#ALSO THE COLOR POLICE?!?!? THEY WERE MY FUCKING JAM

[yestrday]

I DIDN'T KNOW YOU WERE IN HETALIA FANDOM????😭😭

I AM.... MY BIGGEST HIT ON QUOTEV IS A HETALIA FANFIC. I AM THE BIGGEST NORDIC 5 SIMP. IVE BEEN IN THIS HELLHOLE OF ANIME FOR A WHOLE 19 YEARS BEING IN HETALIA ISNT EVEN A QUESTION IT'S A PREREQUISITE TO BEING THIS FAR DEEP THE ANIME HOLE.

#.txt #hunnieknight #ALSO THE COLOR POLICE?!?!? THEY WERE MY FUCKING JAM #I CONSUMED LEMONS OF THE COLOR POLICE AU. YES. IM NOT AFRAID TO ADMIT #HETALIA IS THE REASON WHY IM SO SHAMELESS

[saltygilmores]

THOUGHTS WHILE WATCHING GILMORE GIRLS: SEASON 3, EPISODE 3-“Application Anxiety"

I'm once again going to need my mutuals to tell me if they see this on their dashboard. It occured to me that I'd suddenly experienced a massive memory black-out about what happens in S3 between episode 3 and up to the Dance Marathon. And I fancy myself pretty knowledgable about season 3. In addition to Francie and her squad, I'm assuming that the truly insane number of new characters that are intoduced in s3-Alex, Nicole, Lindsay, Dave Rygalski and the other members of Hep Alien and probably more I'm forgetting- may all be introduced in this span of time? It's going to be a jam packed roller coaster ride of new people. Soo jammy. Oh god, and I just remembered LIZ. Does she make her debut in season 3 or 4? I don't know. I fear it may be season 3. Have mercy on poor Salty. I'm scared. Fun fact: I was on YouTube recently, and rediscovered an early 2000's MTV cartoon called 3South, a truly absurd work of art about a pair of idiot college students. This is the type of stuff I was watching while the rest of the Youth at the time were watching...Gilmore Girls. Anyway I heard an an unmistakable voice and realized it was none other than Kathleen Wilhoite (Liz Danes) playing.... a raging alcoholic who frequently gets run over by cars.

This episode is called "Application Anxiety". The Netflix synopsis hints at the introduction of the fandom's fave, and also the favorite snack of the Male Gilmore Girls Character California Wormhole, Rygalski. Other than that, mayhaps we have a sort of filler episode on our hands here. I can remember the events of most S3 episodes by their title, but this one isn't ringing any bells, besides the fact that Rory and Paris must, uh, be anxious about college applications. I call anything "filler" that doesn't involve a lot of man or boy drama. The episode opens with Lorelai and Rory snarking on some more corny entertainment from the days of yore, this time some kind of Brady Bunch variety hour. Fine. It's at least more fun and modern than "Shane" and Andy Hardy, it's recognizable to the masses watching GG, it's in color, and they're having fun watching it. Two...no, three...no FOUR observations:

1.Lorelai keeps a picture of Sookie and Jackson on her living room end table 2. The mailman, Eddie, walks through their open door and directly into their home without knocking or announcing himself to deliver the mail. Rory and Lorelai don't blink at the intrusion. Eddie looks like a catch, Lorelai. Steady government job. Enjoys sticking his package into slots. Has no respect for privacy or personal boundaries. You love that shit. Go for it. 3.Clown Pillow. 4.Lorelai's shirt. CUUTE.

I let my guard down for mere seconds.

"Holmes & Yoyo is an American comedy television series that aired on ABC for 13 episodes during the 1976-1977 season. The series follows police detective Holmes and his new android partner, Yoyo, on their misadventures investigating crimes." You have GOT to be fucking kidding me, AmyShermanPalladino. At least I've heard of HeeHaw.

Rory looks like a scared little mouse holding her Harvard application. Rory references a book she's been reading called Dead Souls. I looked it up. "Dead Souls is a novel by Nikolai Gogol, first published in 1842, and widely regarded as an exemplar of 19th-century Russian literature. The novel chronicles the travels and adventures of Pavel Ivanovich Chichikov (Russian: Павел Иванович Чичиков) and the people whom he encounters. These people typify the Russian middle aristocracy of the time." Some light reading right there. When I tell you Lorelai (not Rory) nearly has an orgasm holding the Harvard envelope (it's not Rory's acceptance/rejection letter, it's just the application itself). She needs to get laid by someone who isn't Crusty. #AlexAlexAlex A moment later Rory and Lorelai are in the kitchen going over the application. Lane suddenly barges into the kitchen out of nowhere, states her dilemma in under a minute, then immediately exits. Bye? I feel like we haven't seen Lane in a while, but now we're going to get a lot of her this season. Lane is planting the seeds for Hep Alien and has placed a "Drummer seeks Rock Band" classified ad in the paper (how quaint). I just saw Adam Brody's name in the opening credits, so it's almost Rygalski Time. I like Dave, I really do. But I guess I just don't assign him the God- like status some people do. I only worship one deity and it's Jesstopher Mariano. And he's a fucking full time job.

