packed your things, hearing a chuckle from him. "What? You find it amusing that the world is despises me?" He shook his head, waving his hand in denial.

"You're wrong. The whole world doesn't hate you."

"Then who doesn't?"

"There's me." You were zipping up your bag, stopping midway as you lifted your head to look up at him. He had a soft expression on his face, as your cheeks started to tint up.

"Geez, I thought I was weird but I'm starting to question who's the weird one here" You threw the bag over your shoulder as you opened the door, holding your textbooks over your head as you were about to ran to the nearest building when he suddenly grabbed your arm.

"I've got you covered." He opened his umbrella, lifting it over your head.

"Actually, the umbrella has us covered." You stated in a matter of fact tone as he laughed, lightly pulling your arm closer to him as the both of you started walking. He suggested that you stay over at his place for the time being knowing that you usually bus home. The two of you walked in silence as you took in the sound of the wind and raindrops hitting the tops of the umbrella, his grip still around your arm. He unlocked the door and turned on the lights, before gesturing you to enter first while he flicks off the remaining droplets. To your surprise, it was a little bigger than expected for a home for one person. You found yourself wandering around as he closed the door, taking off his shoes and jacket. You placed your bag down on the couch and sat down as you looked out the window, seeing the weather get more and more intense.

"Doesn't seem like the rain will calm down anytime soon." He spoke from the opened kitchen. You hummed in response, eyes found its way on a display of pictures of when he was younger with his family, brother and friends. You stood up, walking over to take a closer look as a smile appeared on your face.

"Ah, those were when I was in the volleyball and basketball team." He stated, offering you a cup of hot tea and you nodded, sitting back down as he took a seat next to you. You didn't know where to look as you stared out the window.

"Do you like the rain?" He asked to break the silence.

"No, I absolutely hate it." You turned to look at him. "I don't know where else to look." You admitted as he laughed.

"You sure are one bright person." You spoke, taking a sip. "Compared to someone like me."

"What do you mean? I find you bright as well." He snickered at his compliment.

"Not at all. I've already come into terms with my sour personality. It's just who I am. Someone who's better off alone and unbothered." He was deep in thought as you peeked over, trying to read him. "Why did you decide to be friends with me?"

"I didn't. It was you who asked for my number for the lab assignment." He pointed at you as you gasped, taken back.

"You're just trying to be funny now."

"Then tell me you didn't purposely go the opposite way so that you would 'bump' into me." You avoided his eyes, feeling ashamed that he taught on to your actions

"I can't confidently say that I didn't to it on purpose. But I swear, half- no not have, three forth of time it weren't on purpose!" You defended yourself before the two of you broke into laugher.

"How about we order some take-out? I don't think going out to grab food in the rain would be ideal with the weather being like this."

"I like your thinking. What should we order?"

An hour passed after you ordered as both of you would exchange short conversations here and there.

"You must be a pretty athletics person. Seeing how many awards you've won." His eyes were fixed on the trophies, a small smile upon his face.

"You could say so. How about you? Do you play any sports?"

"Nope. The most athletic thing I've done is run from practicums to practicums." You chuckled as he joined. The doorbell rang as you stood up to answer before he told you to sit down. He thank the delivery man and paid as he locked the door, placing the takeout on the coffee table.

He took out the takeout containers, opening them as your eyes landed on a particular dish.

"Sweet and sour chicken? I didn't remember us ordering that." He brought out some plates and took a seat beside you, knees brushing as he sat down.

"I added it last minute. Craved it, I guess." He replied as you nodded, not caring as the both of you started to eat.

"Say, I remember you carrying a guitar case the first time we met." You spoke as he looked up, trying to recall.

"Ah yeah, it was for a band I'm in." Your eyebrow rose, noting that he was an all rounder.

"Talk about being Mr. Perfect." You stuffed your face with rice.

"I still lack a lot." You choked on your rice as he immediately patted your back, opening a bottle water for you to drink.

"Lack *cough* my *cough* ass" you took a sip. "If you still 'lack a lot' then what does that make me? A complete failure?"

"What? No! Why do you talk so lowly of yourself?" His voice was serious. "You always compliment others but you can't seem to take a compliment on yourself."

"Wha- I have no idea what you're talking about." You put down your utensils.

"Are you finished with this? If you are then let's clean up." He started cleaning up the empty and dirty containers, you quietly following as you wondered why he suddenly jumped subjects. After cleaning up, you sat on the floor as he sat on the couch, the awkward silence was floating heavily around you.

"Hey Y/N." You looked up at him, the back on your head resting on the couch. "Can I tell you something? You have to hear me out though." You nodded, as he started playing with his fingers, trying to put together his words as you found his actions adorable, a giggle escape d your lips as you coughed to cover it up

"Stop thinking so small of yourself. You're not a failure nor does the world hate you. In fact, I find you very admirable in many ways." You shifted your body to face his. "Maybe if you see it in my eyes, you'll know just how amazing you are." You could see the blush across his cheeks, you bit your lip, feeling confused yet lighten from his words.

"Why?" He met yours eyes. "After seeing my personality, the way I act and talk. Why do you still hang out with me?" You answered.

"Do you want me to answer truthfully?" He stood up as you nodded, before he left to go into his room, coming back out with his guitar.

"I've been working on this song but the lyrics isn't ready but I have the instrumental down. Do you want to hear it?" You shrugged your shoulder, mumbling a 'why not,' feeling a little disappointed that he still didn't answer your question. He started strumming an upbeat yet sentimental tune. You found yourself swaying your head back and forth where when Jacob saw, he broke out into a smile as the both of you chuckled.

"Wow. You really are talented." You applauded as he shyly smiled

"There's a reasoning why I wrote this piece." He looked down at his guitar, stroking the strings lightly. "There someone who is so mentally strong no matter how hard the world is in her eyes. She carries herself well, not caring what others think or say about her. I find it admirable that she's so strong but then again, she doesn't realize it herself. I find myself attracted to her, even when she finds that her personality is sour, but I find it rather sweet." You stared right into his eyes as he would avoid them time to time. "And that's why this song is called sweet and sour."

"Like the sweet and sour chicken?" You tilted your head

"Yeah you could say that."

"So who's is she?" You leaned in, feeling a little upset that it wasn't you but nonetheless, anticipated. He placed his guitar to the side, resting his elbows on his knees, leaning in to you.

"If I told you, would you believe me?" He whispered. His eyes would glance down at your lips as your heart started to race.

"I mean, why wouldn't I?"

"It's you." Your eyes popped out, leaning back from surprised but Jacob held on to your shoulders. He slowly inches closer, your eyes shutting before you felt his lips on yours. You instantly smiled, you feeling his lips curving up as well. As you parted, he brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, both of you in a blushing mess.

"I guess you can say our relationship is like a sweet and sour chicken. Unique and irresistible." He smirked as you playfully punched his knee, exchanging flushed glances and laughter.

[neonthewrite]

Washed Up Winchesters 7

The team is closing in on the solution to their mystery! What's it gonna be, dream team?!

Cowritten with @nightmares06, the writer behind the @brothersapart multiverse!

( 1 ) ( 2 ) ( 3 ) ( 4 ) ( 5 ) ( 6 ) -7- ( 8 )

Story Tag

Read Time ~15 minutes

~~~~~

Jacob didn’t exit the inner roads of the city a moment too soon. A few people had started to wander closer to figure out what he was up to, despite the officer from before trying to convince them to move along. The resident giant didn’t walk among the close-packed buildings very often at all, and it only showed off how tall he was compared to everything else.

He was grateful to have passengers to pay attention to. He couldn’t think too much about his self-consciousness that way.

Once they were back on the outskirts of town, he glanced down often to get more directions from Sam or Minnie (Chase, as usual, didn’t seem too fussed about the direction they went). They eventually led him to a place well outside of town. None of the bumpiest roads even wound up out there, and the hills, covered in brush and rocks, wouldn’t be kind to most people on foot. A few dense clusters of trees formed extra barriers against travel in that direction.

“So you think these, uh, shapeshifter thingies are hiding somewhere in there?” he asked, pausing once again to consult the miniature monster hunters. “I’m not gonna be able to make a stealthy entrance, so what’s the plan?”

"Keep an eye out for any stray animals," Sam cautioned. "We don't know what their animal forms are yet, and skinwalkers are more versatile compared to werewolves like that. Whatever the pack is, anyone they bite will also turn into that animal."

"Who needs stealth when you have a giant on your side?" Dean commented, eliciting a side-eye from Sam. Likely his younger brother was remembering how trigger happy Dean had been just a few short hours back. Though considering the part that past giants had played in Blefuscu's history, it was understandable that the mini-monster hunter would feel threatened when seeing another one spring to life from the story books.

“Right?” Chase agreed. “These skinwalker thingies had no idea what they were getting into, invading Lilliput.”

Jacob’s mouth twisted into a skeptical frown. He might be big, and he’d used that to his advantage once or twice, but it didn’t make him an expert here. The monster hunting expertise all settled on Sam and Dean’s shoulders. He was prepared to help however they might need, but he didn’t like the thought of living as an open challenge to any monster that wanted to try something.

Minnie fidgeted. Her brow furrowed. “Can we just find them and get it over with?”

Jacob cupped his hand closer to his chest. “Yeah,” he tried to sound reassuring. “Just gonna …” he reached down to the tops of the nearest grouping of trees, brushing his hands over them. The young, supple trees bent back at his coaxing, though not without some creaking branches and snapping twigs, and birds swarmed away from his hand like flies.

“Can you guys tell if there’s any tracks or anything through there?”

Dean gave Jacob such a flat look that it could have dried up an ocean. Dried it up and left cracked salt flats behind. "What kind of tracks do you think we can spot from here, after you go messin' around with everything?" He pointed at the way the area had been affected by Jacob's movement.

Jacob glanced down and, in an overplayed show of drawing his hand back, let the trees spring into place with a cascade of yet more twigs and leaves. “I didn’t think they’d be climbing around in the trees,” he defended. As for how much they could have seen on the ground … he saw the point. He was too used to the Lilliputians being able to see much more detail than he ever could, and never paused to think about how high up he had everyone.

“Don’t worry, buddy,” Chase said, patting Jacob’s palm. “Ya did your best. You said it yourself, you won’t be sneaking up on ‘em.”

Jacob rolled his eyes and sighed, and some of the birds that were swarming from his recent disturbance scattered even further in the sudden breeze. “Right.”

He pressed forward, this time not paying much mind to the clusters of trees unless there was motion among them. Usually, it was a fox or another flock of birds, all irate for his presence. As he navigated around boulders jutting out of the ground and stepped over thick underbrush, he understood why no one made much use of the area. If he tried to set his passengers down right then, Chase and Minnie would definitely get themselves tangled up in something. Sam and Dean might fare only a little better.

As he crested the first hill, he paused. “I didn’t really see much in there,” he admitted. “Maybe I went the wrong way?”

It was Minnie who spoke up next, and she was staring down at a clearing at the foot of the hill. “There’s a flock of sheep.”

Chase snickered. “Jeez, Minnie, do we need to get you more lambs to look after? Sheep are on your brain today.”

She pointed at the clearing and shot him a scathing glare. “They’re on my brain because they’re there, Chase!”

"She's right," Sam put in helpfully, interrupting the siblings.

Indeed, the clearing ahead was populated with a peacefully grazing herd of sheep. Several "Baas" filtered back to the group in Jacob's hand. The giant had not gone unnoticed by the sheep, as most of them had given a wide berth to the side Jacob stood closest to.

Dean's eyes lit up with excitement. "If there's sheep, it's the perfect kind of place for shifters to make themselves right at home, especially if they're holed up for a while until they think they’re forgotten," he pointed out. "We should check the place out, see if there's any predators nearby that might be stalking the herd."

"I wonder how they all got over here," Minnie mused, even as Jacob looked for a good path down the gentle slope of the hill.

"Maybe the shapeshifter guys took 'em," Chase said. "We'll see if someone back in town is missing any."

"Just hope I won't scare 'em off," Jacob muttered. Even at his lowest volume, the four on his hand wouldn't miss his concern. Just his appearance over the crest of the hill had made some of the sheep nervous, from what he could see. He inched along towards the clearing, trying not to cause a landslide as he did.

Dean was unable to stop from bouncing on his heels while they waited, unaccustomed to waiting around for someone else to do all the work while he was stuck in the air.

"The longer you take, the more time they have to run off," he helpfully reminded Jacob, which got an annoyed look sent back at him from Sam.

"If any make a break for it, we'll just have Jake round them up," Sam said dryly.

Jacob sent a skeptical glance at his hand, but didn't argue. He had never tried to actually pick up the Lilliputian livestock before. At most, there were a few herds of cattle that allowed him to touch their backs. Mostly the animals still avoided him, and he didn't exactly blame them. Even now, his shadow over the hill crept over that green clearing and the sheep weren't any more curious about him than before.

If they did turn out to be stolen or lost, he'd probably be the one carrying them back over the hill. Hopefully the others would manage to help him keep from spooking the whole lot.

As soon as he was close enough, he crouched down, one hand braced on the ground while the other lowered his passengers to the grass. "Just gimme a shout if you spot trouble," he urged them.

Chase gave a thumbs up while he helped Minnie hop down from the hand. Then, before he could chirp out a response, he had to suppress a sneeze in the crook of his arm. "Oh yeah, I'm allergic to the air I guess," he complained.

"Just don't scare the flock," Minnie scolded.

Dean followed behind the younger pair of siblings, scowling. "We don't know where the skinwalkers are, so you two need to stick close to us," he told them sharply. "Chase, you're with me. Got it?"

"That means it's me and you," Sam said to Minnie with a smile. "Don't go out of earshot of the others, and watch my back."

“Oh, I definitely don’t plan to get lost out here,” Minnie muttered back. Chase would never let her live it down. That was another perk to having a giant so nearby. Jacob would be able to find them if they shouted for him, and he could pluck them right out of danger if they needed. Even so, she stuck close to Sam as she scanned the area for any signs of something out of the ordinary.

By contrast, Chase stuck close to Dean out of convenience more than wariness. He didn't want to get lost out there either. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s bothered this flock yet,” he noted. “Think the guys are nearby still?”

"We're here to find out," Dean said, more sharply than he meant. The fact that they didn't know for sure unnerved him more than usual. Combine that with the fact that they were well away from their familiar stomping grounds in Blefuscu, and he was on edge.

The secluded field hardly seemed the place for a dangerous pack of shapeshifters, but Dean had seen weirder in his time as a hunter. They could take no chances. Selecting a direction that led away from Sam's pair and Jacob, he took point, leading Chase into the flock of sheep to search for their owners.

"Baa."

Dean ignored the sound of the sheep as they milled restlessly around the intruders, trying to spot any color in the field of white. The sheep had to have gotten this far up the hills somehow, but he wasn't seeing any sign of their caretakers.

"Baa."

This time, the sound of an impatient sheep was shortly followed by one of them headbutting into Dean's legs. Caught off-guard, he toppled into the field and vanished among the woolly animals.

"Oh shit! Dean!" Chase blurted, a smile only briefly flashing across his face. When the determined monster hunter didn't catch himself or spring right back up, he lurched over to where he'd seen him fall over. The sheep were restless at this point, no doubt owed in part to their sudden intrusion. Chase had to sidle around several of them before he could find where Dean landed.

He patted one nearby sheep's head distractedly as he knelt down. "Scuse me." He got his hands on Dean's arm to help pull him up to a seat. "What happened?"

Dean rubbed his head, blinking in confusion. "I think... the sheep?"

The herd was growing more restless by the minute now, a multitude of baas surrounding the pair. As Dean got unsteadily to his feet, a second sheep rammed its head into his legs and sent him tumbling down again.

"Ah, jeez!" Chase groused. How Minnie could keep a whole flock of sheep in line, he would never know. "Calm down, guys!" He had to step around one uppity ram that had wandered it's way between him and Dean in all the milling around.

"They don't seem to like us much," he said, exasperated. "Maybe we oughta just go around the flock instead of through it."

He knelt down to help once again, and this time one of the sheep let out an indignant baaa right next to his ear. Slapping a hand over his ear, Chase frowned. "Oh calm down a second, wouldja? We're going!"

Dean ended up needing Chase's help to stand, surrounded by the annoyed bleats of the flock. He scowled right back at them. "Seriously, since when are sheep this irritating?"

~~~

Not far away, Sam was having similar issues.

He was unable to go more than a few steps before another sheep would try to headbutt him off his feet. However, Minnie was distinctly left alone in comparison, with all the ire of the sheep directed towards the younger Winchester brother.

Minnie frowned and scanned the handful of sheep currently swarming around Sam. They didn't look sickly, or even all that scared. They were just annoyed by Sam for some reason.

"Hey, hey," she said gently, clicking her tongue at them. "What got you all worked up?" One sheep allowed her to pat its head once before shaking her off and returning to bleat at Sam.

She glanced across the flock to see Chase and Dean having similar problems, with a sea of indignant sheep in between the two groups. One look over her shoulder showed that Jacob hadn't moved and was poorly hiding his bemusement with the sight, so he probably couldn't be to blame for the flock's upset.

"Sam, we should--" she cut herself off, seeing him still struggling to keep his feet. Like her brother, she had to sidle her way past the sheep to get close enough to help him up. "We should check around the edges first, maybe. I dunno if I've ever seen a flock get this annoyed before."

“Yeah, let’s--” Whatever Sam was going to say was cut off when a ram headbutted him directly in the ass and sent him to faceplant in the dirt.

“Sam!”

Even from across the field, Dean had seen that Sam was in the same predicament as he was. The sheep were oddly focused on the Winchester brothers, while mostly ignoring the Lisongs. Frustrated, Dean pulled out his gun only to remember that it was out-of-commission from the saltwater. “Son of a bitc--”

He was knocked to the grass yet again, surrounded by increasingly agitated sheep. Chase, standing near him, made the mistake of trying to catch his fall. It ended with them both toppling into the sea of woolly troublemakers.

Minnie huffed in exasperation. “Chaaase,” she drawled, only to glance up as a shadow neared the flock.

“Okay, guys,” Jacob murmured, finally deciding he needed to step in. The first couple times the sheep had knocked Dean over, he’d been amused, but at this rate they’d never figure anything out. He would have to risk spooking some of the herd if only to deal with them later. He leaned forward, one hand planted firmly and flattening some sheep-free grass, while the other dipped down towards the flock where he’d last seen Dean and Chase fall over.

To his surprise, the sheep didn’t scatter in all directions from his shadow. At best, the ones near Dean and Chase bleated angrily and shuffled out of the way, giving him the space to scoop them both off the grass.

Before Jacob could do so, Dean bounded to his feet, fed up with the entire situation.

"That's ENOUGH!" he bellowed, yanking out his silver knife and brandishing it at the flock. "The next sheep to headbutt me gets its wool sheared off early!"

That somehow riled the sheep up even more, though they didn’t charge at him while the shadow of Jacob’s hand hovered overhead. Chase managed to regain his feet, suppressing a few sneezes from falling in the grass. All around the pair, the sheep bleated and a ram stomped just outside of Dean’s reach.

Jacob saw it before Dean or Chase did. While the ram in front made its odd show of defiance, another one edged towards them from behind. “Okay,” he muttered, “this is getting ridiculous.”

He reached down and plucked both of them up, gently herding them towards his palm before whisking them up. Once they were hovering over the heads of the many indignant baaas of the flock, he focused on Sam and Minnie.

The sheep still didn’t want to let Sam up, especially after Dean’s outburst, and they’d managed to shuffle Minnie away from him. Two fingers scooped under Sam’s middle to haul him up before the sheep smothered him or started to bite at him or something. Once he deposited Sam with the other two on his hand, he finally offered a hand up for Minnie and explained his hasty actions. “This isn’t working. You guys are gonna get trampled if this keeps up.”

Finally free of the sheep thanks to Jacob's intervention, Dean was able to bring himself to stand on his own two feet, with no fear of getting butted over yet again.

"What is with these sheep?" he demanded angrily at the air. "Don't they know we're trying to help? If there's a pack of wolves around, it's only a matter of time for them!"

That was when it clicked for Sam.

"Holy shit," he breathed. "Holy shit."

[destroyyourbinder]

I want to thank Jacob for his enormous bravery in speaking out publicly about how the “puberty blocker” (GnRH agonist) protocol and the medicalization of his identity affected him as a struggling trans teenager. 

I want to note before I share the article that stories like Jacob’s are being politicized by groups like Mermaids (the primary transgender child lobbying organization in the UK) to claim that while "blockers” are “safe” and “reversible” and ought to be immediately provided to trans children who are beginning puberty, that any problems with GnRH agonists indicates that clinicians should begin cross-sex hormone treatment early. Organizations such as Mermaids and various other groups in the US frequently claim that there ought to be no formal lower age bound for the initiation of cross-sex HRT (i.e. testosterone for female children, estrogen and an anti-androgen drug for male children) and Johanna Olson-Kennedy (a pediatric gender “expert” and head of the gender clinic at Children’s Hospital Los Angeles) advocates regularly for female children to receive testosterone at twelve and has possibly given children as young as 8 testosterone treatment. So in sharing this kid’s story, I want to be careful, since there is a real danger that exposing the harms of using GnRH agonists such as Lupron on gender-variant children will lead to a change in strategy where these children are merely dosed early with cross-sex hormones, a protocol that to my knowledge that we have zero long-term data on. (Children are given GnRH agonists as a means to halt precocious puberty, and in fact, these drugs are approved for this purpose, so we have some data on their effects already. As far as I know, there has been no previous medical reason to give female children testosterone or male children anti-androgens and estrogen.) The article is behind a paywall but I am transcribing it here: Puberty blocking drugs: ‘For the past four years I’ve been stuck as a child’ Jacob has just turned 16 and for the past four years the teenager’s body has been put on pause. He has been on hormone blockers to stop puberty while he decides how far he is willing to go to become a transgender man.

He claims that taking blockers was “the worst decision I’ve ever made”.

Jacob was born a girl but felt unhappy with his gender. “I always felt so weak and pathetic and inferior to the men.” He started using the male pronoun and imagined himself growing up and “dating a woman”.

When Jacob became one of thousands of young adolescents to be referred for puberty blockers by the NHS’s main gender clinic for children he was delighted. “It was sold to me as a  miracle cure for being trans,” he claimed. He told another trans school friend about them, who started requesting blockers too.

Hormone blockers are only licensed in Britain to delay the onset of puberty for children suffering “precocious puberty” — that is, those who start developing abnormally early before the age of eight or nine.

However, their use is promoted by the transgender campaign group Mermaids as a way of giving young people “a pause button” while deciding whether to graduate to the irreversible, cross-sex hormones that will trigger the life-changing, fertility-reducing jump from one gender to another, once they reach 16. The vast majority of children who begin blockers go on to take that step.

Blockers are physically reversible, insofar as puberty will eventually restart once someone stops taking them. But no one — not even the directors of the country’s leading gender clinic, the Tavistock’s Gender Identity Development Service [GIDS] — knows their long-term impact, for example, on the teenage brain.

After just a few consultations at the Tavistock, Jacob was referred to the endocrinology clinic at University College London Hospitals [UCLH]. He claimed the clinic did not consider his background, such as the trauma of a sexual assault at primary school, or his parents’ difficult divorce. He and his mother were soon making regular visits to London from their small village in the west of England for the injections.

“They promise you that your breasts will disappear, that your voice will be deeper, that I would look and sound more like a boy. For me, that was the best thing that could have happened,” he said.

Only, Jacob found that wasn’t what happened at all. Far from becoming one of the lads, as he’d hoped, he felt even more alienated from them as their physiques changed and Jacob’s remained the same.

“At school, other people were maturing into adults. The guys I grew up with were growing hair and growing up. For someone who’s trying to fit in as a boy, that’s not what you want.” Jacob had always been the tallest among his friends. Now he was the shortest. When his little brother overtook him in height and strength, he found it too upsetting to be in the same room as him. “My little brother is 18 months younger and now he has completely outgrown me. I go to school and I feel like other people are developing and I still feel like a child,” he said. Jacob also claims he was not warned about the side-effects of the drugs. These have included insomnia, exhaustion, fatigue, low moods, rapid weight   gain which caused his skin to become covered with angry, itchy stretch marks, and a reduction in bone density. “I’d never broken a bone before [taking puberty blockers],” he says. “I’ve since broken four bones.” “I stubbed my toe, it broke. I fell over, my wrist broke. Same with my elbow.” As he took the blockers, Jacob’s mother watched her child become even more introverted and body-conscious. “The blockers contributed more to the self-image problems that were already there,” she said. Jacob found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on schoolwork. If sitting GSCEs is hard enough with raging hormones, it’s even harder without them, he said. “I’m someone with the developing mind of a 12-year-old who’s doing exams designed for a 16-year-old.”

He added: “The worst part was probably the depression. There were moments when I wanted everything to stop. Weight gain and depression — for someone who is already self-conscious about their body, that’s a lethal combination.” Clinicians who resigned from GIDS for ethical reasons said one of their main concerns was that young people were being sent down a medical pathway without proper exploration of the possibility they may simply be gay. Jacob is no closer to understanding who he may be attracted to at 16 as he   was at 12. “My friends are all talking about having sex and girlfriends, and going to prom... but I’ve never had a crush. I’ve never felt sexual attraction to anyone. I feel so out of place.” In hindsight, Jacob finds it surprising how little his background — and the reasons why he didn’t want to be a girl — were discussed before being referred for treatment. “They didn’t even look at my history or trauma,” claimed Jacob. “They sent a child whose circumstances and feelings they didn’t understand [for hormone treatment].” Jacob is speaking out about his experience to warn other transgender youngsters to think twice before starting blockers. “I was sold a miracle cure. They promised happiness with little evidence behind it. Then four years in, you realise, oh my God, I’ve no idea about the long-term effects.“

“They asked a 12-year-old to make a decision an adult would struggle with.” “It  was like, ‘here are the drugs’ and off we went. It’s a ridiculous process. It’s not gone the way they told me it was going to go.”

Mermaids, the transgender lobby group, claims that puberty blockers are safe and “completely reversible” and that not giving them to youngsters who   request them can be more damaging than prescribing them.

Gendered Intelligence, another trans campaign group, claims on its website that hormone blockers give children “breathing space to ensure that they are  sure about the permanent effects of cross-sex hormones, without the adverse effects of an incorrect puberty.” Jacob is scathing about such claims. “Breathing space! It really isn’t. I’ve not had any space to breathe the last four years.“

“They sell it to you as a break from feeling like a girl, and that’s fine for the first few months but as soon as everyone else around you starts developing it becomes ‘spot the transgender kid’, which is so easy because you’re stuck as a child.“

“If anything, I’ve been more depressed than before. My thyroid is messed up. I’m hungry all the time. I have no idea how my breast tissue will develop.” He claimed: “They push and push you on to this one-way train you’re not allowed off.” Asked whether it was misleading to promote puberty blockers as a “pause   button”, a spokesman for Mermaids said: “Mermaids cannot comment on   clinical cases as we are not involved in any individuals’ medical pathways.” “We offer young people and their families information, support and access to others in similar circumstances.” Gendered Intelligence declined to respond. Jacob claims the main focus of his treatment at the Tavistock was on the   milestones of transition — “how far you’re willing to go” — rather than discussion of the consequences.

He claims: “My Tavistock worker was saying to me, ‘once you have the testosterone, you’ll be a boy’. “But it shouldn’t be about milestones. Being trans is how you think; it should not be about how far down the line you’re will to go.” A spokesman for Tavistock said: “All young people considering the puberty blocker or cross-sex hormones are repeatedly made aware of the known potential impacts of these medical interventions... as well as the areas of impact that remain to some extent unknown.“

“The information that we give patients about the blockers makes it clear that they may get tired and experience low mood. We explain to young people that hormones give us energy and drive, not just our sex drive but our overall ‘get up and go’. “We also emphasised to them routinely that while on the blocker they would stay early puberty whilst their peers developed. This is a routine part of the discussion.“

“In the end the decision to go on blockers is a balancing act weighing up these factors against the perceived distress of undergoing puberty in the ‘wrong’ gender and developing unwanted and potential hard to change secondary sexual characteristics.” Jacob decided to come off the drugs on turning 16. He began to feel the benefits almost overnight. “I grew taller, I lost weight, I felt livelier. It was like getting the poison out of my system,” he said. He will now wait until reaching 18 before making any big decisions.“I’m just fed up with all of it. I’ve felt like a guinea pig from day one. [Blockers] only made my life more complicated and it was pretty complicated already.” He  added: “I’ll be 18 in two years, but for the past four years I’ve been stuck as a child. Blockers took away the chance I had to grow up with other kids. Now I want to give my body a break.”

[magicalhideoutengineer]

Taken from Inside the Magic: The Making of Fantastic Beasts

Porpentina Goldstein

At first glance, Porpentina Goldstein or 'Tina' Goldstein is a no-nonsense, career-driven New York witch. Indeed. She is the first of a magical persuasion to spot that Newt might be more than a passing tourist.

Dressed in her usual smart but inconspicuous mix of above-the-ankle trousers, grey overcoat and balck cloche hat, she trails him into the bank; there, she is appalled to witness the wizard use hhis wand in broad daylight and promptly arrest him. Newt is clearly an exposure risk to the secretive MACUSA. He may also be a chance for Tina to redeem herself.

Tina has run into her own problems at MACUSA. 'She's recently been demoted,' explains Katherine Waterston, the NewYork-based actress who is bringing this complicated witch to the screen. 'She's gone from being a detective to the lowly work in the Wand Permit Office. Basically stamping passports.’

Up until her downrturn in fortune Tina wasa Auror, a wizard detective tasked with investigating crimes. But as director David Yates explains, 'She had done something really bad.' What her crime might be is revealed over the course of the movie. 'Like Newt,' he says, 'she is a wee bit of an outsider.’

Waterston finds her character fascinating. Nothing is quite what it seems. Tina is really proud to be a part of MACUSA. She still hopes to make something of herself there. Yet she also slinks about New York doing her own investigation like a private eye from an old-schoolcrime movie.

'Tina has good instincts,' hits Waterston. 'She is good at her job. But when push comes to shove, she will abandon the rulebook.' She is a woman of great potential, but she just hasn't found a way to realize it yet, with pretty bobbed hair and a stern gaze.

Yates was taken with Waterston from the moment she walked into the first audition. She displayed similar qualities to Eddie Redmayne. 'Very much like Eddie, she can be quite deeply intense in a good way, and she can be very, very funny. She's got a great physical ability at comedy, which is quite rare. She's also a really powerful actor. I loved that combination.’

Waterston doesn't count herself as any kind of expert on the history of Harry Potter. She had seen some of the films, read some of the books, but admits she hadn't got a completely lost in the world. She also thinks that may not be a bad thing.

'I felt in a fortunate place,' she says, 'because I wasn't so obsessed that I had a lot of preconceived notions, but I was familiar enough to have a sense of the tone of the world.’

She also had a plenty of opportunity to pick the brains of J.K Rowling, who provided a wealth of knowledge on Tina.

'You just want to curl up by the fire withher and hear her stories,' sighs Waterston happily. 'She sees a whole, incredibly detailed universe.’

Two key relationship will emerge in Tina's busy corner of that universe. Firstly, with her sister Queenie, played by Alison Sudol, with whom she shares a small Brownstone apartment.

Tina and Queenie lost their parents to a Dragon Pox when they were young, and at different times have been a parent to one another. 'in their loneliness they've fallen into that dynamic,' says Waterston. Tina, she admits, may be a bit more the father, and Queenie the mother, cooking these wonderful meals. Queenie is as vivacious as Tina is restrained, yet they couldn't be closer.

'It feels true to me, the way Tina and Queenie relate to one another,' insists Waterston. Having only just met, she and Sudol developed an instant chemistry as they shot the scene of the Goldsteins preparing dinner for Newt and Jacob. It was their first day working together and they had to glide about the kitchen casting spells with their wands as if it was second nature.

'We kind of scrambled to figure it out –whose chore is whose?' recalls Waterston. 'I'm sort of setting the table with my wand and she's preparing the meal. We developed a little, superstitious salt-over-the-shoulder thing, just to give the audience a sense of their life together.’

Then, of course, there is Newt. Someone Tina can't quite figure out. Not at first. 'Part of what I love about Tina is that she's flawed,' says Waterston. 'Things don't work out for her. She meets Newt and she suspects there is something to him, but she doesn't know exactly what.’

Throughout the first film, as she watches him interact with his fantastic beasts and sees the way he is, Tina will come to view Newt in a different light.

'With Katherine's character, it is sort of a slow-build connection,' says Redmayne, 'these two people, who are outsiders yet passionate people, begins to glimpse things in one another.’

Waterston describes it as a love story albeit in an unconventional way. They have a lot of to deal with in the meantime – escaped beasts, death sentences, going on the run, tackling the outbreak of dark magic – and yet Newt sees all the potential in her that she has trouble seeing in herself. 'At first, she thinks he's dangerous and untrustworthy, and potentially kind of cute too,' she says. 'Then as the relationship evolves you start to notice parallels between them. I mean, both are very passionate but not very good at expressing themselves.’

She pauses, trying to capture one of the themes of the film: 'It can be lonely being an oddball until you find another oddball.’

Tina's Costume

'Tina Goldstein is a little bit gawky. A little bit not quite there in her body and just a little bit off in her costume. She was sort of a modern girl, and I made an acting decision to put her in trousers from the start, which was not so common in the period. She had an element of what the Aurors wore but not really. Hence the trousers. She was hiding a lot and doing her own private-eye things. So I gave her a trenchcoat with a really big collar she could tuck her head behind doing this kind of stealthy spying work.’

Tina's Wand

When it came to her wand, Katherine Waterston requested some 'heft'. She wanted to make Tina's spell-casting forceful, as if magic was something she takes very seriously. 'Tina's was nice,' says Pierre Bohanna. 'Quite simple and quite classic.’

The Goldstein Department

Named for the dark sandstone bricks used tobuild Manhattan's famous townhouses, most Brownstones were converted into apartments in the 1920s. Not wealthy, the Goldsteins occupy a couple of rooms within one such conversion.

Furthermore, Tina and Queenie will prepared inner for their guests with the help of familiar spells. Jacob, recovering from a nasty bite from a Murtlap, wonders whether he is having a hallucinogenic episode. ‘He's chucked onto this sofa and the girls suddenly swish their wands around and plates fly from everywhere and food is being chopped,' says visual effects supervisor Christian Manz, 'and we go into incredible detail about baking an apple strudel magically. But it feels workaday, it feels normal to them.’ 

'We've got little napkins flying like birds, we've got a book jacket that move around,' he recalls. Irons work on their own accord, a clothes-horse revolves to ensure both sides face the fire, and there is a lovely dress on a mannequin that Queenie is mending remotely. 

The idea, says actress Katherine Waterston, is 'to give the audience a sense of the Goldsteins' life together that is very insulated and private.' Having two men visit, she insists, is a 'freak exception'.

[llucy-san]

CHARACTER STUDY

Tagged by lovely @pd3 ❤️ and maybe someone else but.... 🤷‍♀️

@faithchel @ja-crispea @smithandrogers @shelliechen @v3ryvelvet @veinereastath @dieguzguz @f0xyboxes @fadedjacket @risenlucifer @tomexraider @fromathelastoveritaserum @goodboiboomer-fc5 @geronimo-11​

I made it as my OC's would answer this ask game, so go ahead and read if you want to know more about them or how they interact.

LAYER 01: THE OUTSIDE

NAME: Hope Amelia Lansdowne but Hope is enough.

EYE COLOUR: It's mix of blue and green, but more of blue.

HAIR STYLE / COLOUR: Long, wavy blond hair, but I like to comb it into a bun or a ponytail.

HEIGHT: 5′6″

CLOTHING STYLE: I usually wear comfortable things like T-shirts, pants, combat boots and of course my military jacket. But you won't find anything fancy like dress in my closet.

BEST PHYSICAL FEATURE: *shrugs* Don't know, whole body i guess. I'm trying to be fit.

LAYER 02: THE INSIDE

FEAR: Lose the ones I love.

GUILTY PLEASURE: I got drunk once so hard with mates, Sharky and Hurk that you don't even want to know where we woke up the next day. A week after our little meeting, I felt still little dizzy. But I would never trade my two to ride and die. NEVER.

BIGGEST PET PEEVE: My plane!! You can look at it but don't touch it.

AMBITIONS FOR THE FUTURE: Live life to the fullest and enjoy every moment with our loved ones.

LAYER 03: THOUGHTS

FIRST THOUGHTS WAKING UP: Glaring at those little numbers on my alarm clock and whisper “I hate you” but then *sighs* I remember all the things that awaits me that day and somehow, I get out of bed.

WHAT THEY THINK ABOUT MOST: If I will have the strength to get up the next day.

WHAT THEY THINK ABOUT BEFORE BED: My baby!! I usually fall into bed and instantly fall asleep.

WHAT THEY THINK THEIR BEST QUALITY IS: My flying skills and maybe my humour. There is nothing better than being sarcastic to someone who you don’t like. Or if I won fight over men twice my size.

LAYER 04: EITHER OR

SINGLE OR GROUP DATES: I don't do dates, and quite frankly, I don't even have time for it. But if I have to choose, I prefer single.

TO BE LOVED OR RESPECTED: Can't I choose both? I think they're both corresponding.

BEAUTY OR BRAINS: Brains, definitely.

DOGS OR CATS: Both, take a look at Bommer and Peaches. They're both so adorable.

LAYER 05: DO THEY

LIE: Who hasn't? I try to be honest but sometimes some situations requires it.

BELIEVE IN THEMSELVES: What kind of bloody question is that? *frowns* Of course, I believe in myself.

BELIEVE IN LOVE: If you meet the right one, go ahead. Though, I was not so lucky.

WANT SOMEONE: Why are you asking? You offer?

LAYER 06: HAVE THEY

BEEN ON STAGE: Nope.

DONE DRUGS: Sharky has a lot of stuff, but I keep my hands off it, so no.

CHANGED WHO THEY WERE TO FIT IN: I don't need to pretend in front of anyone to fit in. I am who I am and I will never force myself.

LAYER 07: WHAT'S THEIR

FAVORITE COLOR: Don't have one.

FAVORITE ANIMAL: Wolves, I adores them.

FAVORITE BOOK: *shrugs* I don't read much, but when I do, I read what's first hand.

FAVORITE GAME: If you consider games where you drink a lot, then yes. *shifts in her seat* Hey, you should come to Spread Eagle with me sometimes and we can play our drinking games. Hurk will bring his liquor he got from many journeys he survived and Mary will make her famous cocktails.

LAYER 08: AGE

DAY THEIR NEXT BIRTHDAY WILL BE: 24th September

HOW OLD THEY WILL BE: 25

LAYER 09:

I LOVE: Flying, I have flying in my blood, or just being in lap of nature.

I FEEL: *sighs* Tired of your questions.

I HIDE: My bourbon! You wouldn't believe how hard it is for me to bring it here unseen. Especialy from Sharky cause he will drink anything he can see.

I MISS: My parents. I didn't get a chance to say goodbye with them one last time or go to their funeral.

I WISH: To be done with this so I could go.

LAYER 01: THE OUTSIDE

NAME: Marcus Adam Lansdowne but Marcus is fine.

EYE COLOUR: Blue

HAIR STYLE / COLOUR: Short-cut blond, short on the sides and up here *combing his hair* I have to comb it back or hold it with something, usually cap helps me.

HEIGHT: 6′1″

CLOTHING STYLE: T-shirts, pants but also something elegant like suits. But I wear them only at special occasions. 

BEST PHYSICAL FEATURE: Arms, for sure. But Avery, my wife, will tell you something else.

LAYER 02: THE INSIDE

FEAR: My family above all. All I have left is my sister and my loving wife. So if you so much as look at both of them in the wrong way, *leanes closer in his seat* then, you and I have a problem, mate. 

GUILTY PLEASURE: You would believe me but singing while playing on my guitar.

BIGGEST PET PEEVE: When I lose something and Avery or Hope says, "Well, where was the last place you had it?" Seriously? That's being helpful? If I knew the last place I had it, it wouldn't be lost, now would it?

AMBITIONS FOR THE FUTURE: I don't know. I have everything I need and don't need anything else.

LAYER 03: THOUGHTS

FIRST THOUGHTS WAKING UP: Time in the army taught me to get up early so, next question.

WHAT THEY THINK ABOUT MOST: Family

WHAT THEY THINK ABOUT BEFORE BED: What kind of question is this? *frowns* The bed equals rest. What else should I think about? Oh you mean. *clears his throat* Next one.

WHAT THEY THINK THEIR BEST QUALITY IS: Strength, devotion, intellect.

LAYER 04: EITHER OR

SINGLE OR GROUP DATES: I don't know what you want from me anymore.

TO BE LOVED OR RESPECTED: Respect from others and love from family.

BEAUTY OR BRAINS: Brains.

DOGS OR CATS: Dogs.

LAYER 05: DO THEY

LIE: I hate it when people lie to my face, but I'm not an innocent either.

BELIEVE IN THEMSELVES: Yes, I do.

BELIEVE IN LOVE: Yes

WANT SOMEONE: *quirks his eyebrows* I'm hapilly married. Avery is only one I want.

LAYER 06: HAVE THEY

BEEN ON STAGE: No

DONE DRUGS: Never in my life.

CHANGED WHO THEY WERE TO FIT IN: No.

LAYER 07: WHAT'S THEIR

FAVORITE COLOR: Dark blue, black, dark green.

FAVORITE ANIMAL: Wolves, dogs, I don't know.

FAVORITE BOOK: I don't know, but the last time I read something was by Faulkner.

FAVORITE GAME: Hope once took me to one of their gatherings in Falls End and it didn't go so well. Although, I had fun like never before, but I have never had such hangover in my life. And I have to warn you about Sharky's home-made liquor. Strong as hell.

LAYER 08: AGE

DAY THEIR NEXT BIRTHDAY WILL BE: 2nd February

HOW OLD THEY WILL BE: 33

LAYER 09:

I LOVE: Enjoying days with my family and friends or spending time in the woods.

I FEEL: Fine

I HIDE: Nothing you need to know about.

I MISS: Parents. I miss them very much.

I WISH: To stop asking me these odd questions.

LAYER 01: THE OUTSIDE

NAME: Hayley Louise Moore but friends calls me Hale.

EYE COLOUR: Olive green

HAIR STYLE / COLOUR: Semi-long chocolate hair and at the ends it turns into soft waves.

HEIGHT: 5′5″

CLOTHING STYLE: It's usually a blouse and a pencil skirt, but also a dress. But what I love most are my sweaters and sweatpants, which I wear in the late evenings while reading books.

BEST PHYSICAL FEATURE: I run around the docks every morning so I'd say legs. Nature here isn't like in Atlanta or New Orleans, but it's much more beautiful.

LAYER 02: THE INSIDE

FEAR: *laughs* Well, my husband's flying. Like, I'm not afraid of flying, but the last time he took me with him and he did his wild stunts like front flips or whatever he calls it, I almost killed him after we landed. I'm not kidding. *shift in her lovechair* Affirmination and I are not friends.

GUILTY PLEASURE: Dancing while vacuuming or cleaning the ranch.

BIGGEST PET PEEVE:

AMBITIONS FOR THE FUTURE: Seeing my kids grow up into the wonderful adults we're with John trying to raise.

LAYER 03: THOUGHTS

FIRST THOUGHTS WAKING UP: New day new beginning. Morning is my favourite time of day.

WHAT THEY THINK ABOUT MOST: Kids, Family, you know stuff like this.

WHAT THEY THINK ABOUT BEFORE BED: Sleep, only sleep, and maybe something else, *whisper while leaning closer* but that's not appropriate.

WHAT THEY THINK THEIR BEST QUALITY IS: My persuasive skills. I always get what I want because I learned from the best, I know.

LAYER 04: EITHER OR

SINGLE OR GROUP DATES:  Single, certainly single. Actually I think I've never been to a group dates before.

TO BE LOVED OR RESPECTED: Both

BEAUTY OR BRAINS: Brains. No matter how handsome or beautiful you are, I care how you will deal with difficult situations so I choose brains.

DOGS OR CATS: Cats

LAYER 05: DO THEY

LIE: Not often, but only here and there.

BELIEVE IN THEMSELVES: Yep.

BELIEVE IN LOVE: I do.

WANT SOMEONE: Why are you asking? Only my husband.

LAYER 06: HAVE THEY

BEEN ON STAGE: Nope

DONE DRUGS: No, it will completely destroy your brain.

CHANGED WHO THEY WERE TO FIT IN: I've never been able to pretend who I'm not, so no.

LAYER 07: WHAT'S THEIR

FAVORITE COLOR: I don't have a favourite colour, but my wardrobe mostly consists of soft colours and black and white combination.

FAVORITE ANIMAL: Cats because of their eyes.

FAVORITE BOOK: Fitzgerald. I love Great Gatsby.

FAVORITE GAME: I don't play games much. I'm not very good at them.

LAYER 08: AGE

DAY THEIR NEXT BIRTHDAY WILL BE: 15th August

HOW OLD THEY WILL BE: 27

LAYER 09:

I LOVE: Watching my husband cook, because have you seen someone like him work around in the kitchen? *glances behind her shoulder* I just adore him.