Rory is drinking a can of Hansen's brand soda. The brand apparently still exists, although I have never seen it in the wild. I'm thinking Hansen's sponsored this show or something because this is all Rory ever drinks soda wise, including at the Chilton cafeteria, along with her favorite sandwich of two slices of white bread with nothing in between. And a better shot of Loreai's shirt. I want one.

Lorelai says this in reference to the application asking for Rory's picture (is that actually a thing?) Ladies and gentlemen, TWO Modern Entertainment references (the caption cut off Spongebob). Back on her home planet, AmyShermanPalladino must have just signed up for the ultra deluxe premium Earth cable package that included Cartoon Network and Nickelodeon. Welcome to the early 21st century. Straight off of Harvard's own website, from their archives, dated October 3rd, 1958: "The University will not require photographs from any applicants to the Medical School, the Law School, and the College this year. This decision was made in compliance with the Massachusetts Commision against Discrimination's December, 1957 ruling that all schools in the state must stop requesting pictures from applicants." Yes, since 1957 it has been literally illegal for colleges in Massachussets to ask for photos from applicants. Carry on.

Who's "they"? Luke knows Lorelai, and Dean Forrester's mom doesn't acknolwedge she has a son so she can't care if he drinks coffee. Where is the display stand of Doritos that used to be behind Luke? Is there a Dorito shortage in Stars Hollow? There is little else to make life in Stars Hollow worth living.

Dean's chores: Whacking off to pictures of Lorelai, hogging oxygen from more deserving people, stacking cans of corn at Doose's.

Rory doesn't know anything about jobs. Full time, part time, hand, blow...none of it.

Oh god. Not another negotiation! What is Rory going to agree to this time in exchange for Dean agreeing to a movie she wants to see?

Dean was actually paying attention to Rory when she discussed her plans for the weekend? That was a plot twist I never saw coming. Me keeping my little eye on Dean because he's acting a bit too nice right now

Rory informs Dean she is going to write her college essay about Hilary Clinton.

WHAT? DEAN IS BEING SUPPORTIVE? HE'S UP TO SOMETHING. At first I was going to put my money on Dean making a sexist remark about women in poltiics, then I thought he won't because he doesn't even know who Hillary Clinton is and he'll probably ask Rory, because he has melted crayons for brains, and I was right. Rory asks Dean if he's ever watched Hilary speak and we come to find he only knows who she is because of Rory's insistence that he watch her speeches.

I'll give you this one Deano. That sounds like literal hell on earth and I'm sorry you had to endure that. Even you don't deserve that. I hope Rory at least gave you some handjobs for that one (she didn't) Still a long 14 years away from the 2016 presidential election fiasco, Rory speaks of Ms Clinton's future in politics with sunny optimism. Nobody tell her. Dean tut tuts and shakes his head while Rory talks about Hilary but he appears to be listening and keeping his trap shut, so that's a first. Rory skips out the door without paying for her breakfast as per yoozh, leaving Dean to pick up the tab. Luke strolls by the table. L:She's fast. D: It's the coffee. L: Not your face? Hahahahahaha!! GET HIM LUKE! She has picked up a nice fear-sprint in the two years she's been dating Dean though. Making a quick exit is a vital survival skill when you're dating a serial killer psycopath. Luke looks out the window to see Taylor photographing the building in a suspicious manner. Cut to Chilton and Paris is having another nuclear panic-meltdown over the non-perfection of some school related mumbo jumbo. Rory and Paris are hosting a seminar at school about the college application process.

Both some college admissions reviewer dork attending the seminar and Paris agree that writing essays about Hilary Clinton is passe. Admissions Dork says reading so many essays about Hilary Clinton is making his head explode. Paris says nobody over the age of 12 would write about Hilary Clinton. IMMEDIATE rejection to Harvard if you write your essay about Hilary Clinton. If you write your essay about Hilary Clinton, some goons from Harvard will visit your home in the middle of the night and break your kneecaps. You're fucked, RoryGil. Things Googled While Watching Gilmore Girls Holmes and Yo Yo, Dead Souls, Do Colleges Require Photos with Applications. I was already well versed on Hansen's soda, because I'd already researched it in the days of yore (2020) when I wrote about GG on Twitter.