I FEEL: Good

I HIDE: My cookies!! Listen, I love Jacob, he is my favourite brother in law but he always eats almost everything on plate before I can. I have to be fast if I want at least one or two cookies from Faith.

I MISS: Every now and then I miss my life in Atlanta and my best friend Nadia. *sighs* God, you should meet her, you’d love her.

I WISH: To have at least one of those delicious cookies cause my brother in law just came so if you don't mind I will go.

[404botnotfound]

Deliverance [2]

Careful when you’re swimming in the holy water.

SERIES: Far Cry 5 WORD COUNT: 7,557 SHIP: Quinn/John Seed CHARACTERS: quinn leonis, john seed, eli palmer, wheaty, jacob seed

HERE TAKE THIS IM SICK OF LOOKING AT IT

It had never been apparent to her just how debilitating losing her sense of time’s passage could be until now.

She imagines it’s been weeks since she’d fled the Whitetail Mountains, but between the lack of sunlight and the hours that crept by so slowly they felt like days instead she had no idea how much time she’d been stuck here in the cell she’d been thrown in after the baptism John had performed on her.

Part of her still found that amusing. She’d been raised Catholic (her mother’s insistence, not her father’s), and that meant she’d effectively been baptized twice. It’s not technically unusual and she knows people sometimes chose to have another, but it wasn’t something she would have ever chosen herself—she hadn’t been any semblance of religious since her pre-teens.

A breath is huffed out as she lowers herself on bent arms, chest almost brushing the ground before she pushes herself back up again.

For the first time since escaping Jacob’s clutches Quinn can feel herself regaining the strength and good health she’d had before her initial capture in the mountains. Being stuck in a cage once again was hardly a great feeling (dehumanizing, at best) but unlike his older brother John seemed to actually give somewhat of a damn about keeping her healthy. It was probably some kind of manipulation tactic, but she could hardly complain about not starving and having a cot to sleep on rather than the ground.

Whether or not that applied to his other prisoners, she wasn’t sure.

It was slow going and she knows she won’t be back to peak health for a while, but she was on her way and that was good enough for her. The degrading health had been the worst aspect of her time with Jacob—not the starvation itself or the deplorable conditions they were all kept in or even the mind-fuckery, but the fact that she could feel herself weakening with every day that passed.

His methods hadn’t made any sense to her while there; what was the point of trying to train soldiers when you were keeping them too weak to so much as throw a halfway decent punch?

She’d gotten John to clarify it a bit after she’d discovered that once he’d found out she gave as good as she got in wordplay he could be sufficiently distracted from pulling her metaphorical—hopefully metaphorical—teeth.

(maybe she’d batted her eyelashes a few times and maybe Jacob’s demeaning question of if she abused flirting to get her way all the time drifted into her head whenever she did, maybe Jacob Seed could go fuck himself)

Jacob’s game was deprivation of sustenance and rest, keeping the ‘trainees’ weak and demoralized until they were physically and mentally pliable enough to push and twist in the direction he wanted. Classical conditioning. Pure psychological warfare confirmed.

There wasn’t any comfort in having her suspicions validated; it had almost made her less comforted when she again heard a faint echo of come home, kitten whisper through her mind like a passing breeze.

The cat and mouse games her and John had started up from the moment he first strapped her to the chair in his workshop was something she hadn’t expected to get away with, but he’d actually seemed to enjoy it—at least in the beginning. His patience for it had begun to wear thin, if his increased threats and agitation as the days passed were anything to go by.

Though she managed to dig a few more things out of him during their ‘sessions’, he was talented at swerving around questions and idle comments that would have given her something to actually work with; in itself, that was telling. He’d probably been in a white-collar profession judging by the well-kempt appearance and intelligence, but that assumption had a wrench thrown in it every time he slipped and let the monster of Wrath loose.

Jacob had been easier to read even considering the cool and distant demeanor. Posture and vernacular said military career, careful speech patterns spoke of both intelligence and pointed restraint, and Darwinian beliefs combined with the classical conditioning he was employing meant he was well-read and clever.

John, on the other hand, switched gears so frequently and with such ease that whenever she thought she had a grasp on him it slipped through her fingers. All she knew about him was that she didn’t know a Goddamn thing about him. One minute he played the calm, considerate man of God and the next he was the embodiment of rage and hate, another he was charismatic and likeable, and the next he was a grotesque caricature of a human being.

They had to have been masks, but the question of which one was the true John Seed remained. Were they just techniques to bend people the way he wanted them to bend, simply more subtle than the closed-fist punch of Jacob’s? A way to drag out the answers he wanted to hear from the people he brought into what amounted to a torture room?

Whatever it was, it was effective—some days she’d seen him pry a confession out of a begging victim before he’d even begun to cut and carve into them.

If she thought about it long enough those confessions actually seemed to aggravate him and she couldn’t put a finger on why, since it was confessions he was after in the first place.

The sadism combined with the chameleon nature of his personality made it easy to ignore the stories of his childhood that she overheard him impart to his victims (and to her, once) as well as the sympathy they dredged up in her, but there was something raw to his anger every time the people he interrogated refused to play by his rules. He would insist that he was trying to help them, that he could free them from the bonds of lies and sin, and why were they fighting that freedom?

Psychotic behavior at its finest, but how much of that was true disposition, and how much of it was a direct result of upbringing, provided those horrific stories were true?

A grunt of exertion leaves her mouth with another push-up; she needs to stop psychoanalyzing the bastard, she knew, but there wasn’t really much else for her to do while she was stuck here waiting for her turns in that chair.

Humming and singing tunes when she was left alone with the rusty smell of blood and phantom screams seeping from the walls around her was her only other pastime aside from trying to pick apart the brain of a madman like she’d been trained to do back at Quantico. Sleeping too much just gave her headaches, and though exercising to the best of her ability gave her something to do it really didn’t do much to stop her from thinking and thinking and overthinking.

Maybe the Rolling Stones had it right, she muses, a strained hum of a familiar tune about sympathizing with the devil leaving her mouth as she continues her routine.

At least she was getting practical experience she could boast about if—when—she got the chance to appeal for her badge.

She wonders if Stevie was having any more luck with figuring out how to stop the Seeds while she counted out her repetitions; so far, she’d had no luck staying away from the bastards long enough to even breathe.

Pausing with her body flat to the ground as the unmistakable, skin-prickling sensation of being watched hits her, she purses her lips.

Wordlessly she resumes, not happy with the burn she was beginning to feel telling her she wasn’t going to be able to do much more. Her captivity with Jacob had taken more out of her than she had realized. “What is it with you boys and staring? It’s fucking rude.���

Sure enough, the voice that responds is exactly the one she expects, preceded first by a disapproving tsk. “That Pride of yours again. Hadn’t you thought that, maybe, I was just waiting for you to finish?”

“I know the feeling of eyes on my back, John.” She replies, her next push-up more strained and slow than the rest; she was shaking with the effort now. “I also know the feeling of eyes on my ass.” With a heavy sigh she pushes herself up to her feet to stretch, lamenting that she’d barely counted half of what she’d been capable of before coming to Hope County.

Baby steps.

John scoffs at the accusation as he crosses the floor towards her. “Every day you make me more certain of the sin my brother suggested you suffered from.”

“Oh, I’m not suffering from it.” Her back pops nicely when she stretches upward as best as she can with the low ceiling of her cell. “You seem to be taking a hell of a lot longer to commit to mine than any of the other victims of your insanity here. Why the delay in mutilating me?”

Not that she wants it—fuck, it’s the last thing she wants.

“Because you have to willingly acknowledge it. You have to want to atone for your sin. You have to say yes.” He says, and she lifts an eyebrow at his failure to deny the mutilation comment. Considering his convictions—otherwise decent—she’d have expected him to defend his methods.

Her shoulder begins to ache, aggravated by her exercising in spite of the injury he’d given her by tipping the chair she’d been bound to over in a rage. She rolls it, folds her arms over her chest, and then in a completely deadpan voice says: “No.”

The change is immediate; he steps closer to her cell, fury in every hard line of his body.

She goes rigid. It’s a miracle she manages to not step away in reflex, but her knuckles go white where they grip her upper arms and she has to swallow the sudden stone in her throat.

John was nowhere near as physically imposing as Jacob was but his unpredictability made him every bit as dangerous—not that her constant and conscious attempts to provoke him were doing her any favors in that regard. Stop playing with fire, Quinn.

Their tense staring contest is broken by him first, and she watches as he storms over to the workbench she’d grown painfully familiar with in the last few days as he lost patience for her glib attitude and games. With an angry roar he places his hands on the edge of the bench and shoves, tipping it over and sending it crashing to the floor. All the tools stacked and lined up on its surface clatter to the ground and either roll or bounce away.

Her eyes are wide as she stares at the workbench. Silently she scratches out her previous mental assessment of his physical capability; clearly, his lean frame was deceptive.

Then a quiet ting near her feet catches her attention and she looks down, blinking at the sight of a thin screwdriver that had rolled from the bench and bumped into the bars of her cell. Adrenaline pulses through her veins at the sight and she quickly lifts her eyes back to John, schooling her features and praying he wouldn’t notice it lying there. Please, for once, let my luck turn out in my favor.

He doesn’t turn away from the workbench immediately, but once he’s apparently collected himself he returns to her, smile all teeth. “This could be so much easier if you just bared your Pride and let me free you from it.” He hisses.

“I already told you,” she says carefully, licking her lips and not missing the way his expression flickers and eyes follow the motion, “I’m not interested in being saved and I’m definitely not interested in baring myself to you.”

Wait—fuck.

She wastes half a second hoping he didn’t notice the accidental entendre, but the way his fury is fully doused and replaced by a heat of a different kind has her swearing a blue streak internally. He leans forward, hands on the bars of her cell and expression now an open leer. “My, my, Agent, where did your mind go just now?”

Oh, no, he was not going to stick her with the Scarlet fucking Letter. “Get bent you son of a bitch.”

“And Wrath makes an appearance as well! My dear, you must have a lot to own up to that’s just aching to come out.” He laughs, and her skin prickles. “I could help you with that. You just. Have to. Say. Yes.”

Christ, he’d circled through about half a dozen personalities and attitudes within the span of just five minutes—whether she’d been napping in the dirt and starving or not, she was starting to miss Jacob. At least he was consistent.

Her mouth opens, scathing comment ready to go, but before she can get the words out there’s a hiss of loud static from the two-way attached to his belt. “John. You there?” Gooseflesh ripples over her skin and she shivers, recognizing Jacob’s voice and trying not to wonder what the odds were that he’d contact John right after she’d thought about him.

The smile on John’s face drops and his jaw ticks; without breaking eye contact he reaches for the radio and clicks the receiver. “I’m busy, brother.”

“Stop being busy.” Jacob says, and Quinn has to chew on her lip to keep the mild laughter that bubbles in her throat from the flat disregard in his voice. “You’ve got a problem heading in your direction.”

A lightness settles in her chest at Jacob’s words that she fights to keep from showing; the only real problem the Cult had been dealing with in recent events, so far as what she’d heard from Eli and the Whitetails, was one determined as hell and very pissed off Stevie Brewin, who had in just two months managed to light a fire under the local Resistance’s ass.

John stares at her for a long moment before finally stepping back, pointing at her with the antenna of the radio and smiling easily. “I have business to take care of, it seems—don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

She says nothing, watching him with sharp eyes while he leers at her and hoping that karma would smack him in the face in the form of tripping over one of the tools he’d sent scattered across the floor while walking backwards. When he finally turns away, unfortunately skipping the delightful opportunity for schadenfreude, she listens to his footsteps fade away as he disappears down a stairwell beyond a grated dividing wall.

There was no way for her to tell if he’d just been fucking with her by saying he’d return, but either way she was going to be balancing a fine line here. If she waited too long, she risked running into him on his way back, and if she didn’t wait long enough she risked running into him before he’d even really left.

She won’t let herself consider he wasn’t planning on going far at all and she’d have nowhere to slip past him anyway.

Tense as a board she counts out two minutes before scrambling for the fallen screwdriver at the foot of her cell and then setting to work on forcing the lock on the door open. It’s a long shot, but in a relieving upturn of her luck it works.

Resisting the urge to toss the tool away and just book it, she instead slowly slides the door open and gently sets it aside. There’s a knife on the floor ahead of her, tossed along with all of John’s other tools, and she quickly snatches it up. There was one other door in the room opposite the direction he’d left in, but it’s locked fast and requires some kind of key—one that John probably kept on his person rather than floating around.

Unhappy about it, she turns and follows after John.

The landing at the bottom of the stairs leads to an industrial room like his workshop, this one packed with crates and shelves of stored tools and supplies. All of it was stark and military in appearance, an orderly form of chaos, adding to her confusion as to where in the hell she was; this hardly seemed like the kind of place a man like John with his fancy shirts and designer shades would willingly spend time in.

It sort of made sense considering his clear and disturbing fondness for torture, but that left the supplies—she doubted he needed so many just for getting his rocks off by cutting a few people open. Her gut feeling said that, no, this place had nothing to do with John’s extracurricular activities.

There’s an open door up ahead, blocked by a cultist looking out into the hall beyond; she waits, watching and hoping she didn’t plan on standing there until John returned. Luckily, she turns around and Quinn quickly doubles back, ducking under a shelf at a near-crawl and bypassing the unaware cultist entirely.

Exposed pipes, stark metal, and solid concrete walls that almost reminded her of manufacturing facilities and laboratories, hoses and power wires crisscrossing the floors, and a few open pipes large enough for her to crouch and move through to dodge more cultists all became familiar sights to her as she moves through the facility quietly and unseen.

A lot of the Peggies were working, packing away boxes and taking inventory of their contents, moving equipment into different rooms and occasionally stopping to gossip about their boss. Much as she’d like to stop and snoop, she wasn’t about to risk her chance at getting free. Learning about the Seeds wasn’t at all worth getting found out and either shot full of holes or dragged back to John’s workshop. She’d already pushed him far enough, and that would just give him an excuse to get even more aggressive in forcing a confession out of her.

What gives her heavy pause and leaves her with an ill feeling in her stomach is the sight of repurposed sections of hallways, blocked by metal gates, with groups of shaking people huddled with in. If she weren’t a lone woman armed with nothing but a knife and her wits and had some idea of where she was going, she could take the time to try and free them.

Her stomach twists as she does, but she ignores them all and continues moving, careful to stick to the shadows as she moves up a flight of stairs and filing away a growing suspicion that whatever this place was, it had something to do with the Collapse the Cult seemed so obsessed with.

Sneaking around Jacob’s operations up in the mountains with Jess had served her well—save for a few close calls where one of the cultists catch a glimpse of something skulking around she manages to avoid confrontation through a dozen rooms and up another flight of stairs without much struggle.

Any of them that did happen to spot her moving around in the shadows just mumble something about too much Bliss before simply returning to work. Apparently the Cult’s best brainwashing weapon was also a double-edged sword.

As she passes another doorway a familiar voice catches her attention and she pauses; ultimately it’s the sight of the bow and quiver she’d nicked from one of Jacob’s hunters in the room beyond that alters her path into the room. It’s empty save for a few pipes stretching from the floor to the ceiling in one corner and a workbench up against the wall, next to which sat her recurve and quiver.

Her radio is nowhere to be found, but that doesn’t surprise her.

She carefully slinks past an open doorway with a soft glow lighting the floor from within and quietly slings both her bow and quiver over her back.

The she refocuses on the voice, John’s smooth tone coming from the room she’d just passed by and now returns to, hiding just beyond the frame and peeking inside. His back is to her as he leans over a desk in the center of the room, a single desk lamp illuminating whatever it was he was staring at and throwing enough ambient light for her to see what looked like a facility map taped up between the rows of obsolete screens and computers lining the walls.

Some kind of security hub, maybe, but all she cares about is the map and it’s what she focuses on with intent as she listens in on him.

“—is why Joseph is so insistent these two need to be converted to our cause, or why they should be important to us at all. We’re expending a lot of effort and people trying and all the while they’re helping the Resistance undermine our efforts.” She’d missed the first half of his statement, but she frowns at the half she does hear.

Joseph wanted her and Stevie to be part of the Project? Well that had a snowball’s chance in hell of happening—Quinn would sooner stab herself in the eye, and she knows Stevie well enough to know they’d be in agreement on that front.

“It doesn’t matter. You know how he gets when the Voice is involved.” Jacob says, clear disinterest in his voice even through the wash of static that distorts it. That catches her interest, however—did Jacob not actually believe in Joseph’s overarching goal for the Project?

It was far beyond a long shot, but she wonders what the possibility was they could convert him.

John lets out a scoff. “Your lack of faith in Joseph’s gift never ceases to astound me, Jacob.”

“You’re the one asking why.” Ever the dutiful soldier, it seemed, if Joseph gave the order and Jacob followed whether he believed or not. “The Deputy’ll reach the south gatehouse in the next few hours unless she deviates.”

“Hours? I thought you said your hunters last saw her by the ranger station?”

“Apparently she knows how to hotwire.”

Damn. Quinn makes a note to ask Stevie to teach her that trick; spending three days dodging Jacob’s hunters on foot just to reach another section of the County had been the exact opposite of fun.

Speaking of—

She stands from where she’d been crouched by the doorway and lets out a sharp whistle just as John presses the receiver on the radio. He whirls around and she grins at the look of bewilderment on his face. “Hey, you mind pointing me in the direction of the restroom? I think I’m a bit lost.”

This was so fucking stupid, but totally, one-hundred-percent worth watching the gears in his head struggle to get back up to speed.

The second his expression turns some mixture of impressed and wickedly amused she shoots him a cheeky two-fingered salute and then turns and bolts, a wild smile on her face as she goes. He gives chase immediately, heavy footfalls following after her as the industrial architecture of the facility blurs around her.

She jukes around cultists on her way through, following the map to the best of her memory and hoping she’d gotten a long enough look to be heading for the entrance; they all shout in alarm as she passes, silenced shortly after by loud thumps and crashing that tells her John wasn’t bothering to be nearly as careful as he followed her.

He was taller than her and had longer strides, but even with her diminished health and knowing she was on an endurance clock that would’ve made her instructors cry, she was faster and had freerunning—one of her hobbies—on her side.

The distance between them begins to grow, and he seems to realize he was losing ground. “You’re only making this more difficult, my dear!”

“Difficult for who? You sound out of breath!” She calls back, darting through a doorway and nearly running over another Peggie; they were starting to look more urgent, and that meant the ones they’d already passed had radioed ahead. Things were about to get more difficult.

Without slowing she jumps directly for the solid wall that greets her past the open doorway and plants a foot on it, pushing off at an angle and taking the sharp turn without losing speed.

“I will catch you!” He yells. She’d expected him to sound angry or frustrated, but instead he just sounded invigorated. He was having fun.

Her intent had been to piss him off and the fact she’d misjudged and failed spectacularly should have frustrated her.

It didn’t. She was having fun, too.

A doorway halfway down the hall up ahead would take her to the facility exit if her memory served her well, but she’s forced to skid to a complete halt to make the turn with no wall to bounce off of. Even with the immediate push forward she still feels a rush of air just behind her as John misses her by inches.

Alright, so he was bad at cornering but really good at open sprints. Noted.

Through the doorway she sees a large room littered with stacks of more crates and boxes, and the sheer size of whatever operation this was suddenly occurs to her; they were really digging in for something, and Quinn wonders where the line blurred between paranoia and preparation.

Two Peggies are startled at her sudden appearance, both standing on opposite sides of a stack of crates half her height.

John yells for them to grab her and the two step forward to intercept, ready for her to try and dodge around—instead, she leaps directly for the stack of crates, slapping her hands down onto the surface and expertly vaulting right between them.

Maneuvering around the rest of the room slows her down, but when she breaks through the organized chaos into the open landing, only one cultist between her and a stairwell that would lead her to freedom, she’s still moving fast.

Fast enough for her to drop her shoulder and body slam the cultist into the wall near the stairs. He collapses, wheezing and nearly dragging her down with a desperate grab for her shoulders but she skips back, spinning and taking the stairs two at a time.

Her lungs were starting to burn uncomfortably. Just a bit further, she reminds herself.

Footsteps echo after her up the stairs, and those four simple words become a mantra.

When she reaches the final landing of the absurdly tall stairwell—no windows, industrial, tons of bulkheads, were they underground?—she sequesters the bud of victory that starts to form in her chest. A false sense of security would be her worst enemy when this would be the most dangerous stretch of her escape.

Brilliant sunlight nearly blinds her as she bursts through a final bulkhead, thick metal door ahead of her ajar and beckoning her forward.

She nearly tumbles right over the edge of the raised landing outside the door, forced to quickly redirect and move for a ramp that led down to the flat, open ground of the yard in front of her. It’s a loading bay, littered with even more scattered supplies and a semi-trailer parked back up against the raised landing. A trio of white pickups were lined up ahead with their sides facing her.

She could risk checking for keys in the trucks, but she’d already gone beyond pushing her luck by taunting John rather than fleeing silently and without attracting attention. If her dad were here, he’d definitely be giving her one hell of a disappointed stare for the impulsive decision.

“There! She’s there!”

“Don’t shoot her, the Father wants her alive!”

“Aim for her legs!”

Not only did that sound hellishly unpleasant, one good shot to her legs would put her right back at square one, incapacitated and ready to be dragged back down into the depths and right back into John’s hands.

She glances around, noting the wire fence penning in the area, the opening flanked by gatehouses up ahead, and the trio of heavily-armored cultists blocking the exit—and her eyes settle on the line of trucks.

Alright, so this wasn’t her most brilliant of ideas, ever, but it was better than making a fool of herself by getting all the way to the end of the line only to have nowhere to run.

The first shot rings out across the yard and spurs her forward.

A stack of crates unloaded next to the nearest truck is used as a springboard to launch her up onto the wall of the truckbed, and from there she hops up onto the cab and then across each of the trucks with the thought in her head that Frogger was a hell of a lot less fun than she remembered.

“What the fuck is she doing?”

“Go! Go around!”

When she reaches the third truck she braces herself and then leaps, clearing the barbed wire topping the yard fence by scant inches. Her heart drifts into her throat as the freefall grips at her, the sound of more gunfire breaking the silence of the surrounding forest and sending nearby flocks of birds into panicked flight.

Pain flares up her leg as she lands, the force of her fall sending her sprawling; a noise of pain leaves her, but she forces herself back to her feet and keeps running, pouring every ounce of speed into her burning limbs and ignoring her tiring lungs.

One of the cultist’s bullets finds its mark and she stumbles as fire erupts in her arm, more pain that through sheer force of will is ignored in favor of running. It’s not a bliss bullet, or she wouldn’t have made it to the trees—the only dizziness she feels is purely the result of a tiring body begging her to slow down and stop.

She’s pursued into the woods, frantic shouts and barked orders and gunfire that causes her to instinctively duck as she runs as quickly as she dares down a slope following after her. The forest thickens as she goes, giving her more cover as she ducks in and around trees and bushes as often as possible.

After what felt like an eternity the sounds of pursuit leave her behind, fading farther and farther back until she feels comfortable enough to duck and hide under a rocky outcropping in the sloped landscape; the shade does little to ease the inferno in her blood from so much exertion and sweat drips down the side of her face.

It’s a struggle to calm her breathing as she waits, hating the way her tired limbs start to shake.

Five minutes pass. Distant but still too-close-for-comfort shouts from John’s followers reach her ears. Their hair raising calls of “come out, little girl!” and “play nice and we will!” do nothing to assist in calming her.

Ten minutes. Footsteps crunch in the underbrush on sticks and dry leaves nearby. None approach.

Fifteen.

“She’s gone.”

“Damnit. I’m not telling him.”

“Quit complaining. All of you head back, I’m checking ahead.”

The other voices drift off along with the groups of footsteps she’d been hearing until only one is left; her body is starting to shake more with the adrenaline fading and it’s a struggle to keep upright as she listens with bated breath.

The steps drift towards her hiding spot. Her eyes narrow.

With her body so unsteady she has no idea if she’ll be able to accomplish what she needs to if she’s found, but she steels herself for it anyway. The bow would make too much noise if she tried to slide it off her back in the quiet woods, so she instead reaches for the knife she’d tucked under her belt back in the bunker.

She holds completely still, keeping her breathing as even and quiet as she possibly can when a pair of booted feet enter her vision to the left of the rocky outcropping.

What she assumes is one of John’s Chosen steps fully into her sight, passing her completely without even bothering to check behind the outcropping. Fucking idiot. He stands there scanning the area; her knuckles are white where they grip the knife.

When he does finally turn around his gaze settles on her with a startled expression; she springs forward with a snarl, jamming her knife into his throat before he can lift the gun in his hands, surprising both him and herself for two very different reasons. His eyes widen and the gun drops from his hands, clattering to the loose dirt and leaves between them, one of his hands fisting in her hair in dying fury and yanking.

A yelp of pain leaves her and her fingers slip from the knife when his other hand snaps around her throat—a single painful squeeze is all he can manage before his grip on her slackens and gaze goes distant, her hair and her throat both released as he collapses to the ground on his back in a twitching heap.

She stumbles back on unsteady feet, falling back onto her ass and watching with something she can only describe in the moment as horror while he grasps furiously at the blade in his throat until his movements slow and eventually stop, blood still leaking around the sharp edge of the weapon and bubbling in his throat.

Nausea rises in her own and she sucks in a sharp breath, pressing her lips together tightly to keep herself from retching at the sight of the still body and glassy eyes laid out in front of her.

She’d wanted to be an FBI agent since she was a teenager—still did. She’d known from the beginning that there was a more than high possibility that her choice of field would lead to her having to kill someone at some point, but she hadn’t ever expected it to be like this. Not even when the stories Eli had told her gave her an idea of what Jacob might have been trying to do with her, not even when she’d been up in the mountains helping the Whitetails—that had been at a distance, cold and impersonal. It still made her sick at first, but it had been getting easier to deal with.

Suddenly, that decent ease she’d begun to grow with killing meant absolutely nothing, and she felt like she’d just made her first kill again. This was up close, she’d been near enough to see the life leave the man’s eyes, and she decides immediately that she does not fucking like it.

Worse was knowing that, sooner or later, she was going to have to get used to this as well. She’d been lucky up in the mountains and had a partner watching her back, both of them taking enemies down at a distance.

This wasn’t going to be the only time she was going to be on her own and at risk.

Swallowing, she gathers her wits and stands, moving forward with palpable hesitation and reaching down to grasp the handle; her shoulder flares with pain as she pulls it out with a sickening, wet noise. More bile rises in her throat at the immediate gush of more blood from the wound without something blocking it.

Pulling arrows from corpses was no different. It wasn’t, but no matter how many times it runs through her head her skin still crawls.

It’s only knowing that the longer she sticks around the likelier it is she’ll be found and that she was up shit creek without the metaphorical paddle—paddle being supplies—that gives her the constitution to search the body for anything she can use. She has to avoid looking at the man’s face in order to do so.

A pair of throwing knives are both tucked into her boots. Nothing in the way of food or water are on his person, but she’s not surprised considering she’d caught them all of guard.

It was still worrying. She was who knew how many miles from any semblance of civilization, and between the marathon she’d just run and the bullet wound on her arm she risked dehydration at least.

Hell, she’d be lucky if she could make it anywhere between the wound and the ache in her ankle that was more prominent in her mind without the adrenaline and urgency keeping her focus elsewhere, and that wasn’t taking into account the exhaustion that was going to settle over her quickly now.

There’s a radio clipped to his belt, and having decided that she’s not going to find anything else truly useful, she snatches it off him with quick fingers and steps away. Her eyes drift around as she tries to get her bearings and decide a direction to go; if she keeps lingering, it was tantamount to her just turning around and walking right back into John’s hands.

And she didn’t go through all this for nothing.

She lingers long enough to rip a strip of fabric from the bottom of her shirt and tie a makeshift tourniquet around her bicep just above the bullet wound, and ultimately she decides to simply follow the ravine she’s in downhill. Ravines meant water erosion, and if she was lucky she would wander across a body of water at some point. The question was whether or not she’d get to one before passing out.

After an hour of walking, her ankle slowly paining her more and more, she was struggling to motivate herself to keep going rather than finding a bush to just lay down and rest. Despite the tourniquet there’s a slow trickle of blood that’s doing her no favors, either.

Come home. Come home. Come home.

She hesitates, staring with blurry, blinking eyes up at the bridge spanning the gap of the ravine fifty feet above her. The sun was starting to set and more than the exhaustion itself—or maybe a direct result of it—the thought kept creeping into her head. Come home. Jacob’s voice was like a ghostly whisper in her ear and she sways with indecision.

She sure as fuck wouldn’t be able to make it back to the Veteran’s Center from here, but maybe if she went back to John—

Holy fucking shit.

Her head shakes rapidly to break the thoughts in her head, a shaky breathe leaving her and the motion making her even dizzier. Jesus, Tammy had been right. He gets into your head, she had told her, venomous and warning, there’s no avoiding it. No matter how long you’re with him. He gets into your head.

The knowledge that within three weeks he’d been able to plant control into her brain leaves her disturbed. What would he have been able to accomplish if she’d been there longer?

She’s too tired to be ashamed of the startled yelp that leaves her when a voice crackles through static on the radio clipped to her belt. “Brayden, do you copy?” It’s not John, just another of the Peggies.

Her fingers grasp the radio and unclip it, and she wars with the same thoughts—come home come home come home—as she stares at it and debates on responding. She could be a petty little shit and taunt them, but she has no idea how far she’d actually managed to get away from John’s bunker and she didn’t want to give them the idea that she was still nearby.

The voice that wasn’t her own told her that was exactly what she wanted to do.

“Brayden, do you copy? We need an update. Are you tracking her?”

Definitely the guy she’d killed. With him not responding they were probably going to suspect foul play and send a group out to look for him—and, by extension, her. Ignoring the voice that sounded suspiciously like a red-haired, blue-eyed wolf of a man, she decides she needs to get oriented and find somewhere safe that wasn’t with John.

With the sun setting she’d be at one hell of a disadvantage if they were still out looking for her. She’d never been taught to navigate by stars, and she was alone with no supplies and no idea if there was any shelter nearby.

It was looking more and more like her luck had been used up by managing to dodge Jacob’s hunters for nearly a week after this nightmare had begun, and Lady Luck had wiggled a glimmer of it in front of her nose with this escape only to take it away again.

Blinking down at the radio, she switches the frequency to one she hopes wasn’t too far out of range. “Eli, this is Quinn. Are you there?”

Only her footsteps as she resumes her unsteady and slowed walking pace answer her at first, and she starts to doubt that she could still reach the Militia out here. She’s about to press the button to try again when she finally gets a response. “Shit, Quinn, is that really you? Jess told us what happened, we’ve been trying to get in contact with you for weeks!”

His voice is slightly garbled, likely a result of the distance, but it’s unmistakably Wheaty on the other end. She sighs in relief. “It’s me, Wheaty. Good to hear you.” Then what he said gives her pause. “How long was I dark?”

“A little over two weeks, after that ambush. Hey, you’re breaking up real bad—where are you?”

It couldn’t hurt to share the wildly general area, considering she truly had no idea. “Somewhere in Holland Valley, I think.”

“You don’t know?”

“I just spent two weeks held captive underground, so no. That’s why I’m contacting you guys. I need help getting my bearings.”

There’s a longer pause and she assumes that Wheaty was processing what she’d told him or looking for a map, but the next voice that speaks is the one that she’d called for in the first place. “John got hold of you?” Eli must have been listening in and had chosen then to cut in. She feels a momentary pang of regret for interrupting whatever he might’ve been working on, but the concern in his voice soothes it somewhat.

“He did. I’m okay, Eli, just exhausted. I gave him a swift metaphorical kick in the nuts on my way out, so it was worth it.”

“You and the Deputy are something special, Quinn. Been at this resistance thing for years but none of us have been able to kick over the Cult’s sandcastles the way both of you have in just a few months.” Eli says, amused and relieved in equal measure. “Can you give me some landmarks to work with? Get to high ground if you can.”

She’d already anticipated the request and had—with difficulty thanks to both her leg and arm—begun to scale the hillside of the ravine she’d been traversing, wary of the open road and bridge she’d just bypassed. Once at the top she squints at the mountainside to her right and the waning colors of sunset. “I’m facing south right now, been traveling through a ravine down the mountain I think.”

She’ll need to get moving as soon as Eli gives her a direction to go in, now. This was an unsecured frequency the Whitetails monitored, and anyone could’ve been listening in.

Scanning her environment, she lists off anything noteworthy she can see; a lone church down by a small lake, spire just barely peeking up over the top of the trees, what looked like an airfield somewhere to her southeast, plus the bridge she’d just passed, and—

She blinks, having turned around to see if there was anything behind her and suddenly wondering if the blood loss was causing her to hallucinate visually as well as audibly. There above the trees was a massive Hollywood-style billboard featuring exactly three letters: YES.

What. The. Fuck.

When she realizes she’s keeping Eli waiting she clicks the receiver down, unable to tear her eyes away from the sign. “I—there’s a big ‘Yes’ sign up in the mountain northeast of me.” Really, John?

Eli doesn’t comment on the billboard and she almost wishes he would—it’d make the surreality of what she was looking at make her feel just a bit more grounded. “Can’t tell exactly where you’re at, kid, but in a general sense keep heading southeast. I remember right, Grace Armstrong is holed up somewhere near the foot of the hill you’re on.”

She winces, heading carefully back down into the ravine. “Thanks, Eli. Hey, I’m on a stolen radio right now ‘cause John took mine, so I don’t have the encryption channels anymore. Until you can swap out the keys, avoid details on the radio.”

“Got it. Damn miracle they haven’t intercepted us yet.”

“Yeah.” She says. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault. Put a bullet in John and help your friend put a few in Jacob and we’ll call it even.”

She laughs, feeling light in her chest and unsettled by the fact she can’t tell if it’s from the blood loss or exhaustion or she was just happy to hear from someone friendly. “Will do, Eli. Quinn out.”

[radiojamming]

can I request a reader/Jacob fic where they get stuck in the woods or something and have to snuggle for warmth and Jacob is Unhappy™️ about it but secretly loves it

petition for a winter-themed dlc where u can go cross country skiing and everyone’s wearing adorable winter wear

(also i’m so sorry i’m rusty with reader-viewpoint fanfic. hopefully u like it!)

- - -

Seriously, fuck Montana. Sure, it’s beautiful and scenic, and one look at the snow-capped Whitetails catching the winter sunlight is enough to take your breath away. The entire county looks like someone vigorously shook a snowglobe; yet all you can think is something along the lines of fuck this joint. 

Because Montana decides that four feet of snow is a perfectly acceptable amount. Four feet of snow to ski or stomp through, chasing after white-clothed cultists in distinctly white scenery. Four feet of snow with a blizzard bound in from the west, pressing hard on the mountains that you just so happen to be trying to meander through. And, fair to mention, it’s four feet of snow plus blizzard on top of Jacob’s territory, just to be the little flourish on top of a massive snowpile of disaster that your weekend’s become.

You hadn’t meant to get so far into the mountains. In early fall and well into November, the weather held off enough that what you’re attempting now wasn’t even a fraction of a problem. But now, you’re clumsy on borrowed skis, and a damn near fatal snowshoe attempt earlier in the week made that mode of transportation an impossibility. A snowmobile might be able to do alright, but there are way too many trees to do that safely, at least until you find a vague road-shaped stretch of snow to ride on. That’s pretty much your mission now. Find a road, kick some Peggie off their snowmobile, and ride into glory, a snowbank, someone’s house, or a combination of all three.

The clouds above you get patchy, bloated, and dark with snow. Sunlight attempts to burst through, but as the hour wears on, it grows weaker and weaker. Finally, when you’re within sight of a side road, the sky is one uniform layer of angry, frigid gray, and even through the layers you’re wearing, you can still feel the temperature drop degree by degree. Cold pricks your cheeks and your nose and it numbs your fingers. If there was ever a time to hustle out to the nearest Resistance outpost, now’s the time.

Except obviously, someone out there has very different plans for you.

You’ve made it about two hundred yards down the road when there’s a distinct crack of gunfire, and a plume of snow shoots up beside you. It’s hard to whirl around with skis, but you manage, sniper rifle already up and ready. The snow’s already starting to come down in heavy flakes, obscuring your vision. You squint through it, trying to find the shine of a rifle, the distinct red of a scope or sight. Nothing.

A few minutes of turning around, left, right, and backwards, and still nothing.

You start to wonder if it was a stray shot, or maybe someone–

Maybe someone cracks you in the side of the head with a rifle butt.

Well, you have your vengeance, because whoever it is doesn’t count for the fact that you’ve proven yourself to be a royal moron when it comes to skis. You stumble, dazed, one ski catching the other and causing you to careen hard to the left. Vaguely, you register hitting something, which happens to be large and warm and covered in fabric, but the sensation only lasts a second before the entire world turns completely sideways. 

The last thing you see is a stretch of mottled white and gray camo, and you hear a low groan of displeasure. Then, it goes pleasantly dark.

- - -

The first thing that you feel is a slamming headache. It’s like a cross between a hangover and a closed-head injury, and it might be both. It pulses hard in your right temple, like your heart’s taken up real estate next to your brain and has taken the responsibility of being a noisy, obnoxious neighbor. You wince, but the wince somehow makes it hurt more. 

The second thing you feel is that fabric-covered warmth at your side, and that is way more pleasant than your heart versus brain fight. Whatever it is, it’s faintly rumbling, and without thinking on it (because your brain’s preoccupied with shouting down the tenants), you try to get closer to the source. Said source makes a noise of distinct bear-like discontent, but doesn’t move away. 

Except vaguely, your brain takes a break from protesting to notice that something’s not quite right.

Hey! you think it says, shouting over your too-loud pulse. Maybe open your eyes a second. 

You do, with enormous reluctance. You’re greeted with more of that white and gray camo print, and red. Lots of red. A red blanket, red beanie, red beard–

Oh. Well. 

Shit.

There are only two real possibilities here: one is that you’re huddled up beside who is, for all intents and purposes, a perfect genetic clone of Jacob Seed, down to the unflinching eyes staring a hole through your face and the ‘I’m going to make you mincemeat’ expression that he shares with his wolves. The second is that it is Jacob Seed, no clones needed, and with all aforementioned traits. 

The second can’t be likely, because there is no way on God’s green (or mostly gray and white, right now) earth that Jacob Seed would be curled around you like a motherly mountain lion without putting you in a stranglehold and threatening you with Darwinian theory. Honestly, there’s only one way to test this.

“Jacob?” you croak out, your voice sounding like it might compete with his on gravelliness.

And, in equally gravelly tones, he replies, “Deputy.”

You have to take a little more stock to figure out how the hell you got in this position. Everything around you is dark, except the telltale gold glow of a fire nearby. You look up to see a crackling blue tarp mounted on a crossbeam of PVC pipe, and you glance down to see that the two of you are huddled up on an unrolled and unzipped sleeping bag, blue and green flannel facing upwards. When you manage to lift your head up without passing out, you see that you’re in some makeshift camp tunneled into the snowbank. There’s a crate on the other side of the fire and little else. Obviously, it’s not a camp meant for an extended stay.

So, without a concrete answer, you just ask, “What?”

Jacob makes a strange, low wheezing sound which you feel more than see. It’s a warm rush of air that you can feel on your scalp. “Great question,” he mumbles, and that is something you feel through his chest. “You want the long, wordy version or the short and easy one?”

You dazedly mutter something that might be, “Short and easy,” but it comes out sounding more like, “Sortneeeez.”

Another puff of warm air and you realize it’s a laugh. 

“I tried to catch you alive, you tripped on your own skis, fell into me, rammed my head into a tree, and we were both knocked out for at least a half an hour,” he explains quietly. “I managed to get up and get us both here, but the temperature dropped into the negatives, so getting to the nearest cabin isn’t happening until morning.”

You blink slowly, trying to absorb all of what he’s said. It’s more than you’ve heard from him in awhile, excluding things that come out like sermons or lectures. The Seeds only seem to be blessed in one art of conversation, and it’s never anything good or truly entertaining.

“So,” you reply, trying to pull your wits back together enough that you don’t sound like you’re nursing a concussion. “Why’re we here?” The word we is accompanied by a slight elbowing at Jacob’s waist, causing him to grunt.

“‘Cause neither of us need to freeze to death. Basic survival,” he replies.

“So we’re cud–”

“Don’t say it.”

Yes, you’re still dazed and trying to work your way through a headache, but spiteful ye shall always be, and you’re smiling before your brain has a chance to coach you on why that might be a bad idea. Predators showing teeth and all that.

“We’re cuddlin’,” you finish regardless, and that’s about the extent of your eloquence for now. Any other word is going to come out in a slurry of consonants and vowels that won’t make much sense.

Another grunt, and it’s another wonder of the world that he doesn’t kill you now and just pull a Han Solo strategy on your still-warm corpse. Instead (and this might be a hallucination), you feel a slight tug around your waist, and you’re suddenly even closer to Jacob than you were before. Your mind is already sinking back into unconsciousness, and you manage to register that he smells like pine sap and campfire. You grin at this, and might say something about it, but Jacob’s sighing and keeping you close.

“Go to sleep,” he orders.

You happily succumb to sleep, but not before you swear you feel a hand running over your hair before it rests just behind your head.

[askguyslikeus]

((thank you to guest writer @listentotheshityousay !!!))

The dorm kitchenette is quiet at three in the morning. There's just the sound of running water as Jeremy washes out the measuring spoons, humming to himself to drown out the drone of the microwave. It's peaceful.

Consuming baked goods at this hour won't be beneficial to anybody's health, a snide voice rings out in his head.

So much for peaceful.

“This is gonna be beneficial to Michael’s mental and emotional health, so shut up,” Jeremy responds, rolling his eyes. “And like, it can’t be worse than that time we ate fried chicken off our floor after we dropped it.”

That was truly disgusting, the Squip agrees.

“We’re college students. We eat a lot of gross shit.” He turns the faucet and shuts the water off, wiping his hands with the dishrag. “Stop judging.”

If only your eating habits were the only troubling part of your lifestyle…

Jeremy scowls. “Okay, you know what?” He isn’t in the mood to listen to another lecture about vegetables and hygiene and cholesterol. “I’m not doing this.”

He heads out of the kitchenette and walks four doors down, pushing the door to his dorm room open. Michael’s laying on the bottom bunk bed, Jeremy’s phone held above his face as he taps away intently at the screen.

“Jer? You done already?” Michael asks, tilting his head towards Jeremy’s direction. He drops the phone in his distraction and it smacks him in the face. “Ow!”

“I told you not to hold phones like that,” Jeremy says absent-mindedly. He knows Michael’s never going to learn his lesson on that anyway. He squats down to open the mini-fridge and dig out a new bottle of Mountain Dew Red. He cracks it open, ignoring the Squip’s aggrieved grumbling, and chugs half the bottle.

“Electronic Voldemort being an ass again?” Michael asks when Jeremy’s done. His tone is joking, but there’s that telltale hint of worry in his eyes, in the slight furrow of his brows, and Jeremy wants to chase it away. Michael’s already had a shitty day and he doesn’t need to be worried about the voice in Jeremy’s head right now.

So Jeremy shrugs and leans forward, folding his arms on the bed and resting his chin on them to give Michael an easy grin from up close. “More like trying to be my health coach. As if any college student ever cooks balanced meals or eats vegetables.”

“Hell no,” Michael scoffs, rolling closer to lay on his stomach, his face inches from Jeremy’s. “Not even Jake does that.” A beat. “Well, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t.” Another beat. “I mean, he eats plenty of junk food and vegetables—shit, does that make it a balanced meal?”

“Depends on the ratio, I guess?”

Michael scrunches his nose. “I saw him eat, like, three pieces of broccoli once.” An ominous pause. “Uncooked.”

“Gross.” Broccoli isn’t that bad, but uncooked? Jake must be a masochist.

“‘Average person eats three pieces of broccoli a year’ factoid actually just statistical error,” Michael deadpans. “Average person eats zero pieces of broccoli per year. Jacob Dillinger, who lives in a cave and eats over ten-thousand each day, is an outlier and should not have been counted.”

Jeremy starts laughing just before Michael starts to crack up, too. “A cave?” Jeremy wheezes, gasping for air. “He lives in the dorm across campus.”

“Tell me that cave is an inaccurate description of a college student’s dorm room,” Michael says between chortles.

Jeremy looks around their dorm room. “So this is our cave now?”

“Fuck yeah it is. Which reminds me.” Michael rolls away, settling onto his stomach and stuffing a pillow under his chin as he grabs Jeremy’s phone again. “I have a camp to attend to.”

Jeremy pushes himself up to sit on the side of the bed Michael just vacated and leans over to see Michael’s screen. “Did you get Kyle to come over?”

Michael scowls. “Not yet. Almost done building that fucking table, though, so his smug wolf ass is gonna be mine, soon.”

“What, my ass isn’t enough for you?” Jeremy pokes Michael in the ribs. “Plus, technically this is my phone, so his smug wolf ass would be mine.”

Michael bats Jeremy’s finger away. “Tone it down, you furry. Let me bask in my sweet, sweet upcoming victory.”

“You could’ve just downloaded Pocket Camp onto your phone,” Jeremy says, but he’s not really complaining. He’d been playing on and off for a while, but he hadn’t developed an obsession with the game the way Michael has over the past few days after trying it out on Jeremy’s phone during a fit of boredom. He doesn’t mind Michael stealing his phone for a while every day, and it’s worth it, to see the tension that’d been in Michael’s shoulders earlier all bled out, the smile on his face much more relaxed.