#gilmore girls #denise rewatches gilmore girls #application anxiety #rory gilmore #lorelai gilmore #paris geller #PariMore #chilton nonsense #gilmore girls season 3

[redhoodieone]

Welcome Home

A/N: Hi everyone! This is an old fic that I’m re-posting for those who want to read it. Enjoy!

WARNINGS: Language and Smut.

  I knew my family was different the moment I found out my adoptive father was Batman. I was just a ten-year-old girl when I snuck down the stairs at midnight for a drink of water and spotted Batman leaving a trail of blood from his study and calling out for Alfred for help. The moment our eyes locked, Bruce instantly knew that I was clearly aware of his secret. He had also confessed it was him who saved me from a shootout that my parents were involved in and that it was him, as Batman. I felt I owed Bruce my own life for saving me, and I vowed to keep my father’s secret and pray that he would return home safely every night back to me.

It didn’t help that I soon discovered my adoptive older brother Dick Grayson was Robin. Not only did I have to keep his secret as well, but it made it more impossible to not have a crush on him. I mean, Dick has such a charming personality, beautiful baby blue eyes, and a devilish smile that can make any girl crawl on her hands and knees. And that ass…

I later found myself becoming the second Robin once Dick left to assume his own identity, Nightwing. Bruce trusted me, and he saw potential in me the second I told him I couldn’t see myself being a hero forever. Perhaps he never really wanted me to be his sidekick and figured if I got it out of my system that I could resume my life as a sixteen-year-old and do normal teenager activities. As if my life was normal anyways.

But things changed as soon as I was finally embracing myself as a hero. Bruce had taken in a new kid, Jason Todd. He was a troublemaker, a rebel, and a mysterious kid, who had never even spoken to me unless he had to. I don’t think my age helped the situation either; I was a couple of years older than him and he may not have seen me as an equal. But of course, the dark haired, icy blue eyed, bad attitude boy was given the Robin title, and I was removed because of a patrol-gone-wrong situation.

Stupid Harley Quinn and her baseball bat. Who knew one hit to my knee could bench me for two months (Alfred added an additional five months of rest).

Then the unthinkable happened. The second Robin was killed by the Joker. Jason Todd’s death put Bruce into a depression, and he swore he would never put another kid’s life in danger. Our father and daughter relationship broke apart before my very eyes. I spent my remaining teenage years in the mansion isolated, except for Alfred’s loving company.

I had graduated high school on time and I quickly decided to go to Gotham University to escape the Bat family. Before I moved out, I discovered Bruce had taken in another kid, Tim Drake, who was currently the new Robin. Was I hurt? Of course, I felt I was somehow replaced. Would I miss the Bat family? Maybe. Maybe not.

I did in fact wish the new younger Robin good luck. When Tim looked up at me, his light blue eyes were so innocent and frightened about me leaving him behind. I didn’t know why he would be so upset about me leaving; wouldn’t he want all of Bruce’s attention without me hanging around the mansion?

Now I’m twenty-one-years-old, and I’m still a student at Gotham University. Alfred had just called and informed me Bruce wants me back home.

As I sit in a taxi while anxiously waiting to pull up to Wayne Manor, I honestly don’t know why Bruce wants me back at home. Alfred has kept me up to date about the Bat family incidents and activities I have missed out those few years such as:

Dick Grayson becoming a womanizer (I saw it coming) and how he’s juggling working as a police officer and Nightwing. He’s still the favorite and golden child in Bruce’s eyes.

Jason Todd is back from the dead, and he’s currently operating his own team: Red Hood and the Outlaws (who knew he was leadership material underneath that thick skull of his?).

Tim Drake is Red Robin (does the fast food chain restaurant know about his superhero name?), and he’s currently assisting the Teen Titans when necessary while simultaneously aiding Bruce with detective work.

Damian Wayne is Bruce Wayne’s unknown biological child. I think he’s about fifteen-years-old now; from what I remember the last time I spoke to Alfred. I met Damian once, when Bruce asked me to meet him once Talia al Ghul practically dropped him off at Bruce’s doorstep. The boy was a little shit: bratty, stuck up, and insensitive. Even though he is the spitting image of Bruce, minus the different colored eyes (Bruce has blue and Damian’s are green), Damian claims he is set to take over the cowl when Bruce is either dead or done. God help us all…

But I still can’t figure out why I am needed back home. Is Alfred sick? Is Bruce dying after fighting all these years? Is it one of my brothers?

I jump in surprise once the taxi comes to a hard stop. After paying the man, I grab my duffel bag and I climb the front steps that I suddenly remember jumping off them as a kid. Alfred scolded me many times, and I still did it because being bad was fun.

I scoff loudly, and I jump down the five steps that would have given Alfred a heart attack. Maybe I haven’t changed as much as I thought.

I find the wooden front door unlocked, which is odd considering Alfred always makes sure to lock it. As a matter of fact, Alfred hasn’t greeted me like he always does when I come home. Where is Alfred?

After I unwrap my scarf, I pull my hoodie over my head to be more comfortable in the warm house. Sadly, I forgot to do laundry yesterday, so I came home in just my black yoga pants and red tank top. What would Alfred say?

I kick off my shoes and walk to the kitchen barefoot. Pulling my long hair into a ponytail, I notice a note on the counter that’s written for me. I unfold the note and stare at the nicest, well done cursive handwriting only one man can do here.

 Dear Lady Y/N,

I sincerely apologize for not being there to greet you properly. Master Bruce had wanted me to take my holiday to London early, and Lord knows I can use a week to myself after stitching up countless wounds, tidying up bedrooms and Bat caves, and playing messenger between you and your father. I have a cooked roast with garlic mash potatoes in the refrigerator if you are hungry. Do heat it up and perhaps show your father and brothers how to use the microwave.

I dearly love you and the boys,

 Love Alfred Pennyworth

P.S.

Look into the highest cabinet above the refrigerator, and you will discover a jar of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies just for you.

 I grin widely, and before I can turn around and find the cookies, I’m stuck between the counter and a tall, hard body behind me. I freeze.

“Welcome home, Y/N. I missed you so much,” Bruce whispers in my ear. I can feel his hot breath above my shoulder and neck. The familiar smell of his expensive cologne fills my nostrils. His large hands rub my legs and grip onto my hips very hard. “Did you miss me?”

“H-hi dad. W-what are you doing?” I ask softly, but I know it came out like a whisper. One of his hands is holding my waist, while the other caresses my abdomen. It feels strange considering Bruce is supposed to be my father, and we shouldn’t be this close or even touching each other. But a part of me wants to keep feeling his hands on me and see what he does next.

“Holding you. Smelling you. Touching you,” he answers, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He breathes harder when I press my backside against his front by accident. “It appears you want this too. Am I correct, Y/N?”

His hand pulls down my yoga pants enough, so he can reach into my underwear. Bruce continues to breathe hard from his nose when his fingers find my core. His thumb rubs fast circles on my clit, while he pushes two fingers inside me. I bite my bottom lip to stop a loud moan from coming out of me, but he appears he’ll have none of that. He stops fingering me.

“You better be loud, or I won’t let you cum, Y/N.”

Before I can beg him to keep going, he turns my face, so I can look him in those cold, pale blue eyes. “Please tell me you’re…not a virgin.” Bruce’s face is twisted in pleasure from just fingering me, but I can tell his lips are trembling and there’s a soft but pleading look in his eyes. This must hurt him as much as it’s hurting me.

“I-I’m not,” I confess, and wonder if he would change his mind if I said I was.

“Who was it with?” Bruce demands. He kisses along my shoulder to my neck before he bites on my soft spot. I hiss in pain and I grind into him again.

“Josh Mitchell. I was sixteen,” I answer harshly.

“Was he any good?”

Before I can answer, Bruce shoves the front of my body onto the counter, while he pulls down my yoga pants. My adrenaline is rushing, and I can feel myself wetting the counter from just his roughness. I can feel him unzip his pants and I can already imagine this thick, hard cock fucking me into oblivion.

“No, no he wasn’t good at all!” I cry out.

“Good, I’m actually relieved to hear that,” Bruce says, as he starts to stroke himself. “Do you want me to fuck you, Y/N?”

I want to turn around and watch him jack off. Hearing him pleasure himself isn’t enough. Bruce then jams two fingers back into my pussy and I whimper loudly. It has been too long since I’ve been intimate with a man. I need his cock now!

“I asked you a question, Y/N. Do I need to remind you who you are supposed to answer to?” he says seriously before adding a third finger inside me. I grip the counter and I breathe harder. I find myself rubbing my pussy on the edge of the smooth countertop for more friction, but he grabs my hips and stops me. “Now, do you want me to fuck you, Y/N, or should I leave you here, so you can dry hump the countertop alone?”

I growl louder, while my nails scratch the counter top. “YES! Yes, I want you to fuck me, Dad!”

As soon as those words left my mouth, I immediately wonder if I killed the mood. Why would I call him ‘dad’ when we’re about to have hot, rough sex in the kitchen? I need to apologize. I push myself up on my elbows and I shift my head to the side to apologize. I open my mouth to speak but stop when Bruce’s eyes darkened, and he growls as he slams his thick cock inside me.