He watches Michael finally coax Kyle into their camp and almost gets smacked in the face when Michael flails his arms victoriously with a whoop. “Gotcha now, sucker,” Michael crows. He’s already tapping away, moving onto the next step, humming as he mutters, “Gotta catch em all.”

“That just gave me some really intense Pokemon Go flashbacks.” Jeremy blinks away the vivid memories of chasing down the whereabouts of a Dratini behind a 7-Eleven at two in the morning. Michael had announced he was disinheriting Jeremy when he found out Jeremy was Team Mystic (“Remember when I told you that you could have my Gameboy and my Magic The Gathering card collection if anything happened to me? I take it back. I’m taking you off my will, Jeremiah.”), and then promptly cancelled the disownment in favor of recruiting Jeremy into kicking some Team Instinct ass.

“Man, I walked so much for that Flareon.” Michael squints at the phone screen. “Fuck, I need more Bells. I should get somebody to buy my shit.”

Jeremy pulls out Michael’s phone from where it’s been stashed in his hoodie pocket to check the time. The screen flashes 3:14. “Michael, nobody’s going to be awake at this time on a Tuesday night.”

“Nuh-uh. PJ will sure as hell be awake,” Michael says.

Jeremy thinks about that for a sec. “You know what, that wouldn’t surprise me.”

There’s a minute of silence as Michael switches from the game to open Jeremy’s message app, tapping furiously at the phone screen, and then he’s grinning up at Jeremy with a smug slant to his mouth, the way he smiles whenever he’s having an I told you so moment. “She’s awake.”

“Why is she even awake?” Jeremy asks with a laugh. “It’s past three in the morning!”

“I don’t know, maybe she’s staying up to play Pocket Camp just like me,” Michael says with a fond snort.

Jeremy’s about to say that Michael’s up playing Pocket Camp to destress from a bad day when his brain tugs at that train of thought, derailing him from saying anything. Aren’t you forgetting something? echoes in his head, sounding eerily like the Squip’s voice.

He’s blankly staring at the wall, mystified, when Michael’s voice drags him back to the present. “Hey, weren’t you making Nutella cake?”

Jeremy blinks, then looks down at Michael, who’s giving him a curious look.

“Yeah,” Jeremy says, as his derailed train of thought is replaced back on the metaphorical traintracks, starting off slow and steady. “I was.”

Michael stares at him.

Jeremy stares back.

The thought train cranks up the speed from one to eleven, his thoughts all crashing into him at the speed of light. From the look of rapidly dawning horror on Michael’s face, he’s on the same track (ha fucking ha) of thought.

“Did you just,” Michael says very slowly, “leave the stuff in the kitchen?” Even more slowly: “In the microwave?”

“Oh fuck,” Jeremy blurts, and that’s the exact moment the fire alarm starts blaring.

-

See, the thing is, the microwave on their floor is a piece of shit that’s probably older Jeremy and Michael’s ages combined. It has many buttons but no settings work aside from Fires of Mordor, and its timer settings operates solely on thirty-minute intervals, for some reason. So it’s the duty of the poor dorm residents who use it to stop the microwave accordingly using their own timers.

It hasn’t been replaced because, for all it’s shitty, fire-hazard qualities, it still works and it hasn’t actually caused a fire yet.

But just because it hasn’t caused any real fires doesn’t mean it hasn’t set off any fire alarms. There’s been enough fire alarms this month that a few days ago, Rich--who had been spending the night on their top bunk--had literally clamped the pillow over his head and went back to sleep.

It’s a building full of hungry, easily distracted college students and the world’s most tyrannical microwave. It’s the worst combination possible.

So it’s absolutely normal for Jeremy and Michael to be standing outside their building in the middle of the night, surrounded by dozens of their cranky, sleep-deprived neighbors, waiting for all-clear to head back in.

A lot less normal for Jeremy to have been the cause of the fire alarm, though. Usually people set off the fire alarm trying to make popcorn. Jeremy set it off trying to make Nutella mug cake. Which is probably a scorched hell cake now.

“Holy shit,” Jeremy mumbles, still kinda in shock about the whole thing. “I almost burned down a building with a cake.”

“Good thing Rich isn’t sleeping over at our place today,” Michael says. “He’d either be really proud of you or really disappointed.”

Jeremy stares at the dorm windows, feeling indignant. “I used the last of my Nutella for that cake.”

Michael makes a choking noise from beside him, and Jeremy remembers that fuck, he’d been making that cake to cheer Michael up after a shitty day. And then he went and had the whole building evacuated instead.

“Oh my god,” Jeremy moans, dragging both hands down his face as the shame properly kicks in. “I was supposed to make you feel better, not get us kicked out of our room.” He turns to Michael to apologize. “I’m so s—Michael?”

Michael, he realizes, is doubled over and wheezing, laughing so hard that he’s nearly crying. He straightens up and hooks an arm over Jeremy’s shoulder, pulling him in, still giggling breathlessly as he leans against Jeremy, grinning as bright as the rising sun.

“Actually,” Michael says, sounding happier than any Nintendo game or baked good could make him, “this is just what I needed.”

[patriotsnet]

Who Are Richer Democrats Or Republicans

New Post has been published on https://www.patriotsnet.com/who-are-richer-democrats-or-republicans/

Who Are Richer Democrats Or Republicans

In The Most General Terms The Biggest Difference Between The Parties Comes Down To The View Of The Proper Role Of Government

The Republican party generally believes that it is the responsibility of individuals and communities to take care of people in need.  The Democratic party generally believes that the government should take care of people.  In general, the Republican party believes that if government needs to do a job then it is best for the local governments like cities and counties to make those decisions.  The Democratic party believes that the federal government has more resources and is therefore in a better position to do those jobs.  

Practical example for a child: There are a lot of people who dont have enough food to eat. Republicans believe that people like you and me should help them, and our churches should help them. The Democrats believe that the government needs to spend its money to help them get food.

These Are The Us States Most And Least Dependent On The Federal Government

States that voted Democrat in 2016 generally rely less on federal funding than Republican states, according to a study by WalletHub.

The analysis looked at the return on taxes paid to the federal government, the share of federal jobs, and federal funding as a share of state revenue.

Thirteen out of the top 15 states found to be most dependent on the federal government voted for President Donald Trump in the 2016 presidential election. Ten out of the 15 least dependent states voted for Democratic nominee Hillary Clinton.

Health Care And Drug Addiction Seen As More Pressing Problems Than Inequality

When asked about 11 major issues facing the country today, concern about economic inequality ranks around the middle of the pack, with 44% saying this is a very big problem. By comparison, about two-thirds say the affordability of health care and drug addiction are very big problems.

The affordability of college, the federal budget deficit and climate change are also viewed as big problems by higher shares of adults. Inequality is roughly on par with concerns about illegal immigration and racism. And more view it as a very big problem than say the same about terrorism, sexism and job opportunities for all Americans.

Adults with lower incomes are more likely than those with middle or upper incomes to say that economic inequality is a very big problem in the country today. About half of lower-income adults say this, compared with 41% of middle-income Americans and 42% of those with higher incomes.

Lower-income Americans are more likely than other income groups to say reducing economic inequality should be a top priority for the federal government

The degree to which Americans see reducing income inequality as a priority differs by income and by party. Adults with lower incomes are more likely than those with middle and upper incomes to say this should be a top priority. And, by a margin of roughly three-to-one, Democrats are more likely than Republicans to say the same .

The Philosophy Behind Republican Economic Policy

Republicans advocate supply-side economics that primarily benefits businesses and investors. This theory states that tax cuts on businesses allow them to hire more workers, in turn increasing demand and growth. In theory, the increased revenue from a stronger economy offsets the initial revenue loss over time.

Republicans advocate the right to pursue prosperity without government interference. They argue this is achieved by self-discipline, enterprise, saving, and investing.

Republicans business-friendly approach leads most people to believe that they are better for the economy. A closer look reveals that Democrats are, in many respects, actually better.

How Is The Democratic Party Different From The Republican Party

Democrats are generally considered liberal, while Republicans are seen as conservative. The Democratic Party typically supports a larger government role in economic issues, backing regulations and social welfare programs. The Republicans, however, typically want a smaller government that is less involved in the economy. This contrary view on the size of government is reflected in their positions on taxesDemocrats favour a progressive tax to finance governments expanded role, while Republicans support lower taxes for all. However, Republicans do support a large budget for the military, and they often aggressively pursue U.S. national security interests, even if that means acting unilaterally. Democrats, however, prefer multilateralism. On social issues, Democrats seek greater freedoms, while Republicans follow more traditional values, supporting government intervention in such matters. For example, Democrats generally back abortion rights, while Republicans dont. In terms of geography, Democrats typically dominate in large cities, while Republicans are especially popular in rural areas.

Democrats Tend To Have A Lot More Anger And Negativity In Their Rhetoric According To Them If You Support President Trump Well Then You Are A Racist And A Nazi

They generally seem to be out to get someone making things more personal.  Why are they so afraid to use the facts to reinforce what they want to do? Its agenda first then find or make up facts to support the rhetoric.

If they cant beat you at the polling booth, they try and beat you in court and thats just a great example of something thats not a pleasant experience. And not quite working in the long run. They keep getting overturned.

Americas Top 10 Richest Families

Walton Republican  The family owns the Walmart corporation. The Walton family fortune is estimated to be about $130 billion.

Koch Republican  Businessmen, owners of Koch Industries, a manufacturing company. Koch brothers have a net worth of about $41 billion each .

Mars Republican  Own the Mars candy company. The three children of founder Forrest Mars are worth about $78 billion together.

Cargill-MacMillan Republican  The Cargill-MacMillan family owns 90 percent of the largest privately-owned corporation in the U.S. The family, as a whole, is worth about $49 billion.

Cox Democrat  The Cox family owns a number of auto consumer sites and services . They have an estimated net worth of $41 billion.

Johnson  Republican  The Johnson family is known for their cleaning products and hygiene products. They are valued at $30 billion.

Pritzker Both  Founders of Hyatt. The family has a combined value of $29 billion in 2017.

Johnson  Republican  Overseers at Fidelity, ensuring the cash of millions of Americans. The family has a combined net worth of $28.5 billion.

Hearst Republican  The Hearst family owns one of Americas largest media companies. The family is valued at $28 billion.

Duncan Republican  The Duncan family works mostly with oil and pipelines. The family is valued at about $21.5 billion.

Republican Critics Of The Progressive Squad Are Quick To Ignore Their Own Lunatic Right

OPINION It was late June 1980 when I arrived in Washington after teaching political science for three years at Bucknell University. My job was to write for The Political Report, a little-circulated weekly newsletter that reported on House and Senate races.

The nations politics were in the process of changing more than I realized.

In November, Ronald Reagan would be elected president, Republicans would make significant gains in the House and win control of the Senate for the first time since 1954, and a new crop of conservative candidates were showing their political muscle sometimes by challenging relatively moderate GOP incumbents in both the House and Senate.

In Alabama, liberal Republican Rep. John Buchanan Jr. lost his bid for renomination to ultra-conservative Albert Lee Smith Jr. Even more noteworthy for me, growing up in New York, Al DAmato scored an 11-point victory over veteran liberal Sen. Jacob Javits in the states GOP Senate primary.

Also in the Senate, conservative Republican Steve Symms ousted Idaho Democratic incumbent Frank Church; conservative Republican Bob Kasten upset Wisconsin Democratic incumbent Gaylord Nelson; conservative Republican John East ousted North Carolina Democratic incumbent Robert Morgan; and Iowa Rep. Charles E. Grassley beat Democratic Sen. John Culver .

But while both the country and the GOP were moving right, the Republican Party still had room for a substantial contingent of moderates.

Will More Republicans Die From Covid Than Democrats

razelove  |  509 opinions shared on Society & Politics topic.Influencer3 mo People lie, right and left. You’re looking not at a number comparing those immunized or not immunized against voter rolls, but asking two questions at random, what party do you affiliate with, and do you plan to get vaccinated.Either way, it’s a brain dead question. More people would die regardless. Let’s say that 45% between both parties is only 30% of Americans , that’s enough to fall short of the unknown number that we would need to reach for herd immunity, which to the best of my knowledge no country has reached yet to find that sweet spot.It will simply mutate more and more and recircle the globe again and again. Which honestly is fine by me. The panic and blow to the economy were worse than the virus. Maybe sars-cov-3 will be more exciting though. I was in panic mode until there were more concrete numbers a few months in with cov-2.You also have to figure that if a virus becomes too deadly it wipes itself out as the hosts for that virus die faster than they can transmit it, like ebola, some strains of flu or dysentery. I’m not too concerned as me and my family caught it already, and kind of figured on this sticking around like the flu. 0|0

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Investor George Marcus And His Wife Judith Gave $9610125 Mostly To Democrats

Total donations: $9,610,125

Party Affiliation: Democrat

Net worth: $1.5 billion

George Marcus is the founder of real-estate brokerage Marcus & Millichap Company, according to the company’s website. Marcus is also the chairman of Essex Property Trust, a multi-family real-estate investment trust, and he serves on the board of California-based commercial bank Greater Bay Bancorp.

The Marcuses gave $10,400 to Republicans in 2018, according to the Center for Responsive Politics. The rest went to Democrats.

Republicans Vs Democrats: Where Do The Two Main Us Political Parties Stand On Key Issues

After an impeachment, a positive coronavirus test and an unforgettable first presidential debate rounded out the final months of Donald Trumps first term, it seems fair to say the past few years have been a roller-coaster ride for US politics.

On November 3, Americans will decide which candidate will win the 2020 presidential election, sparking either the beginning, or end, for each nominee.

But how does it all work?

Well, the US political system is dominated by two main parties the Democrats and the Republicans and the next president will belong to one of those two.

Just how different are their policies?

Heres what you need to know, starting with the candidates.

Heiress Deborah Simon Donated $97 Million To Democrats

Party Affiliation: Democrat

Net worth: Unknown

Deborah Simon is the daughter of Indiana shopping mall developer Melvin Simon. Simon inherited a portion of her father’s fortune after a bitter legal battle over his estate with her stepmother Bren Simon, according to Forbes. 

Simon’s family had a net worth of $6.8 billion in 2014, according to Forbes.

Political Coalitions Are About More Than Just Income Redistribution

Posted December 8, 2014

In his 2004 book, journalist Thomas Frank asked: Whats the matter with Kansas? Ever since, many liberals have taken it as an article of faith that if working-class whites only knew what was good for them then theyd vote for Democrats.

The usual rebuttal from political science is to point out that many poorer whites in fact do vote for Democrats. Or, at least, poorer whites are much more likely to vote Democratic than are richer whites. Its just not the case — even in Kansas — that working-class whites are ignoring their redistributive interests in their voting choices. Still, it makes sense to wonder why Democrats win the poorest whites by a nose rather than a mile.

Many conservatives similarly ask: Whats the matter with Harvard? Ive studied the Harvard/Radcliffe Class of 1977 . On the whole, its a fantastically wealth group, with family incomes typically in the top 1% or 2% of the country. Yet for every Republican there are around six Democrats.

With Harvard as well, though, its still not the case that people are ignoring their redistributive interests. In the Class of 77, the richest members are less likely to favor Democrats than are the merely well-off or poorer. Still, it makes sense to wonder why Republicans are in such short supply among Ivy League alumni.

Income and Education

Parties are Coalitions

Kansas and Harvard

Jason Weeden is author of .

Related articles:

Who Gets The Most Government Benefits: Urban Democrats Or Rural Republicans

Todays Republican Party, fueled by the Tea Party movements right-wing populism, rails against government benefits and those who receive them. New Jersey Governor Chris Christie, for example, warns that Social Security and Medicare will turn us into a bunch of people sitting on a couch, waiting for their next government check. But who really receives the bulk of government benefits: urban districts represented by Democrats or rural districts represented by Republicans?

Using the New York Times map of the county-level distribution of government benefits, Ive compared Republican and Democratic districts in two states. Here is Californias 9th District compared with the 19th District :

We find a similar story in Minnesotas 5th District and the 6th District : 

This is, of course, a small and unrepresentative sample but more comprehensive studies have shown that the pattern holds: the regions of the United States most inflamed by right-wing, anti-government populism benefit disproportionately from government programs and income transfers. To put it another way, Cadillac driving welfare queens are easily outnumbered by pickup truck driving welfare cowboys.

Stephen Richer Revels In Blue Spotlight Duped Republicans

GOP political newcomer clearly displays his leftist stripes

When the GOP-hating, Hillary-endorsing local newspaper is enraptured with an elected Republican, its a clear sign something is amiss. That is exactly whats happening with Maricopa County Recorder Stephen Richer. The Recorders Office is regarded as a down ballot post, which few people can accurately identify either by the duties or the office holder.

In November 2020, Richer, the previously unknown Republican lawyer ousted the single term democrat and the victory tasted sweet, masking the toxicity aimed at conservatives that we were soon to see. Richer has appeared in a full-color, above-the-fold photo in a newspaper report standing beside democrat Sheriff Paul Penzone and using the prominently displayed word unhinged to describe President Donald Trump. Penzone, it should be remembered defeated six-term Sheriff Joe Arpaio with at least $2 million added to his campaign coffers by none other than Socialist billionaire George Soros who has resolutely donated to overhaul the criminal justice system in his leftist image.

This revealing account was published in Law Enforcement Today.

Displaying its newfound GOP defector poster boy, Sundays edition of the seriously declining local newspaper devotes two pages to a Your Turn column by Stephen Richer, titled, Playing by an awfully different set of rules.  This bold type face, foolish sentiment is directly below the headline:

Perceptions Of The Parties

Judgments about Romney and Obama mirror the views of middle-class Americans toward the Republican and Democratic parties.

According to the survey, only about a quarter to a third of the middle class says that the Republicans or Democrats primarily favor middle-class interests over those of the rich or poor. Republicans are perceived as the party of the rich, while the middle class is divided over whether the Democratic Party is more concerned about their needs or those of the poor.

To examine the intersection of social class and politics, the Pew Research survey asked respondents if each of the two major political parties favors the rich, favors the middle class or favors the poor.

Overall, the middle class was somewhat more likely to say that the Democratic Party rather than the GOP favored its interests . But about as many say the Democrats favor the poor , and 16% believe the party favors the rich.

At the same time about six-in-ten middle-class adults say the GOP favors the rich

roughly double the 26% who say the Republican Party primarily favors middle-class Americans.

The survey also found that the middle class is politically diverse: Roughly equal shares of middle-class adults identify with the Democratic Party or say they are independents , while somewhat fewer align with the Republican Party . As a group, middle-class adults are more likely to identify themselves as political conservatives than liberals . About a third say they are moderates.

One Of The Worst Offenders Is Mitch Mcconnells Home State Of Kentucky According To This Wallethub Study

Jake Krupa colors in an electoral map at an election watching party as states are called in the 2016 election.

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BOSTON Hey, isnt it time all these so-called conservatives down in the red states actually started standing on their own two feet?

Were not trying to be mean. But, you know: Tough love.

A new report from WalletHub confirms what we already suspected: The states that depend the most on big gubmint are also the states that are are always whining the most about big gubmint.

And, wouldnt you know it, one of the worst offenders is Kentucky the state represented in the Senate by Majority Leader Mitch McConnell, a Republican.

How about that? Do you think hes going to mention it any time soon?

Kentucky ranks fifth in terms of overall dependence on government, WalletHub determined using data on federal spending in each state, the share of households on welfare, the number of government workers and the total tax burden as a share of income.. No. 1 was Mississippi no surprises there followed by Alaska.

Conservative red states of the south and west make up eight of the 10 states with the highest dependency on government, and 19 of the top 25.

Oops.

Yes, isnt it time to roll back government spending? You show us the way, West Virginia . And you, Arizona and South Carolina .

Lets crack down on all those Cadillac queens. Except it turns out the real offenders are the Pickup princes in the South and West.

Quiz: Let Us Predict Whether Youre A Democrat Or A Republican

Tell us a few details about you and well guess which political party you belong to. It shouldnt be that simple, right? Were all complex people with a multiplicity of identities and values. But the reality is that in America today, how you answer a handful of questions is very likely to determine how you vote.

This quiz, based on recent surveys with more than 140,000 responses, presents a series of yes-or-no questions to predict whether someone is more likely to identify as a Democrat or a Republican. It captures divisions that should make you worried about the future of American democracy.

We wont collect your answers.

The first question is the most important: Its about race. Asking whether someone is black, Hispanic or Asian cleaves the electorate into two groups. Those who answer yes lean Democratic; the others are split roughly evenly between the parties. Among those who are not black, Hispanic or Asian , the second most important question is whether the person considers religion important. If they answer yes, they are probably Republican.

Its not just race and religion, though. Party allegiances are now also tied to education, gender and age. Americans have sorted themselves more completely and rigidly than any time in recent history.

How demographics predict party affiliation

The group most likely to be Democrats are black women older than about 30.

Meeting in the Middle

Reliable Republicans

Taking The Perspective Of Others Proved To Be Really Hard

The divide in the United States is wide, and one indication of that is how difficult our question proved for many thoughtful citizens. A 77-year-old Republican woman from Pennsylvania was typical of the voters who struggled with this question, telling us, This is really hard for me to even try to think like a devilcrat!, I am sorry but I in all honesty cannot answer this question. I cannot even wrap my mind around any reason they would be good for this country.

Similarly, a 53-year-old Republican from Virginia said, I honestly cannot even pretend to be a Democrat and try to come up with anything positive at all, but, I guess they would vote Democrat because they are illegal immigrants and they are promised many benefits to voting for that party. Also, just to follow what others are doing. And third would be just because they hate Trump so much. The picture she paints of the typical Democratic voter being an immigrant, who goes along with their party or simply hates Trump will seem like a strange caricature to most Democratic voters. But her answer seems to lack the animus of many.  

Democrats struggled just as much as Republicans. A 33-year-old woman from California told said, i really am going to have a hard time doing this but then offered that Republicans are morally right as in values, going to protect us from terrorest and immigrants, going to create jobs.

How To Explain The Difference Between Republicans And Democrats

Politics are confusing, even for adults. This years political cycle is even more confusing than most.  Anything that confuses and parents is sure to raise questions in children.

As the primaries roll on, many children are asking questions about the two major political parties and what all the arguing means.  This years political cycle is more emotionally charged than most.  Those emotions can make it difficult for parents to fairly explain political differences to children.  Goodness knows, as an avid sports fan, I could not objectively describe the rivalry between the New York Yankees and the Boston Red Sox.