I moan louder than I have in my entire life. His cock fills me up so much that I fear I won’t be able to walk straight for the next week or two. Bruce lifts my legs up and continues to shove me against the counter with every hard thrust. He wasn’t kidding when he said he was going to fuck me. The man is practically drilling into me with no kindness at all.

“Oh fuck! You’re so fucking tight. So wet and so hot,” Bruce groans out. With each thrust, I can feel he wants to let go and fuck me like he owns me.

“Go ahead, Dad. Fuck me. Fuck me like I’m yours and only yours,” I tempt him playfully.

Bruce growls and rams his cock faster into me. He keeps knocking the air out from my lungs, and I can feel my body pulsating against his. I grip the countertop harder each time, and I know my knuckles are turning white and becoming numb every second. With one hand on my hips, Bruce moves his other hand up my tank top to hold my tits.

“No bra? You’re a bad girl,” Bruce says in between panting.

“I forgot to do laundry,” I choke out.

“Excuses,” he manages to say, as he holds me up more, so he can penetrate me deeper. His cock is hitting a deeper spot in me. It must be my g-spot, because I have read about it but never actually felt it to know. I can feel myself clenching his dick tightly, and I know I’m getting closer to release. “You wanted me and your brothers to see your tits, huh?”

“Maybe,” I cry out louder than what I intended to. Fuck, what if one of my brothers hears me? They’ll really think I’m insane for fucking our father and for loving it every second. Bruce readjusts our position once more, so he can hit that spot continuously. “I-I think I’m going to cum!”

“Not yet, you better not!” Bruce growls, and drills into me harder and faster. With his powerful thrusts and the constant friction from the countertop on my clit, I know for a fact that I can’t last longer. His hands hold onto my hips while he fucks me harder than before.

I become a moaning mess. I can feel my mouth drop open because I feel liquid coming out from my core. Did I just squirt? What the hell is happening to me?

The sounds of skin on skin is louder because of my mess. I drop my head onto the counter while Bruce continues to fuck me. Before I can catch my breath, Bruce chuckles and lifts me up. “I just made you squirt. That has never happened before, has it?”

“No, that was my first time,” I answer breathlessly. He kisses my neck.

“You’re so wet,” Bruce grunts into my ear. Breathing heavily, he lifts my hips again, so he can rub my clit with his fingers. “You’re making a mess all over my cock. You’re such a bad girl.”

“I’m your bad girl,” I moan out, as I can feel another orgasm threatening to take over my body.

“Fuck yes, you are!” Bruce groans, and continues to shove his cock into my soaking wet pussy.

With every rough thrust, I know Bruce won’t last. I whimper once more when my pussy clenches his dick as he fucks me through my orgasm. A few more hard thrusts, Bruce pulls out and turns me over onto my back. He jacks himself off as I watch his cum spurt out all over my stomach.

Just seeing his hard, veiny thick cock before me turns me on once more. I lick my lips at how the tip of his dick glistens with his cum.

Bruce sighs heavily, and just when I think I should try to get up and clean myself, he pulls me up and kisses me. He shoves his tongue into my mouth, and we explore each other’s mouths as if this was our last chance to. He pulls away from me and rests his forehead against mine.

“You’re mine, Y/N. You belong to me, and the Batfamily. I don’t care who wants you, because you will never give them what you have given me. Do you understand?” Bruce asks, before giving me his famous bat glare.

“I understand, and I promise,” I swear before he kisses me once more.

“Good, now go wash up,” Bruce instructs before he helps me off the counter.

I grab a paper towel and wipe Bruce’s cum off my stomach before I pull up my yoga pants. As soon as I toss the damped paper towel into the trash, I immediately notice Dick Grayson is standing there at the entrance of the kitchen staring at me with fire in his eyes.

#dc comics #batman #bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x y/n #bruce wayne x reader smut #bruce wayne x y/n smut #bruce wayne smut #batman smut

[intosnarkness]

I posted 1,678 times in 2021

348 posts created (21%)

1330 posts reblogged (79%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 3.8 posts.

I added 725 tags in 2021

#queue - 613 posts

#talkback - 33 posts

#auntshit - 13 posts

#meme - 12 posts

#bleep and blorp and trip - 10 posts

#casa del hawkeyes - 10 posts

#anonymous - 9 posts

#my fic - 9 posts

#spoilers - 8 posts

#all your favorites are jewish - 8 posts

Longest Tag: 112 characters

#and i will treasure this timsasha and this chintasha and this random gif set of two birds shitting on alex jones

My Top Posts in 2021

#5

Apropos of recent events, I want to tell you all a story.

In 2006 or 7, I worked as an assistant stage manager on a show at my college. In the climax of the show a man showed up with a gun and shot at the main family’s house.

Part of my job, as a 22-year-old college student, was to be responsible for the gun.

That gun was plastic, and the barrel was blocked at both ends. It could not have fired anything, it just made a noise. It was likely intended to be a starter pistol before we got to it.

But it was kept in a locked box, welded to the bottom of a prop cabinet. I had one of two keys, and it was not to be off my person at any time. Literally, when I went to the gym, that key was with me.

Before every show, I would open the box and inspect and load the gun. I would take it to Roy, the actor who had to shoot it, and give him the same speech.

“This is your gun. This is the same gun I gave you yesterday. This gun cannot shoot. You can tell that because the barrel is blocked at both ends. I have loaded it with blanks."

I showed him the barrel and the blanks.

"Please take your gun. Are you ready to shoot your gun?"

He would confirm he was ready.

"Gunfire on stage!"

He would fire the gun to make sure it worked the way I promised.

"Thank you, please return your gun. Do you feel safe and comfortable?”

He would confirm. We literally did this before every show, probably 20-25 times in total. After he shot it at fight call, the gun went back in the box and the key was on my person. It didn’t come out again until the second act, where it would be in a holster on my hip. The gun did not leave my person until I handed it to Roy. The first thing he did when he stepped off stage was put it back in my hands. I would unload it and put it away.

People have asked me "what if someone swapped out the gun?" I would have known. It would've been heavier and made of metal. "What if someone swapped out the bullets?" They also would have been heavier, and the balance would have been off. Also, the barrel was blocked, so probably the gun would have exploded when he pulled the trigger, and I don't think actual bullets would fit in a cap gun. "What if someone had murdered you and given him the wrong gun in your place?" Well, I would have had other problems, I guess? But also Roy would have noticed that the gun was off when it was given to him.

But the point is this; both Roy and I were taught to have respect for the fact that we were handling a weapon. Literally, the only damage that gun could have done to a human would have been pinching my fingers when I loaded it, or maybe if you chose to throw it at someone. But it was deadly serious, and we took it as such. Weapons get used on stage and in movies, and they're not toys. It is on both the actor and the crew to ensure that they are taking shit seriously, and keep everyone safe. Halyna Hutchins deserved to be protested by her cast and crew, and it is a fucking travesty that she wasn't.

313 notes • Posted 2021-10-24 02:20:01 GMT

#4

This piece is lovingly entitled “fuck glow in the dark floss”

2494 notes • Posted 2021-09-21 04:33:16 GMT

#3

also my new favorite question to ask teenagers is "oh, did you learn about that on a tick tick?" because FRIENDS the colors they turn

15149 notes • Posted 2021-10-12 22:02:42 GMT

#2

Hey, take it from someone creeping towards 40:

Ignore the fun police.

If you like it, order your steak well done. Get your bagel toasted with jam and butter. Put ice in your scotch and ketchup on your hotdog. Get red wine with fish and white with steak. Who cares?

If you want to, listen to pop music. Watch blockbuster popcorn flicks. Read dime store novels. Enjoy them.

Dye your hair or cut it off. Paint your fingernails blue. Wear whatever the fuck you want on your own time (ie, when not at a job or school or whatever where you can get penalized for breaking rules) as long as you aren’t like welding or shoveling snow.

Anyone who tries to tell you you’re wrong? Say “okay” and go back to what you were doing. You’re not hurting them by enjoying yourself or having things the way you like them.

There are no caveats or addendums to this. No “but what about x?” Nah. You’re allowed the things you like. You don’t have to justify your taste or apologize for it if it’s not hurting anyone.

And likewise, let other people live their lives. We’re all dead in the long run, so tend your own garden before you become fertilizer in it.

38956 notes • Posted 2021-02-10 05:12:27 GMT

#1

legit the best advice i can give you: feed your friends

any time someone is in any kind of crisis or upheaval, offer to feed them. tell them they don't have to choose what it is if they can't make decisions, just ask about allergies and preferences and tell them you're just gonna make food happen at their house.

friend having a baby? delivery gift certificate to order food to the hospital after the kid shows up.

someone's relative passes away? offer to make them dinner.

buddy gets laid off? ask if you can order them lunch.

pal stuck in a depressive episode? offer to drive them to fucking mcdonalds, if that's what they want.

people in crisis are tired and sad and angry and the last thing most of them are doing is thinking about feeding themselves. so if you have the ability or time or money, providing that is always, always a good move.

legit i do this all the time, and it is 100% always appreciated. i have taught all my friends that when something happens, we feed each other. it makes people feel extremely cared for, and I cannot recommend it enough.