The Philosophy Behind Democratic Economic Policy

Democrats gear their economic policies to benefit low-income and middle-income families. They argue that reducing income inequality is the best way to foster economic growth. Low-income families are more likely to spend any extra money on necessities instead of saving or investing it. That directly increases demand and spurs economic growth. Democrats also support a Keynesian economic theory, which says that the government should spend its way out of a recession.

One dollar spent on increased food stamp benefits generates $1.73 in economic output.

President Franklin D. Roosevelt first outlined the Economic Bill of Rights in his 1944 State of the Union address. It included taxes on war profiteering and price controls on food costs. President Harry Trumans 1949 Fair Deal proposed an increase in the minimum wage, civil rights legislation, and national health care. President Barack Obama expanded Medicaid with the 2010 Affordable Care Act.

Congress Net Worth Demographic

One way to look at the question of who is richer between republicans and democrats is to examine the people representing us in Congress.

The net worth of a democratic senator in 2011 was $13.5 million, compared to a net worth of just under $7 million for Republicans. Interestingly, Democratic senators have on average twice the net worth of a Republican senator!

The story is a little different in the House Of Representatives, where the average net worth of Democrats is $5.7 million opposed to $7.6 million for Republican representatives.

Think Republicans Are Disconnected From Reality Its Even Worse Among Liberals

A new survey found Democrats live with less political diversity despite being more tolerant of it with startling results

In a surprising new national survey, members of each major American political party were asked what they imagined to be the beliefs held by members of the other. The survey asked Democrats: How many Republicans believe that racism is still a problem in America today? Democrats guessed 50%. Its actually 79%. The survey asked Republicans how many Democrats believe most police are bad people. Republicans estimated half; its really 15%.

The survey, published by the thinktank More in Common as part of its Hidden Tribes of America project, was based on a sample of more than 2,000 people. One of the studys findings: the wilder a persons guess as to what the other party is thinking, the more likely they are to also personally disparage members of the opposite party as mean, selfish or bad. Not only do the two parties diverge on a great many issues, they also disagree on what they disagree on.

This effect, the report says, is so strong that Democrats without a high school diploma are three times more accurate than those with a postgraduate degree. And the more politically engaged a person is, the greater the distortion.

A coalition of college Republican clubs recently endorsed a tax on carbon pollution.

[visions-skam]

CHAPTER 5

monday, october 30 DNA-kendrick lamar The last bell trilled throughout Beacon Hills High School, signifying the end of the school day. An overly cheery office secretary recited announcements over the intercom system. Elias shoved his papers and books into his bookbag and strode out of the classroom. He pushed his way through throngs of other students in the hallway and made his way to his locker. He grabbed his lacrosse bag and went to the locker room to get ready for practice. Today wasn’t the first practice of the year, but it was Elias’ first practice since the wolf bite. Since Friday, he’d barely been able to think about anything else. That night, two impossible things had happened. Two things that should’ve never been able to happen. Except they did happen. To him. Elias spotted Yousef as soon as he entered. They both wanted to talk about Friday night, but the locker room was filling up. The boys settled for a weighted look and prepared for practice in comfortable silence. Karl ambled into the locker room with his friends. They were late, as usual. His hair was mussed and his neck was dotted with crimson bruises. Karl lazily spun the combination of his locker and dressed while cracking jokes about the girl he’d presumably been making out with ten minutes ago. “She was kinda cute, but she has no tits. Like, flat as a board.” Karl’s posse laughed. Yousef grimaced, but Elias was lost in thought and didn’t hear. “...but what about that Muslim chick, though?” One of Karl’s friends yelled to him from across the room. “She’s hot.” Karl glanced at Yousef and Elias and smirked. Yousef gritted his teeth. “Yeah, man. Problem is, the bitch hates me. Won’t even give me the time of day. Not to mention, her little terrorist friends come running every time I try to talk to her.” At this, Yousef flinched. He glared at Karl. “Sana doesn’t want you, Karl,” he said tightly. “Keep your ignorant comments to yourself.” The room fell silent. Elias and Yousef were both scowling now. Karl let out a strained laugh. “Hey, man, calm down. I wasn’t talking to you. Mind your own business.” His cronies straightened up, preparing for an altercation. Yousef took a step closer to Karl. Elias was right behind him. “If you’re talking about Sana,” Yousef asserted, “it is my business.” Karl impulsively reeled back to hit him, but the wooden door swung open and the coach entered. He retracted his fist and laughed nervously. “Man, whatever,” he mumbled. _

“Alright guys, split into teams. We’re gonna wrap it up today with a practice scrimmage,” yelled Coach Whittaker. They’d spent the last hour and a half running laps and doing drills. Everyone on the team was exhausted except for Elias. He was brimming with energy. The team members parted and got into place. Elias and Karl were left standing in the center of the field, meaning they would start the game. They reluctantly faced each other and knelt to the ground. The coach reminded them of the most important plays and then blew his whistle. The two boys struggled for control of the ball. Elias prevailed and grinned cockily; Karl swore in response. Elias ran toward the goal, his gait infused with vigor. He spotted a player named Mikael and pitched the ball to him. Mikael caught it in the net of his stick and raced down the field. He angled toward the net and shot the ball, but the goaltender blocked it. The scrimmage went on for almost a half hour. Karl’s team had just made a goal, putting them one point over the top. Although it wasn’t a real game, Elias’ competitive spirit flared. Karl’s team can’t win, he thought. Not after what he said about Sana. I can’t give him even this little victory. Yousef and Jacob faced off in the center of the field. Jacob, who was on Karl’s team, gained control of the ball and passed it to another player. Eventually, Karl got it and began to aim for the opposing team’s goal. Elias rushed toward him, attempting to block his shot. Instead of trying to make the goal from afar, Karl ran closer to him. The two met in a deadlock, each vying for command of the ball. Karl shoved forward. “Come on, man, give it up. Give me the damn ball.” Elias pushed back. His eyes flashed a brilliant shade of amber. He growled, exposing long, sharp teeth. Karl froze. Fear briefly crossed his face; the expression was soon replaced by a menacing one. “What the fuck are you doing, freak?” he asked through gritted teeth. “Trying to use your terrorist voodoo to scare me off? Well, it’s not going to work.” Elias opened his mouth to shoot back a sarcastic reply, but something in the distance caught his eye. A man stood in the woods bordering one side of the field. He was partially hidden by vegetation, but Elias recognized him as the human the wolf had become on Friday night. Elias went slack. Karl jumped on the ball and pitched it to the net, scoring the winning point for his team. They huddled together on the perimeter of the green. Karl lifted his fist in victory. Elias, though, was petrified on the field. Upon closer inspection, Elias realized he was a lot younger than he’d initially through, probably only a few years older than himself. He looked vaguely familiar. I know I’ve seen him somewhere before Friday night, Elias deduced. Elias stared for what felt like forever until the man noticed him. They held eye contact for a moment, and then the young man retreated into the forest. Yousef noticed his friend standing shock-still on the green expanse. He moved to approach him, but an eerie feeling settled over him, as if warning him to keep his distance. He shrugged his shoulders and re-entered the locker room with the rest of the team.

_

Elias showered and retrieved his lacrosse bag. Rather than ride home with Yousef, Elias chose to walk home from lacrosse practice that evening. He needed the time to think. As he walked, the wolf’s howls filled his head. When he arrived home, his sister was locked in her bedroom, most likely overwhelmed with thoughts of her own. He tossed his sweaty clothes in the dryer and shuffled to his bedroom. After doing homework for a half hour (nowhere near long enough), Elias flopped down on his bed. He stared at the ceiling fan. Its low electric whine lulled him into a sense of tranquility that he was grateful for, no matter how false or fleeting. He was mesmerized by the rotation and counted hundreds of revolutions. Eventually, images of Laila and the guy he’d seen at practice somersaulted back and forth in his mind. Laila was so cool. Why did she leave so suddenly? I’ll have to ask Sana for her number. How did that wolf bite heal so quickly? Why didn’t the thing kill me? And most importantly, why did it turn into a guy that I’ve seen before? Elias had barely had time to process the events of Friday night; now everything that’d happened was flooding back into his brain. He rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t handle this. He needed to talk to someone. He fished his cell phone from his pocket and texted his best friend and his sister. elias: meet me at the green leaf at 7:00. it’s important.

notes:  i don't know if anyone has been really keeping up with this story, but if so, sorry for the super late and short update! i've had a crazy hectic week. please like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed the chapter!

[antlerscolorado]

chapter 8, part 1

“What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord, Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff That beetles o'er his base into the sea, And there assume some other horrible form, Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason And draw you into madness? think of it: The very place puts toys of desperation, Without more motive, into every brain That looks so many fathoms to the sea And hears it roar beneath.”                                                                            - Horatio, Hamlet

The Jones house feels somehow bigger than Austin remembers it. Maybe it’s from not seeing it for so long, or maybe it’s from living in a cramped apartment with two other humans and five ghosts, but having more than enough room to breathe is almost unnerving. Austin tries not to think too hard about it - he feels jetlagged, even though he drove to Havenwood, and only about twelve hours a day before stopping to rest. Hell, he didn’t even do any of the driving himself. But his mind is scrambled, a combination of anxiety over Jacob and the strange, disjointed feeling of being back in a town he didn’t think he’d see again this soon.

Austin carefully unlaces his boots and leaves them next to the door. It’s warm in Havenwood - not as warm as it was in Antlers, but August humidity is still thick in the air. Hopefully some of his clothes are still up in his old room, and not in storage. He didn’t exactly have time to pack for this trip, and even if he had, Hall and Oates and Jenny were already peeling out of the neighborhood as soon as he’d stepped out of the car.

Nothing’s changed, Austin thinks to himself, climbing the stairs to the second floor landing. His room is the closest to the stairwell, unlocked, and nearly untouched from the day he left. He and Jacob had only settled in to the Jones house once Jacob had turned eighteen, once they’d stopped living with the Hart family, but Austin’s room looks like he’s lived in it all his life. It somehow feels more his than the bedroom he shares with Otter - the band posters tacked lopsidedly on the walls, the closet overflowing with clothes he’d missed, then forgotten.

Being back here feels like being in a dream. Austin touches the door frame to ground himself, remind himself that he really is here, in Havenwood, and crosses the room to his closet. He picks out clothes almost at random, not allowing himself to think about what will fit and what won’t. He wants to visit Jacob, and soon, but first he has to wash off all the sweat and get his head on straight.

Austin strips down, laying his clean clothes out on the bed and ducking out into the hall to grab a towel from the linen closet. The biggest bathroom in the house is diagonally across from his bedroom. It’s fitted with both a large bathtub and a glass-enclosed shower - Austin picks the shower, standing just outside the door as he twists it on, waiting for the water to get hot before he steps in.

There’s a sudden, muffled, slamming noise that he initially thinks is the pipes, before realizing that it’s the sound of a door being shut. Austin tenses, holding his towel tight around his waist. No one else should be here. Jacob’s still in the hospital, and Auggie’s out on a mission - well, as far as I know. Even if he’s not, he lives in the guest house. Did I lock the front door when I came in?

He can’t tell if the steady, throbbing sound in his ears is the sound of someone climbing the stairs to the second floor, or the sound of his own heartbeat. Austin swallows, his mouth suddenly dry.

“Hello?” he calls.

No one answers. Austin inches towards the door, scanning the bathroom countertop for anything even remotely useful as a weapon. It’s slim pickings. He settles for a hairbrush with a handle that looks relatively sharp, holding it like a stake in his hand.

“Hello?” he asks again, standing against the wall just slightly to the left of the door. It should give him the jump on anyone who opens it, let him get an attack in before they realize where he’s lying in wait.

“Austin?” a voice, vaguely recognizable, asks from the hallway. “Is that you?”

Austin hesitates, his grip on the hairbrush loosening. “Cillian?”

“Yes,” the voice affirms. “I came to see if you were home yet - are you in the shower? I can come back…”

Austin relaxes, realizing his jaw has been clenched painfully tight in anticipation. He slides the hairbrush back onto the counter, lets his towel fall onto the floor, and steps quickly into the shower. Probably best not to let Cillian know he could have mistakenly lost an eye to a hairbrush handle.

“Yeah, I’m in here,” Austin says, raising his voice to be heard over the shower. He feels instantly more relaxed with the hot water raining down on his skin, plastering his hair down to his scalp. “You can come in if you want.”

“Are you sure?” Cillian asks.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t want to, ah, overstep boundaries,” Cillian says, sounding slightly closer than before, probably just outside the door. His voice is deeper than Austin remembers it - not entirely unexpected, given that he had only started hormone replacement therapy a year or two before Austin left home. “I can come back later when you’re not -”

“Cillian,” Austin says, “you’ve known me since I was, like, a baby. I’m pretty sure we’re past the point of overstepping boundaries.”

The doorknob of the bathroom audibly jiggles in its socket. Austin watches through the frosted glass of the shower door as the door opens just enough for Cillian to slip inside, then close it again behind him. Even with the low visibility, Cillian looks similar to how Austin remembers him, tall and pale with short, neatly-cropped, coppery red hair. His body language reads extremely anxious, and he turns away from the shower, facing off towards the bathtub.

“How’s Jacob?” Austin asks.

“Good. Conscious.” There’s a note in obvious relief in Cillian’s voice that Austin can empathize with. “He should be cleared to come home in a day or two, though I’m not completely sure that home is the safest place for him to be.”

“What do you mean?”

Cillian makes a strained noise. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather Jacob tell you himself?”

“I don’t really care who I hear the news from.” Austin grabs a bottle of shampoo from the shower rack and starts lathering it into his hair, closing his eyes and massaging his scalp with his fingers. “Did you figure out who stabbed him?”

“We didn’t ‘figure it out’. He made himself known to Jacob. Twice.”

“So why haven’t you caught the bastard already?” Austin asks, ducking back into the stream of water to rinse out his hair.

“We don’t know where he is,” Cillian says. He sounds apologetic - embarrassed, almost.

“And you want my help.”

“Personally, I think you’re a little close to the case, and I didn’t exactly expect you to hitch a ride with a group of mercenaries as soon as you heard Jacob had been stabbed,” Cillian says, spitting out “mercenaries” like it’s a dirty word. “But Jacob wants me to put you on the case.”

Austin pauses. “Because he’s hoping I’ll stay when I’m done?”

“Because he knows you’ll be absolutely insufferable if we don’t let you help,” Cillian says dryly. “Among other reasons.”

“He’s right.” Austin laughs, getting a mouthful of soapy water, and spitting it out. “So, who are we tracking down?”

“Abbott Kilgannon,” Cillian says. The name rings a bell - Austin remembers hearing it mentioned in passing, but can’t recall any specific context. “He was a scientist who worked at the Department for several years, but was fired by your father in 1980. He dropped off the map after that, but Jacob found him teaching science at a college out of state and re-hired him -”

“Why?” Austin blurts out. Hiring a guy who Richard fired back in the day? That sounds beyond ill-advised.

“We were short-handed,” Cillian says sheepishly. “Jacob contacted a lot of former employees about resuming their jobs at the Department. And Abbott used to be the best of the best. Unfortunately, the more unsavory part of his records were sealed by the president who took over after your father’s death, until Jacob came of age to run the Department. Only Jacob can access those records, and, well, he’s hospitalized.”

“So what can I do about that?” Austin asks, reaching for a bottle of body wash. God, if he asks me to take over as acting president -

“Do you still talk to your father?” Cillian asks, a little tentatively, like he’s not sure if he’s broaching a sore subject or not.

“Richard? Sure.” Austin pours a generous amount of body wash into his hands and rubs them together. He hasn’t seen Richard for more than ten minutes at a time since leaving Antlers - it was hard to talk to him in front of Jenny and Hall and Oates without feeling completely crazy. But Richard knows what’s up vis-a-vis Jacob’s stabbing, and no doubt is here in the house somewhere, waiting for Cillian to leave and Austin to get dressed and head out for the hospital.

“Good,” Cillian says. He takes a deep breath, and Austin can see him lean heavily against the counter. “I need you to ask him why he fired Abbott.”

intermission: thanks for your time || 8.2

[notsdlifter]

Kill Hollows: Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE:

BHA-AAB

Robert Warrington’s Journal

Token-Oak, Winter of 1991

10,562 days before the Syndemic

________________________________________

When I say my grandma knew the apocalypse was coming, I don’t mean it in a general sense. She didn’t just foreshadow dark times on the horizon. I believe she saw what was happening: the burning cities, the collapse of agriculture, and corpses along the interstate piled like trash at a landfill. She felt it, too: The intense pressure of knowing ate at her heart and eventually killed her. The incredible weight of this bleak future smothered her before she could adequately warn anyone but me.

She died on a Tuesday right after the wheat harvest. Even in death, the family would say, she accommodated my grandfather's schedule. Grandma planned her own passing—thou the doctors said the aneurysm was a fluke—right down to what she wore to the hospital. One day, Gramps came home from the farm and found her on the sunflower linoleum in the kitchen convulsing. Yet she packed a bag, stashed a week’s worth of leftovers in the fridge, and paid the bills a month in advance. Grandma was spooky like that. She had the foresight of a Cajun mystic.

Grandma had these great big eyes, but she rarely opened them more than a squint. She hid them behind reading frames she bought in the plastic turnstile at the local IGA Supermarket. With her head tilted and her reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose, she dug into people with those eyes. She had this way of looking into a person, right inside their thoughts, like she was vetting them for trustworthiness suitable enough to be her confidant. Few met her standards.

Grandma was a collector, like many women from small towns, she had a “power animal.” She bought cookie jars, bric-a-brac, and mawkish paintings of her “power animal” that personified her best. For my grandma, it was owls: spooky ass, head-turning-180-degree-Exorcist-style, big-eyed, predatory, nocturnal, clawed, and sharp-beaked owls. The damned things filled her home, lurking in every nook, following you with their eyes. I saw my grandma in all those owls.

Grandma loved to scare little kids. Scare them in a way that was simultaneously welcoming and bone-chilling. Over a plate of fresh-baked cookies—chocolate chip that were puffy, crunchy on the outside, yet doughy in the middle—she'd offer you her “insights” of the world. The cookies lowered your guard and the way she spoke really sucked you in, always in a gentle coo. “You know, Bob, those black spots on BBQ chips? Those are boogers from people that work at the factory.” Or, ever so subtly, “I once filled a glass dish with Coke and submerged a metal spoon in it and left it overnight. In the morning, the spoon was gone … completely dissolved. Now, Bob, imagine what that stuff does to your stomach overnight? Have you been checking your poop for blood?” And, let's not forget her stories about chocolate, “that stuff is made from the coco plant, you know, that’s where the 'cho' comes from. Well, the plant is used to manufacture illegal narcotics. A little white powder called CHOcaine. There is something in the plant that pulls people in. Changes their brain. Every bit of ‘Cho’ you ingest is a step closer to being a drug addict when you’re older. A step closer to sleeping in gutters, having no teeth, and never wiping your ass with toilet paper. So, enjoy that Butterfinger, Bob, enjoy it real… slow.”

Yeah, I loved my grandma. Even though she was mean and wrong about a lot of things. I remember her stories because she conveyed them with a quiet passion. She was the only woman I ever met that could scare me to death and make me feel loved unconditionally at the same time.

Grandma grew up in the town of Token-Oak and stayed there her whole life. A town named for the prevalence of thousand-year-old oaks. In its heyday, Token-Oak was a Midwestern postcard town, picturesque in a Norman Rockwell kind of way. In the fall, the foliage from the deep-rooted oaks provided a pallet of Autumn colors so brilliant and varied that people would pull over on the interstate to take family photos with the hills in the background. In recent years, however, the oaks suffered a debilitating disease causing their leaves to fall. These hulking relics stand all over the town leafless and dying, their twisting fingers reaching out into space.

Before things went to hell, townsfolk talked about Token-Oak like a distant relative that once had a multimillion-dollar empire. They never mentioned that the relative spent the fortune on whores and coke only to wind up penniless and using the daily paper as a blanket. Token-Oakeans bragged on the oil booms and the new interstate and the influx of traffic as “progress.” They never mentioned the meth labs, violence, and the strange detachment that permeated the town. No one ever discussed the dark underbelly of Token-Oak, no one except my grandma.

Grandma and this will sound crazy, could predict future events. Perhaps not the exact time or outcome, but she could see the future. Frankly, all grandmothers possess this gift in varying degrees of intensity. Most grandmothers can look at a young man and tell you with surprising accuracy if a kid will be a success in life. In a moderately advanced form, some grandmothers can predict the downfall of a kid, but the advanced ones, women like my grandmother, could predict success, downfall, and the immediate steps necessary to correct the downward spiral. Grandma had the trifecta, the holy trinity, of grandmotherly prognostication.

Grandma knew where I was headed a long time before I got there. She warned me, and my life happened precisely like she said it would. You see, I was what many considered a smart kid, but one that was intensely troubled by emotions. Back in the Eighties, parents didn't throw around psychobabble. Today, I probably would have landed somewhere on the spectrum. In 1986, I was just a fucked-up little kid struggling through life.

Life was one hell of a struggle.

My dad overdosed when I was six. My mom, my brother—his name was Jacob—and I walked into our trailer on a Friday night after going to the County Fair. Dad was laying on the dirty carpet next to the couch. He had this white froth around his mouth, and one of his eyes was rolled back in his head. In his left hand, he held a hypodermic needle. Mom dropped me in the doorway and released a milk-curdling scream. Jacob and I just stood there, in the living room, looking at Dad.

The whole trailer park was around our house for hours. The cops took Dad away in a black sack and combed through the house looking for more drugs. They took buckets and bottles and dirty tubing out of our back room. Pretty much anything that could be used to make meth.

There was one thing that the cops missed. A few days later, I found a spoon under the couch. The backside was burnt black. The neck of the spoon was wrapped with electrical tape. The bowl of the spoon had a white film, and a piece of cotton singed to it, but it still shined. I’d lay on my twin mattress at the far end of the trailer and look at my upside-down reflection in the concave of that spoon for hours.

My mom caught me with it weeks later. “Where did you get this?” she said in a voice that was somehow a desperate plea and a rage-filled question. I told her that I found it under the couch, “underneath my dad.” And Mom cried so long I thought she might have died. But she left me with that dirty spoon.

The next day, Mom went to buy milk at the gas station. A semi-truck hit her car over the bridge by the tire plant. The driver that hit her was so high on meth that he never let off the gas. The roaring engine of the Freightliner slammed her Datsun hatchback over the guardrail and into the icy water of the Smoky River fifty feet below.

In a three-week span, I lost both my parents to drugs. That period changed my life, as you might imagine. Jacob and I went to live with our grandparents. It only took the better part of a week to figure out it was an arrangement that was doomed to fail. Grandma was always watching me, always warning that I couldn’t let my past ruin my life. “You drew a rough hand,” she’d say, “but you have to persevere. Use this pain, don’t let it use you.” She was always telling me to “put my suffering to work,” like it was a fucking mule that could till a field. She watched me with those huge eyes, like a predatory bird.