92024 notes • Posted 2021-11-07 18:30:21 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

#my 2021 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

[whumpywhumper]

Photographic Evidence

Please see the new Markus/Lucien Series: Masterpost

This follows shortly after: Here to Help there’s a little time skip with some mentions of things that haven’t been written yet, but it’s fairly obvious what’s been skipped over. 

Tagging: @oceanthesarcasamfox @insanitywishes @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @imagination1reality0 @voidwhump @captivity-whump

Huge shout out to both @0idril0 and @rosesareviolentlyread: I would not keep writing without you two, and Idril puts up with way too many questions. 

Also, @walkingchemicalfire HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!! Have 6k words :P 

TW: aftermath of captivity; aftermath of abuse; graphic depictions of injury and medical treatment; mentions of potential brain injury. Please, let me know if there’s something specific I’ve overlooked. 

V***V

“Look, ma’am, I’m just trying to do my job. I didn’t meant to—“ 

“I don’t give a fuck what you meant to do, you are endangering my patient. Get. Out.” 

Ben heard the raised voices from the other end of the bullpen, turning with the nurses and other police officers to see what the commotion was about. Not that it was the only commotion taking place, they were less than a day out from one of the biggest raids NYPD had seen in decades and there was a truck-load of uniformed officers and plain clothes detectives milling around the harried nurses, but this particular commotion sounded volatile.  

Eyeing the crowd, Ben saw that he was likely the ranking officer available to mediate the dispute and sighed. 

He was exhausted, sweaty, and still in his tactical pants from the raid. His head was killing him, and his eyes were blurring and scratching with the need to find his glasses. He had no idea where Kincaid or Holland were located, and this was the very last thing he wanted to be doing right now. He didn’t, however, hesitate to heft his stack of files and the clip board he’d been using to take notes on his interviews, and step toward the room. The room was like many of the others on this floor, glass walls with curtains that protected the patient’s privacy, and made them convenient for private interviews. That they also just so happened to be the hospital’s more intensive stay rooms was not something he was trying to think too hard about, guilt that they were interrupting the hospital’s natural rhythm settling heavy in his gut. 

At this point, there was no telling who was inside this particular room, the victims had been shuffled like a back alley shell game as they tried to make sense of who needed to go where. He was pretty sure he’d already conducted three separate interviews in the room next door, and it wasn’t even noon. 

There was a uniformed officer inside, the creases and pressed nature of his uniform screaming rookie, with his back to the door. His hands were at his hips as he tried to, quite unsuccessfully, stare down a tiny brunette nurse standing in front of a bed. There was practically a storm cloud over the woman’s head, her dark eyes flinty as she poked him in the chest. “I’m not going to ask you again,” the woman threatened, her voice soft over a rolling hispanic accent. 

Reading the tags on the door, Ben quickly grabbed a face mask and juggled his precarious paper burden to slip it on, before knocking on the door jam and sticking his head inside. “Is there a problem here?” 

The rookie turned sharply on his heel, and Ben’s eyes caught that he didn’t have a mask on, but his attention was drawn away when the nurse’s gaze snapped toward him as well. Ben winced at the vitriol in her expression, even half-covered by the mask, and prepared himself to soothe some ruffled feathers. 

“Yes, there’s a problem here. Your officer is endangering my patient, and he needs to leave. Now.” 

The rookie, Peters, from his lapel, sighed and held up the camera hanging from a strap around his neck. “Sir, Captain Holland asked me to get pictures of the victims and their injuries. I’m just trying to do that, but she’s interfering.” 

“That is not the issue and you know it.” The woman’s eyes flashed, and she crossed her arms over her chest. 

The young officer turned on her with bared teeth, apparently repeating something he’s said to her before. “Captain Holland told me not to get in the way of the nurses or bother them. I’m not trying to hurt your patient.”  

Ben could feel his head throbbing as his migraine grew, and pressed his lips together, trying for a calm, measured tone as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ma’am, it really is very important that we collect the necessary evidence from the victims. I’m sure if you and Officer Peters can cooperate—” 

“Cooperate? You think this is an issue of cooperation?!” The storm fell with a fury, and Ben’s eyes widened as the nurse’s voice raised, words coming faster and faster. “If he’d asked for help then there would be no issue, but moving a critical care patient by himself and almost ripping out his chest tube is absolutely an issue.” She drew herself up to her full height, the top of her head coming up to Ben’s shoulder, the force of her spat words making him want to lean away. “I don’t care if you don’t know his name, but he’s my patient, and I won’t let you to hurt him out of ignorance.” 