I still remember every detail of the afternoon Grandma warned me about the future. And that was decades ago. I was at her house on a chilly October afternoon around my birthday. I was shooting hoops with Jacob just before dinner. We had just finished watching the movie Hoosiers. Oh man, we loved to watch movies back then. The final scene was so inspiring to Jacob and me that we ran outside to impersonate the movie protagonist, Jimmy Chitwood. Hoosiers meant a lot to Caucasian farm kids in the Midwest. A good jump shot combined with “fundamentals and defense”—and a shitload of freckles—was all it took for your name to be whispered among the wheat stubble for all-time. It was all polished wood and step back jumpers against rowdy-ass opponents. They balled hard in Hoosiers, like the NBA in the early ‘90s, it was football in shorts.

I was ten years old back then. Jacob was twelve.

Jacob and I were adopted by our grandparents late in life. Both were well into their fifties, long past the age when they had the energy to deal with his shit. Jacob’s life was a cycle in three repeating patterns: (1) he received little attention, so he did something vicious; (2) he received a beating for his actions that made him worse, and the grandparents felt guilty; and (3) then they showered him with toys and freedom. Jacob was raised by television, and he returned to this well of knowledge again and again. He saw the world through a prism of movie montages and climactic scenes. In this cycle, Jacob developed an innate fixation for creating fear and causing pain. Even at twelve, he was growing into a “special” kid.

We were playing a game of one-on-one on Grandma's driveway. The rotted plywood hoop was just above the garage door. I was smoking Jacob pretty good. He was older, taller, and had the lanky frame of a b-baller but lacked athletic ability. I stole the ball from him regularly, and that really pissed him off.

“Bha-aaaaaaaab,” Jacob would say in this voice that drew out the vowels like a bone saw. It was a portmanteau word of my nickname and the sound that Jacob said I made when he hit me. There was something about that way Jacob said it, in this sotto voce hiss that was so full of sarcasm and hate: “Bha-aaaaaaab, don’t be a bitch.” Every time I showed weakness: “Bha-aaab.” If I displayed any awkwardness in a social setting: “Bha-aaab.” If I was too affectionate with my family pet: “Bha-aaaab.” If I flinched when he was about to hit me: “Bha-aaab.” That name, said in that voice, came to epitomize everything I hated about myself. It was as if all my adolescent self-reproach came to life when Jacob hissed that name.

Jacob had this weird thing about movies. He’d see it, and he’d do it. Sometimes, when a pivotal scene came on, I’d look over at him, and his face alone was worth the price of admission. His eyes wide, one eyebrow raised in curiosity, and mouth agape in utter fascination. He studied movie characters: their mannerisms, vocabulary, intonation, and style of dress. He lost himself inside that tubed box like no one I’d ever seen before or since. Then he’d head out into the world and imitate. Art became life. Fantasy became a reality. For Jacob, there was never a wall separating make-believe. It was like he existed in this alternate universe that mixed make-believe and real life like fuel and air into a jet engine. He soared into the deep recesses of the back of his mind.

The game, just like in the movie, degenerated into jail ball. It was all hip checks, and awkward curse words dropped by kids who didn't fully understand their meaning. "Nice shot, you damn gigolo" and "you play like you got a tampon in your ass."

Grandma was doing dishes in the kitchen and watching us through translucent curtains. The kitchen window was just up the stairs and overlooked the driveway basketball court. She often sat up there like a silent observer in a booth. I saw her silhouette every time I looked up. One time, I took the ball along the edge of the driveway towards the hoop and Jacob body-checked me into the garage door. The collision made a tremendous noise. Springs, plywood, and metal wheels erupted like a raucous crowd. I hit the pavement cursing up a storm. "What the balls was that, you fucking boot-licking gypsy?!"

I heard Grandma's swollen knuckles and skinny fingers wrapping on the window pane. Thomp, Thomp, THOMP! The curtains flew open, and we both saw her scowling down. She had wild eyes that trembled, though the rest of her stood motionless. I could see the air molecules around her head vibrating with energy. Her lips were pursed so tight they could cut through the metal of a spoon. It was a look developed through decades of parenting rowdy kids. It was her own version of the machine kill switch. Flip it, and everything comes to a complete stop.

At least for a while. The thin curtains slowly closed, and Jacob and I started playing again. A shot here. A few dribbles there. I grabbed the ball from Jacob and held it behind me while leaning forward. Both of Jacob’s palms faced toward me, his eyes on fire with rage. He looked like a mime performing the trapped-in-a-box routine.

Then we heard some sounds from the end of the driveway. It was the unmistakable clanging of empty gas bottles and the rattle of wrenches against the bed of Grandpa’s pickup truck. There was a nasal whine, a seething breath. Whatever it was, it sounded rushed.

I sat the ball down on the pavement and Jacob, and I tiptoed towards the truck.

A man was standing at the tailgate. His head down and his arms furiously rifled through the truck bed. He wore a beanie pulled down to the tips of his eyes. Open scabs dripped blood from his unshaven neck. The skin on his face sagged in loose pouches. His mouth was open, and his lips curled back on his teeth. His black, infected gums puffed outward. There was a filth to him, a layer of grime that indicated he hadn’t washed in a long while, maybe months. He wore the clothes of a younger person, but he looked like a haggard old man.

The man grabbed a canister of gas, removed the lid, and dumped out the contents. Gasoline vapors filled the air. Gramps had a 100-gallon tank bolted to the bed of his truck that he filled with anhydrous ammonia, a fertilizer that he used during the growing season. The man grabbed the spigot of anhydrous and twisted it open. The repugnant stench of anhydrous overpowered the gasoline. Jacob and I were fifteen feet away, but even from that distance, the fumes burned my eyes and ignited a burn in my throat. The man coughed and growled through the caustic stench as saliva drizzled from his black gums.

The man wore fingerless gloves. He spilled some of the anhydrous on his skin and yanked a hand away, shaking. The caustic liquid ate away at his exposed flesh, but he did not let go of the hose and stood there until the gas-can was full of anhydrous. His eyes squinted hard as he held the can under the spigot. I could smell his flesh burning.

Whenever Grandpa handled the anhydrous, he wore thick rubber gloves and a respirator. Jacob and I must have had eyes as wide as saucers.

When he was finished with the can, he looked up and saw Jacob and me. A loud inhale turned into an animalistic hiss. He was clenching his teeth so hard that his jaw shook. There was a twitch inside him that crawled up from his waist and snarled up his back. His arms and head bobbed and contorted in inexplicable patterns. His eyes swam in their sockets as he tried to focus on us. He had the body of a man, but there was something very inhuman about him. He took heavy and irregular breaths, punctuated by desperate gasps of air. It was like he was fighting inside himself just to live.

He turned away from us as if he heard a sound in the distance. He broke into a run. His limbs stammering and shaking in a disjointed, yet frantic, gallop. He hit the end of the street—two hundred feet—in less than five seconds. The canister of ammonia sloshed caustic liquid in his wake. As he turned into the alley at the end of the street, another figure met him and then a third. They grouped together and disappeared over a dog-eared fence. We watched them run across the railroad tracks and sprint into the grass field by McClintock’s Tree Farm.

“What was he doing?” I said, looking up at Jacob. And Jacob had the TV face. His mouth was open, and his head was tilted to one side. His unblinking eyes watched the men disappear over the fence. “Jacob,” I said as I reached out to touch him.

Jacob’s trance disappeared, and he blinked slow. He turned his head and looked down at me. “He needed that stuff to take back to the Hollows… the anhydrous,” Jacob said.

“What was wrong with him?”

Jacob shrugged and looked back at the fence where the man disappeared. “I don’t know. Did you hear that fucker breathe? Sounded like a dying cow,” Jacob said. And he swiped the ball from me and turned towards the basket.

When we turned, Grandma was standing there holding a double-barreled Winchester. The gun was cracked open, and two fresh shells were resting inside the break action. The brass circles of the shells sparkled in the October sunshine. She stood for a long while intensely watching the men disappear into the tall-grass field.

She grabbed me by the neck and pulled me toward the driveway. I fell, and she kept pulling.

Once we were near the basketball hoop at the far end of the driveway, she let go: “If you were standing at the end of that tailgate, he would have killed you both. If you ever—ever! —see a person like that, you run. You get inside the house and lock the doors. There are things in this town, bad things. And don’t you think for a minute that just because you’re a kid, that thing wouldn’t open you up from belly button to Adam’s apple.”

Grandma took a long breath. She brought her hand to cover her eyes and let out a wobbly exhale. Grandma took me up and hugged me so hard I thought she broke my ribs.

“Why was he breathing like that?” Jacob asked.

Grandma looked back down the drive for a long while. She covered the sun from her eyes as she scanned the fences in the neighborhood. Then she looked at Jacob and I and shook her head. “He breathes like that because he’s dying. Been slowly dying for a long time. And one of these days, this whole damn town will be full of people like that.”

Grandma pulled the shells from the Winchester and snapped it shut. She slipped the shells in her coat pocket. She looked around and disappeared inside.

Grandma was a woman of idiosyncrasies. She had rules—live or die rules—that she never broke. She wouldn’t leave the house at night for any reason. She loved her two Alaskan Huskies, and listened to them like they were people. Responding to each one of their barks while in the house by looking out the shutters to inspect the neighborhood. There was a suspicious side to her, especially people in authority or control. I once saw her bolt from the Token-Oak hospital when a doctor tried to take her blood pressure. “I don’t trust him, and neither should you,” was all she ever said. It was like she expected the worst in people and searched for it everywhere. For a gregarious kid like me, that coldness was often grating. I could tell that beneath all Grandma’s issues, she loved us furiously.

Grandma and I butted heads like two rams on a mountain. She tried to keep me contained, and I was always busting out. She would correct me, and I’d fly off course. It was the ebb and flow of our dynamic.

After Grandma was inside, Jacob looked over at me. “Did you hear that shit? She is losing it,” Jacob said in a wobbly, effeminate voice, “the town will be full of people like that,” as he imitated Grandma standing with the Winchester. “She needs to be in a place for crazy people.”

After a while, Jacob and I were back to jail ball. Within minutes, I caught an elbow to the face and hit the pavement. I sprung up spraying profanities like a yard spreader. The curtains flew open, Grandma was standing in a dark kitchen. A vision of utter rage, she glared down upon us like the demon in Fantasia’s Night on Bald Mountain.

I was scared, but my anger outweighed my fear. What Jacob did was wrong, he was always wrong. I knew that she saw him, and yet she just stared. Grandma always cut him slack.

I waited until the curtain closed. Then it happened, the middle finger on my right hand extended and my arm shot up until my elbow straightened. Boom. There it was. I flipped my grandma off for only a split second. Turns out, that split second was enough.

Even Jacob, the twelve-year-old sadist, knew I’d made a tremendous mistake.

"You’re a dumbass,” Jacob said, “she saw that.”

“Whatever,” I said, holding the ball with both hands while leaning over.

I dismissed the thought and continued the game. Jacob began a new tactic, utterly uncharacteristic. He played softly, no longer pushing me around. It was like he wanted the game to end, just to see what would happen next. After five minutes of disinterested ball, we were done.

Jacob and I kicked our shoes off at the back door of Grandma’s house and stomped up the kitchen stairs. Grandma was standing at the sink and washing a set of dishes. Her back was facing me, and she did not offer her usual greeting.

I palmed the handle on the fridge door, yanking it open. A half-full container of cherry Kool-Aid was sitting on the top shelf whispering my name. I stood in the middle of the kitchen pouring the chilled, cherry goodness into a jelly jar. Grandma's back was toward me, her hunched shoulders wiggling as she scrubbed a pot in the sink. Jacob stood at the stove in between us. He had a subtle smile as he watched me.

As I took a drink of the cherry liquid, Jacob was the first to speak.

Jacob said, “Bob bent the garage door.”

This was such typical Jacob. His goal in life was to get people to lose it. He was gifted at this skill, like an aikido master throwing an attacking opponent off balance, Jacob knew just where, and how, to press. He kept memories of unhinged emotional responses in his mind like a running back keeps the game ball from a three-hundred-yard game.

"That's bullsh . . ." I said reflexively, only to be interrupted mid-profanity by Grandma's hand. She wheeled from the sink, flattened her palm, and threw a cat-quick right cross. It left the side of my face smashing my cheeks into my molars. All of this occurred in three-tenths of a second. Sometimes, life happens in a flash, but you remember it in excruciatingly slow detail. The way her fingers smashed the fatness of my cheek. How my lips curled as she followed through. The spinning jelly jar full of cherry Kool-Aid. Most of all, though, I remember the crime scene afterward.

Red Kool-Aid splattered all around the kitchen, in patterns so intricate that Jackson Pollock would've been jealous. The sunflower linoleum floor, the finger paintings hanging by magnets on the fridge, even the bubble screen on Grandma’s 9" kitchen TV were covered in the pitter-patter Kool-Aid splatter. The red stuff was everywhere, a fine mist of blood like someone’s head had exploded. I laid on the linoleum floor looking up at Grandma.

“It was Jacob… he did it,” I whimpered from the floor as I pointed at Jacob.

She towered over me with her right hand still cocked. Bending down, she calmed herself, and said the unforgettable words, “You can’t control yourself. It’s always someone else’s fault. And by the time you figure it out, I'll be dead."

Then Grandma leaned down and grabbed me by the collar of my T-shirt, pulled me closer, and said in a hissing whisper, “there is going to come a time, after I am dead when you’ll need Jacob. And he’ll be there. Family runs deep, and those bonds are forever. All this you’re going through is just training for what’s coming. And when it gets here, you’ll be thankful.”

Grandma wiped her hands off on a towel and walked out of the kitchen.

Jacob stood by the stove with an orgiastic smile. He had this look, an I’m-in-control-of-a-delicious-situation visage. His smile was so crooked and fulfilled, half his face looked like the Joker from Batman. It was a look that said, "told you so" and "eat shit" with seamless ferocity. The way his upper row of teeth glowed under his upper lip, the evil twinkle in his eye, even the way he held his head slightly upturned and to the side. For a twelve-year-old kid, he could play the douchebag card with uncanny skill.

“Fuck you, Jacob,” I said, sulking out of the kitchen.

I heard him laughing hysterically as I descended the basement stairs. He yelled after me, “Ahhh, Ba-aaaab, you going to need me someday. You’re welcome.”

The basement was the furthest spot in the house away from my grandmother, and she needed time to calm. The basement was quiet, had shag carpet, and puffy furniture. The house was not air-conditioned, but the basement was naturally cool. It was a place of respite from family dysfunction and summer heat.

At the base of the stairs, just to the left, there was my grandfather's office. A room unlike any other. Grandpa’s U-shaped desk had a glass top. He slid decades of old pictures and newspaper clippings under the glass. It was a tableau of his life and our family history. I sat in Grandpa’s office chair with my elbows on the desk, cradling my head in my hands.

Grandpa was a high school history teacher, county politician, and farmer. An avid democrat—the “party of the little people,” he always said—he believed in the common man and would rail against the machine any chance that he got. He supported inmates and single moms and small businesses. Most of all, he loved a good underdog story. After all, who is a bigger underdog than farming teacher with four kids and a penchant for taking on societal problems? He even ran for state senate a few times and lost. Badly. Through all his endeavors, he became part of the political machine. He wrote scathing letters to the editor in the local newspaper whenever he saw a person slighted by “big business, big government, or big bullshit.” People hated him or loved him. In his office, he kept mementos that he treasured dearly.

The history in that room was personal and honest. On the doorframe, all Grandpa’s children had penciled their height from toddler age to present day. Under the glass on the desk, there were hundreds of pieces of paper. One was an article about my great-grandpa who died when his arm was ripped off in a threshing machine. He bled to death in the wheat stubble of our home place field. His last note, scratched with a pocket knife onto a painted piece of John Deere green metal, read: “I love you all. I did my best.” There was a photo of my grandfather and Bill Clinton, where Clinton wrote so charmingly, “If I had supporters like you in every state, I’d be king.” There were the election results for state senate, where Gramps only brought in 27 percent of the vote, glued to the top of his campaign slogan that read simply: “I teach.” Grandpa was so proud of that slogan.

That room was Grandpa’s entire life, his sanctuary from the world. A physical manifestation of memories that told his story. There was not a single picture of my grandmother in that office. Other than the scribbled height of the kids on the doorframe, there were no pictures of any of Grandpa’s kids either. His story.

I sat in that office absorbing the history. My thoughts wandered to what Grandma had said about Jacob. I couldn’t envision a scenario when I would need him, the idea that I would be thankful for him was asinine. Just the thought made me clench my fists so hard that my fingernails dug into my palm leaving bloody imprints. I was so emotional, especially back then before the weight of time and responsibility largely suffocated my restlessness. I vowed to myself not to let Jacob get to me again, not to lose control, no matter what happened. I squinted my eyes hard—as if to force the goal into my head.

While I sat there in the basement, Grandpa came down the stairs and walked through the office door.

“Grandma tells me you shot her the bird . . .”

I nodded while looking at the floor.

“On the driveway…”

I nodded again.

“She tells me she slapped the holy hell out of you in the kitchen.”

I nodded again, still looking down.

“Well, she’s upstairs. Hands and knees up there cleanin’ up red shit off the cabinets. She must have busted you pretty good.”

“It’s Kool-Aid, Gramps.”

He laughed as only he could. “You left your mark on that room. Everyone will remember that slap and splatter.” And Grandpa walked over and patted me on the back. He told me to try to get along better with Jacob and “keep my head.”

Things repeated themselves over that year. So much that it was like living in a spin cycle. We were always together, Jacob and I, working the same dawn until dusk shift at the farm. Like too many familial relationships it was a forced shitshow that led to nowhere good. “Jacob and I” lit a neighbor’s pasture on fire and caused some damage to property. “Jacob and I” wrecked a farm truck. “Jacob and I” were caught stealing money from Grandpa’s wallet. “Jacob and I” stole beer from the fridge. There was always a lot more Jacob and a whole hell of a lot less of “I.” Though “I” was guilty by association.

Jacob and I never got along. I came to realize we never would. Jacob was drawn to pain and fear like an insect to bright light. He loved giving titty twisters that left scars for years. When he was really feeling froggy, which was often, he forced me to slap box him until my gums bled. You could never ride as a passenger in anything Jacob was driving, be it a four-wheeler, a pickup truck, or a bike. He would push the envelope of safety right up to the edge of death until you were in tears and begging to “make it stop.”

Grandma’s prediction about Jacob always hung in the back of my mind like a guilty thought. One of Grandma’s favorite sayings was that “everyone served a purpose.” Even Jacob. She was especially fond of reiterating that statement when Jacob got into trouble. I watched him deteriorate over the years—violent arrests, a stolen car, an arson charge for burning down a hundred-thousand-dollar grain elevator “just for shits and giggles.” Grandma kept saying “everyone serves a purpose. Everyone. Jacob slid so far into the abyss that even unconditional advocates like her began to wonder just what that purpose might be.

_____________

If there was a moment where Grandma realized Jacob would not be able to live a normal life, it was the pigs. That changed everything, that was it. Things went from dysfunctional to something more malevolent. It was the coup de grâce of Jacob’s sanity.

Jacob and I had just finished watching a comic book flick on the TV in the basement. A hackneyed yawner where the super-villain tied the hero to a post. The villain filled a trench with gas, and spent the last scene flipping a book of matches open and closed over the ditch while saying vague shit like “you think I wanted this,” “I’m a monster,” and “no one ever loved me.” The movie was boring and formulaic. Nonetheless, Jacob had “the face” while he mentally recorded the scene.

A few weeks later, he did it.

Jacob and I were playing near the pigpen. Grandpa had nestled the pen underneath a trio of thousand-year-old oaks right near the water pump. These trees were the oldest in the country. Massive oaks that had trunks so thick they were twelve feet across the middle Grandpa said the oaks were old even when he was a little boy and his dad had nicknamed them Comanche, Cherokee, and Apache after the warrior Indian tribes.

These three oaks were the centerpiece of the farm. They were so enormous, even in 1880, that the original homesteaders built the house so they could look upon the trees. They towered over the countryside each of them was over 150 feet tall and just as wide. They were never trimmed so their lower branches, thick as sidewalks, reached all the way to the ground. It was a rite of passage to climb to the top of Comanche’s tallest limb. We built a tree house about forty feet up, cupped by the branches of Apache like a father coddles a newborn babe.

As an adolescent, I read this short story from John Muir about riding out the fury of a thunderstorm in the peak of a tree. I climbed up Comanche in the middle of a prairie deluge. The branches dipped thirty feet in high winds. I clung to the trunk, my eyes glued to the horizon as lightening carpet-bombed the chalky hills along the Smoky River in an awesome show. Hugging that tree, I felt the power of nature and the delicateness of life at the same time.

I know this sounds clichéd and sophomoric. With my ear to the trunk of Comanche, I heard the call. It was the most invigorating experience of my life and lit a fire inside me I could never extinguish. I loved that tree since that day.

One summer, Comanche, Cherokee, and Apache started to die. They got an unknown disease that caused their leaves to fall off in the middle of summer. It happened fast, in just two weeks. The hulking relics stood there bald and naked, with three feet of green leaves piled up around them. I still remember Grandpa standing to look at the trio stripped bare and dying during the height of the growing season. They had, at least according to Gramps, been there for well over “five hundred years.” It was the end of an era that stretched longer from end to end than the American republic.

When those trees died, their leaves turned brown in a matter of days. The ground around the ancient trunks started to dry, and those poor pigs got hot. Even with the water pump dumping gallons of water onto the dirt, the ground began to flake and crack.

When Jacob dug his trench, that dirt was powder dry. He filled it with a line of red diesel. He stood over that trench for ten minutes, smoking a cigarette and flipping the box of matches open and closed.

“You think I give a fuck?” he said to me, imitating the supervillain from the movie with astounding skill.

He stared down into the box as if the answer was written in tiny letters along the side of a match. He finally pulled one and pinched it in his fingers, his eyes looking from the sulfur of the match-head to connect with mine. There was a flare in those eyes, a crazed glaze that was more akin to a rabid dog. He took a long draw off a cigarette he’d pilfered from Grandma. An inhale so deep, the smoke didn’t even come out when he next spoke.

“Grandpa always loved you more. You’re a soft little pussy. You'll hole up in the basement again. Eventually, he will come to pat you on the back.”

He took another long pull, this time letting the smoke drift out of his mouth only to be pulled back in two long tusks of smoke. He made his right arm wiggle forward as if it had no bones. It swung like Dumbo’s trunk. Only instead of a magic feather, there was a single wooden match.

“Ahhhhh,” he said with genuine satisfaction, “He will lose his goddamned mind. You can try to explain it. Just try.” He rubbed the back of his head with his palm and looked into the rolling hills of the pasture. Jacob had this look, kind of a contemplative stare into space where he’d raise his eyebrows and push out his chin. He would stay perfectly still while you looked at him. It was his I-am-a-deep-thinking-troubled-artist stare he probably bastardized from some B movie.

“I've enjoyed the pain,” he said. “Do you know that?”

I didn’t respond, that would have just made things worse.

Jacob lit the match then pinched it in his fingertips. His arm was completely extended. There was no bend in his elbow, Jacob let it burn slowly down without speaking. The flame of the match was, from my vantage point, perfectly between his eyes. Looking all the while past the flame at me.

“I love the fear—what’s crazy Jacob going to do next? Fear lasts. It stays with people. And causing it, creating it… Ahhhhh God, it’s the best feeling in the world.”

The flame touched his hand then. His eyelids squinted, and there was a moment I could have stopped it, maybe redirected his attention away from that trench filled with diesel, away from those pigs. I only could muster a single word.

“Jacob…”

He dropped the match with a theatrical snap of his wrist. The diesel lit with a low, blue flame that crawled across the ground. It slithered into the pigpen with silent grace, and when its tendrils touched the drippings on the grates of the pen, it went up with a whoosh. The flames tore through the cage, rolling across the pink bellies of the piglets.

The sound that came from there was unlike anything I've heard before or since.

It was a squealing cough full of agony. The smell of burning hair and shit was so harsh I had to cover my nose with my shirt. The sound of those piglets choking themselves as they tried to push through the square grates as they burned alive. That sound never left my ears. Every time I smell a pork chop or hear the grunt of an animal, the memory of that day comes squealing back.

Above the din of the burning pigs, I could hear the trees begin to burn. Those ancient oaks swaying violently as their branches scratched together like antlers of bucks fighting to the death. I looked up, and the trees bent and bowed as they began to burn.

The fire stretched from the pigpen to the base of Comanche. The trunk browned then blacked and popped embers as the fire licked up its branches. In less than a minute, the flames had clawed its way to the top and spread to Apache and Cherokee. The fireball was the size of a New York skyscraper.

I didn't try to run. When Grandpa came, I offered no explanation. I just sat there, eyes wide, as Jacob smoked Indian-style and leered. A single pillar of black smoke stretched from the blaze ten thousand feet into the sky. It was as if the arm of the devil reached out of hell to claw hands at the heavens above.

The grandparents committed Jacob to a mental hospital the very next day. There was no goodbye, no explanation. Just a silent sendoff that served as an acknowledgment of their fear of Jacob. He had progressively gotten worse. He had gone from general physical abuse to vandalization to animal torture to full-scale slaughter. In this linear progression, animals wouldn’t hold his attention much longer.

Looking back after all these years, I see that Grandma was right. Even a person as fuck-snap crazy as Jacob did have a purpose. There was a world where a kid that relished fear would have value. I didn’t know it then, but that world—with its suffocating nights and roving killing herds—had started to develop all around me. The seeds of the apocalypse had just sprouted, and addled roots of the dead oaks had just broken through the soil.

[patriotsnet]

Who Are Richer Democrats Or Republicans

New Post has been published on https://www.patriotsnet.com/who-are-richer-democrats-or-republicans/

Who Are Richer Democrats Or Republicans

In The Most General Terms The Biggest Difference Between The Parties Comes Down To The View Of The Proper Role Of Government

The Republican party generally believes that it is the responsibility of individuals and communities to take care of people in need.  The Democratic party generally believes that the government should take care of people.  In general, the Republican party believes that if government needs to do a job then it is best for the local governments like cities and counties to make those decisions.  The Democratic party believes that the federal government has more resources and is therefore in a better position to do those jobs.  

Practical example for a child: There are a lot of people who dont have enough food to eat. Republicans believe that people like you and me should help them, and our churches should help them. The Democrats believe that the government needs to spend its money to help them get food.

These Are The Us States Most And Least Dependent On The Federal Government

States that voted Democrat in 2016 generally rely less on federal funding than Republican states, according to a study by WalletHub.

The analysis looked at the return on taxes paid to the federal government, the share of federal jobs, and federal funding as a share of state revenue.

Thirteen out of the top 15 states found to be most dependent on the federal government voted for President Donald Trump in the 2016 presidential election. Ten out of the 15 least dependent states voted for Democratic nominee Hillary Clinton.

Health Care And Drug Addiction Seen As More Pressing Problems Than Inequality

When asked about 11 major issues facing the country today, concern about economic inequality ranks around the middle of the pack, with 44% saying this is a very big problem. By comparison, about two-thirds say the affordability of health care and drug addiction are very big problems.

The affordability of college, the federal budget deficit and climate change are also viewed as big problems by higher shares of adults. Inequality is roughly on par with concerns about illegal immigration and racism. And more view it as a very big problem than say the same about terrorism, sexism and job opportunities for all Americans.

Adults with lower incomes are more likely than those with middle or upper incomes to say that economic inequality is a very big problem in the country today. About half of lower-income adults say this, compared with 41% of middle-income Americans and 42% of those with higher incomes.

Lower-income Americans are more likely than other income groups to say reducing economic inequality should be a top priority for the federal government

The degree to which Americans see reducing income inequality as a priority differs by income and by party. Adults with lower incomes are more likely than those with middle and upper incomes to say this should be a top priority. And, by a margin of roughly three-to-one, Democrats are more likely than Republicans to say the same .

The Philosophy Behind Republican Economic Policy

Republicans advocate supply-side economics that primarily benefits businesses and investors. This theory states that tax cuts on businesses allow them to hire more workers, in turn increasing demand and growth. In theory, the increased revenue from a stronger economy offsets the initial revenue loss over time.

Republicans advocate the right to pursue prosperity without government interference. They argue this is achieved by self-discipline, enterprise, saving, and investing.

Republicans business-friendly approach leads most people to believe that they are better for the economy. A closer look reveals that Democrats are, in many respects, actually better.

How Is The Democratic Party Different From The Republican Party

Democrats are generally considered liberal, while Republicans are seen as conservative. The Democratic Party typically supports a larger government role in economic issues, backing regulations and social welfare programs. The Republicans, however, typically want a smaller government that is less involved in the economy. This contrary view on the size of government is reflected in their positions on taxesDemocrats favour a progressive tax to finance governments expanded role, while Republicans support lower taxes for all. However, Republicans do support a large budget for the military, and they often aggressively pursue U.S. national security interests, even if that means acting unilaterally. Democrats, however, prefer multilateralism. On social issues, Democrats seek greater freedoms, while Republicans follow more traditional values, supporting government intervention in such matters. For example, Democrats generally back abortion rights, while Republicans dont. In terms of geography, Democrats typically dominate in large cities, while Republicans are especially popular in rural areas.

Democrats Tend To Have A Lot More Anger And Negativity In Their Rhetoric According To Them If You Support President Trump Well Then You Are A Racist And A Nazi

They generally seem to be out to get someone making things more personal.  Why are they so afraid to use the facts to reinforce what they want to do? Its agenda first then find or make up facts to support the rhetoric.

If they cant beat you at the polling booth, they try and beat you in court and thats just a great example of something thats not a pleasant experience. And not quite working in the long run. They keep getting overturned.

Americas Top 10 Richest Families

Walton Republican  The family owns the Walmart corporation. The Walton family fortune is estimated to be about $130 billion.

Koch Republican  Businessmen, owners of Koch Industries, a manufacturing company. Koch brothers have a net worth of about $41 billion each .

Mars Republican  Own the Mars candy company. The three children of founder Forrest Mars are worth about $78 billion together.

Cargill-MacMillan Republican  The Cargill-MacMillan family owns 90 percent of the largest privately-owned corporation in the U.S. The family, as a whole, is worth about $49 billion.

Cox Democrat  The Cox family owns a number of auto consumer sites and services . They have an estimated net worth of $41 billion.

Johnson  Republican  The Johnson family is known for their cleaning products and hygiene products. They are valued at $30 billion.

Pritzker Both  Founders of Hyatt. The family has a combined value of $29 billion in 2017.

Johnson  Republican  Overseers at Fidelity, ensuring the cash of millions of Americans. The family has a combined net worth of $28.5 billion.

Hearst Republican  The Hearst family owns one of Americas largest media companies. The family is valued at $28 billion.

Duncan Republican  The Duncan family works mostly with oil and pipelines. The family is valued at about $21.5 billion.

Republican Critics Of The Progressive Squad Are Quick To Ignore Their Own Lunatic Right

OPINION It was late June 1980 when I arrived in Washington after teaching political science for three years at Bucknell University. My job was to write for The Political Report, a little-circulated weekly newsletter that reported on House and Senate races.

The nations politics were in the process of changing more than I realized.

In November, Ronald Reagan would be elected president, Republicans would make significant gains in the House and win control of the Senate for the first time since 1954, and a new crop of conservative candidates were showing their political muscle sometimes by challenging relatively moderate GOP incumbents in both the House and Senate.

In Alabama, liberal Republican Rep. John Buchanan Jr. lost his bid for renomination to ultra-conservative Albert Lee Smith Jr. Even more noteworthy for me, growing up in New York, Al DAmato scored an 11-point victory over veteran liberal Sen. Jacob Javits in the states GOP Senate primary.

Also in the Senate, conservative Republican Steve Symms ousted Idaho Democratic incumbent Frank Church; conservative Republican Bob Kasten upset Wisconsin Democratic incumbent Gaylord Nelson; conservative Republican John East ousted North Carolina Democratic incumbent Robert Morgan; and Iowa Rep. Charles E. Grassley beat Democratic Sen. John Culver .

But while both the country and the GOP were moving right, the Republican Party still had room for a substantial contingent of moderates.

Will More Republicans Die From Covid Than Democrats

razelove  |  509 opinions shared on Society & Politics topic.Influencer3 mo People lie, right and left. You’re looking not at a number comparing those immunized or not immunized against voter rolls, but asking two questions at random, what party do you affiliate with, and do you plan to get vaccinated.Either way, it’s a brain dead question. More people would die regardless. Let’s say that 45% between both parties is only 30% of Americans , that’s enough to fall short of the unknown number that we would need to reach for herd immunity, which to the best of my knowledge no country has reached yet to find that sweet spot.It will simply mutate more and more and recircle the globe again and again. Which honestly is fine by me. The panic and blow to the economy were worse than the virus. Maybe sars-cov-3 will be more exciting though. I was in panic mode until there were more concrete numbers a few months in with cov-2.You also have to figure that if a virus becomes too deadly it wipes itself out as the hosts for that virus die faster than they can transmit it, like ebola, some strains of flu or dysentery. I’m not too concerned as me and my family caught it already, and kind of figured on this sticking around like the flu. 0|0

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Investor George Marcus And His Wife Judith Gave $9610125 Mostly To Democrats

Total donations: $9,610,125

Party Affiliation: Democrat

Net worth: $1.5 billion

George Marcus is the founder of real-estate brokerage Marcus & Millichap Company, according to the company’s website. Marcus is also the chairman of Essex Property Trust, a multi-family real-estate investment trust, and he serves on the board of California-based commercial bank Greater Bay Bancorp.

The Marcuses gave $10,400 to Republicans in 2018, according to the Center for Responsive Politics. The rest went to Democrats.

Republicans Vs Democrats: Where Do The Two Main Us Political Parties Stand On Key Issues

After an impeachment, a positive coronavirus test and an unforgettable first presidential debate rounded out the final months of Donald Trumps first term, it seems fair to say the past few years have been a roller-coaster ride for US politics.

On November 3, Americans will decide which candidate will win the 2020 presidential election, sparking either the beginning, or end, for each nominee.

But how does it all work?

Well, the US political system is dominated by two main parties the Democrats and the Republicans and the next president will belong to one of those two.

Just how different are their policies?

Heres what you need to know, starting with the candidates.

Heiress Deborah Simon Donated $97 Million To Democrats

Party Affiliation: Democrat

Net worth: Unknown

Deborah Simon is the daughter of Indiana shopping mall developer Melvin Simon. Simon inherited a portion of her father’s fortune after a bitter legal battle over his estate with her stepmother Bren Simon, according to Forbes. 

Simon’s family had a net worth of $6.8 billion in 2014, according to Forbes.

Political Coalitions Are About More Than Just Income Redistribution

Posted December 8, 2014

In his 2004 book, journalist Thomas Frank asked: Whats the matter with Kansas? Ever since, many liberals have taken it as an article of faith that if working-class whites only knew what was good for them then theyd vote for Democrats.

The usual rebuttal from political science is to point out that many poorer whites in fact do vote for Democrats. Or, at least, poorer whites are much more likely to vote Democratic than are richer whites. Its just not the case — even in Kansas — that working-class whites are ignoring their redistributive interests in their voting choices. Still, it makes sense to wonder why Democrats win the poorest whites by a nose rather than a mile.

Many conservatives similarly ask: Whats the matter with Harvard? Ive studied the Harvard/Radcliffe Class of 1977 . On the whole, its a fantastically wealth group, with family incomes typically in the top 1% or 2% of the country. Yet for every Republican there are around six Democrats.

With Harvard as well, though, its still not the case that people are ignoring their redistributive interests. In the Class of 77, the richest members are less likely to favor Democrats than are the merely well-off or poorer. Still, it makes sense to wonder why Republicans are in such short supply among Ivy League alumni.

Income and Education

Parties are Coalitions

Kansas and Harvard

Jason Weeden is author of .

Related articles:

Who Gets The Most Government Benefits: Urban Democrats Or Rural Republicans

Todays Republican Party, fueled by the Tea Party movements right-wing populism, rails against government benefits and those who receive them. New Jersey Governor Chris Christie, for example, warns that Social Security and Medicare will turn us into a bunch of people sitting on a couch, waiting for their next government check. But who really receives the bulk of government benefits: urban districts represented by Democrats or rural districts represented by Republicans?

Using the New York Times map of the county-level distribution of government benefits, Ive compared Republican and Democratic districts in two states. Here is Californias 9th District compared with the 19th District :

We find a similar story in Minnesotas 5th District and the 6th District : 

This is, of course, a small and unrepresentative sample but more comprehensive studies have shown that the pattern holds: the regions of the United States most inflamed by right-wing, anti-government populism benefit disproportionately from government programs and income transfers. To put it another way, Cadillac driving welfare queens are easily outnumbered by pickup truck driving welfare cowboys.

Stephen Richer Revels In Blue Spotlight Duped Republicans

GOP political newcomer clearly displays his leftist stripes

When the GOP-hating, Hillary-endorsing local newspaper is enraptured with an elected Republican, its a clear sign something is amiss. That is exactly whats happening with Maricopa County Recorder Stephen Richer. The Recorders Office is regarded as a down ballot post, which few people can accurately identify either by the duties or the office holder.

In November 2020, Richer, the previously unknown Republican lawyer ousted the single term democrat and the victory tasted sweet, masking the toxicity aimed at conservatives that we were soon to see. Richer has appeared in a full-color, above-the-fold photo in a newspaper report standing beside democrat Sheriff Paul Penzone and using the prominently displayed word unhinged to describe President Donald Trump. Penzone, it should be remembered defeated six-term Sheriff Joe Arpaio with at least $2 million added to his campaign coffers by none other than Socialist billionaire George Soros who has resolutely donated to overhaul the criminal justice system in his leftist image.

This revealing account was published in Law Enforcement Today.

Displaying its newfound GOP defector poster boy, Sundays edition of the seriously declining local newspaper devotes two pages to a Your Turn column by Stephen Richer, titled, Playing by an awfully different set of rules.  This bold type face, foolish sentiment is directly below the headline:

Perceptions Of The Parties

Judgments about Romney and Obama mirror the views of middle-class Americans toward the Republican and Democratic parties.

According to the survey, only about a quarter to a third of the middle class says that the Republicans or Democrats primarily favor middle-class interests over those of the rich or poor. Republicans are perceived as the party of the rich, while the middle class is divided over whether the Democratic Party is more concerned about their needs or those of the poor.

To examine the intersection of social class and politics, the Pew Research survey asked respondents if each of the two major political parties favors the rich, favors the middle class or favors the poor.

Overall, the middle class was somewhat more likely to say that the Democratic Party rather than the GOP favored its interests . But about as many say the Democrats favor the poor , and 16% believe the party favors the rich.

At the same time about six-in-ten middle-class adults say the GOP favors the rich

roughly double the 26% who say the Republican Party primarily favors middle-class Americans.

The survey also found that the middle class is politically diverse: Roughly equal shares of middle-class adults identify with the Democratic Party or say they are independents , while somewhat fewer align with the Republican Party . As a group, middle-class adults are more likely to identify themselves as political conservatives than liberals . About a third say they are moderates.

One Of The Worst Offenders Is Mitch Mcconnells Home State Of Kentucky According To This Wallethub Study

Jake Krupa colors in an electoral map at an election watching party as states are called in the 2016 election.

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BOSTON Hey, isnt it time all these so-called conservatives down in the red states actually started standing on their own two feet?

Were not trying to be mean. But, you know: Tough love.

A new report from WalletHub confirms what we already suspected: The states that depend the most on big gubmint are also the states that are are always whining the most about big gubmint.

And, wouldnt you know it, one of the worst offenders is Kentucky the state represented in the Senate by Majority Leader Mitch McConnell, a Republican.

How about that? Do you think hes going to mention it any time soon?

Kentucky ranks fifth in terms of overall dependence on government, WalletHub determined using data on federal spending in each state, the share of households on welfare, the number of government workers and the total tax burden as a share of income.. No. 1 was Mississippi no surprises there followed by Alaska.

Conservative red states of the south and west make up eight of the 10 states with the highest dependency on government, and 19 of the top 25.

Oops.

Yes, isnt it time to roll back government spending? You show us the way, West Virginia . And you, Arizona and South Carolina .

Lets crack down on all those Cadillac queens. Except it turns out the real offenders are the Pickup princes in the South and West.

Quiz: Let Us Predict Whether Youre A Democrat Or A Republican

Tell us a few details about you and well guess which political party you belong to. It shouldnt be that simple, right? Were all complex people with a multiplicity of identities and values. But the reality is that in America today, how you answer a handful of questions is very likely to determine how you vote.

This quiz, based on recent surveys with more than 140,000 responses, presents a series of yes-or-no questions to predict whether someone is more likely to identify as a Democrat or a Republican. It captures divisions that should make you worried about the future of American democracy.

We wont collect your answers.

The first question is the most important: Its about race. Asking whether someone is black, Hispanic or Asian cleaves the electorate into two groups. Those who answer yes lean Democratic; the others are split roughly evenly between the parties. Among those who are not black, Hispanic or Asian , the second most important question is whether the person considers religion important. If they answer yes, they are probably Republican.

Its not just race and religion, though. Party allegiances are now also tied to education, gender and age. Americans have sorted themselves more completely and rigidly than any time in recent history.

How demographics predict party affiliation

The group most likely to be Democrats are black women older than about 30.

Meeting in the Middle

Reliable Republicans

Taking The Perspective Of Others Proved To Be Really Hard

The divide in the United States is wide, and one indication of that is how difficult our question proved for many thoughtful citizens. A 77-year-old Republican woman from Pennsylvania was typical of the voters who struggled with this question, telling us, This is really hard for me to even try to think like a devilcrat!, I am sorry but I in all honesty cannot answer this question. I cannot even wrap my mind around any reason they would be good for this country.

Similarly, a 53-year-old Republican from Virginia said, I honestly cannot even pretend to be a Democrat and try to come up with anything positive at all, but, I guess they would vote Democrat because they are illegal immigrants and they are promised many benefits to voting for that party. Also, just to follow what others are doing. And third would be just because they hate Trump so much. The picture she paints of the typical Democratic voter being an immigrant, who goes along with their party or simply hates Trump will seem like a strange caricature to most Democratic voters. But her answer seems to lack the animus of many.  

Democrats struggled just as much as Republicans. A 33-year-old woman from California told said, i really am going to have a hard time doing this but then offered that Republicans are morally right as in values, going to protect us from terrorest and immigrants, going to create jobs.

How To Explain The Difference Between Republicans And Democrats

Politics are confusing, even for adults. This years political cycle is even more confusing than most.  Anything that confuses and parents is sure to raise questions in children.

As the primaries roll on, many children are asking questions about the two major political parties and what all the arguing means.  This years political cycle is more emotionally charged than most.  Those emotions can make it difficult for parents to fairly explain political differences to children.  Goodness knows, as an avid sports fan, I could not objectively describe the rivalry between the New York Yankees and the Boston Red Sox.

The Philosophy Behind Democratic Economic Policy

Democrats gear their economic policies to benefit low-income and middle-income families. They argue that reducing income inequality is the best way to foster economic growth. Low-income families are more likely to spend any extra money on necessities instead of saving or investing it. That directly increases demand and spurs economic growth. Democrats also support a Keynesian economic theory, which says that the government should spend its way out of a recession.

One dollar spent on increased food stamp benefits generates $1.73 in economic output.

President Franklin D. Roosevelt first outlined the Economic Bill of Rights in his 1944 State of the Union address. It included taxes on war profiteering and price controls on food costs. President Harry Trumans 1949 Fair Deal proposed an increase in the minimum wage, civil rights legislation, and national health care. President Barack Obama expanded Medicaid with the 2010 Affordable Care Act.

Congress Net Worth Demographic

One way to look at the question of who is richer between republicans and democrats is to examine the people representing us in Congress.

The net worth of a democratic senator in 2011 was $13.5 million, compared to a net worth of just under $7 million for Republicans. Interestingly, Democratic senators have on average twice the net worth of a Republican senator!

The story is a little different in the House Of Representatives, where the average net worth of Democrats is $5.7 million opposed to $7.6 million for Republican representatives.

Think Republicans Are Disconnected From Reality Its Even Worse Among Liberals

A new survey found Democrats live with less political diversity despite being more tolerant of it with startling results

In a surprising new national survey, members of each major American political party were asked what they imagined to be the beliefs held by members of the other. The survey asked Democrats: How many Republicans believe that racism is still a problem in America today? Democrats guessed 50%. Its actually 79%. The survey asked Republicans how many Democrats believe most police are bad people. Republicans estimated half; its really 15%.

The survey, published by the thinktank More in Common as part of its Hidden Tribes of America project, was based on a sample of more than 2,000 people. One of the studys findings: the wilder a persons guess as to what the other party is thinking, the more likely they are to also personally disparage members of the opposite party as mean, selfish or bad. Not only do the two parties diverge on a great many issues, they also disagree on what they disagree on.

This effect, the report says, is so strong that Democrats without a high school diploma are three times more accurate than those with a postgraduate degree. And the more politically engaged a person is, the greater the distortion.

A coalition of college Republican clubs recently endorsed a tax on carbon pollution.