Ben blinked, eyes shooting to the still form on the bed. It felt like he’d been punched in the gut when he recognized the pale skin and dark hair, and his breath left him in a sharp exhale. 

The John Doe that he and Kincaid had transported from the nest was still intubated, the tube pulling the side of his mouth painfully from where the apparatus holding it in place had been knocked askew. There was a wetness to his lashes which spoke of fake tears and absolutely no color had returned to those pale cheeks. Ben’s eyes were drawn lower, to where the blankets had been pulled away from the younger man’s torso, vicious red droplets of blood staining the white sheets where a chest tube, amongst others, was running under the mostly unconnected gown. 

Ben felt his expression harden and his shoulders straightened from their fatigued slouch. He turned from the nurse’s rage to look down on the rookie, whose eyes widened at the cold fury on Ben’s face. “You tried to turn this patient without the assistance of one of the nursing staff? What are you? Stupid?!” 

“No! Sir! I was just—“ A slashing hand motion cut Peters off, and his teeth clacked together with the speed of his jaw closing. 

“I don’t give a shit what Holland ordered. Use your goddamn brain, Officer.” Ben’s voice was seething between his teeth, and he used his free hand to grab the young man’s shoulder and swing him around so that he could face the patient in the bed. “You could have killed him, do you get that? Use your brain and ask questions next time.” 

The rookie, wisely, did not say anything other than a quiet, “Yes, sir.” 

“Good.” Ben took a deep, calming breath, wincing as the ache of his head turned into a knife behind his eye. “Now, give me that camera and take these to the conference room at the end of the hall. Report to Holland, and let him know that I’ve put you on filing duty. Explain to him what happened, and if what I hear from him does not match what actually happened then we are going to have words. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, Lieutenant.” Peters nodded, not quite meeting his gaze as the camera and folders exchanged hands. 

The younger officer left the room quickly after that, and Ben closed his eyes as he fought to control his temper, his fingers massaging against his eyelids in an effort to push away the headache for a few more hours. Of all of the stupid, idiotic, ill-conceived. . . 

The nurse cleared her throat, and Ben jumped, shooting her an apologetic glance at her over his mask. He adjusted the angle of his shoulders, giving her a slight nod. “Ma’am, I apologize for Officer Peters behavior and thoughtless actions.” The professional apology slid out of his mouth automatically, belaying the still swirling protective drive that was making his heart pound in his chest. “It is never our intention to put victims at any more risk than they’ve already been.” 

She nodded at him, her expression easing out of its angry cast at the sincerity in his words. “Thank you, Lieutenant—?” 

“Carter,” he answered, offering her his hand to shake until he saw her gloves and retracted it. “Lieutenant Benjamin Cater, but please, I answer to Ben.” 

Ben tried to smile at her, even with the futility of the mask hiding his expression, but it felt hollow even to him. Usually, he was charming, flirtatious even, but he was exhausted. He hadn’t slept in over twenty four hours, had forced himself through the adrenaline crash following the raid, and he didn’t know how long it would be before he got to sit down, let alone sleep. He was tempted to cry. 

“Now,” Ben took a deep breath and set the camera on the empty chair, “before I address that again—“ he glanced at her badge “—Ms. Dominguez, would you like some help resettling your patient?” 

She raised her eyebrow, looking him up and down shrewdly. “Call me Catrina,” she huffed and uncrossed her arms with an eye roll, “pick up the camera, and I’ll help you after I check him over.” 

He felt himself relax a little. At least he wouldn’t have to sweet talk her into helping him after all. “Thank you, it really is important that we get these photos as soon as possible.” 

“It’s always important,” Catrina muttered, turning to the John Doe. “Get some gloves and a gown before you even think about touching my patient,” she instructed him sternly. 

Ben didn’t even consider arguing, and did as he was told. After he suited up, he snagged the camera by the strap and stepped to the opposite side of the bed from Catrina, his back to the door. 

Catrina was carefully adjusting the apparatus holding the intubation tube in place, freeing the younger man from the painful pull on his mouth. “Okay, there you go, cariño,” she said softly, almost to herself. He felt his estimation of her go up another notch when she fully addressed the John Doe, her voice only a little louder. “We’re going to turn you now, Mr. Doe, so I can check your chest tube.” 

Ben watched her steady hands as she folded back the blanket and unsnapped the shoulder of Doe’s gown, uncovering the mottled purple skin of his chest. He’d seen it in the nest of course, but the light of the lantern and flashlights had done a poor job of actually showing the damage. In the full brightness of the fluorescent hospital light, the damage was stark and told a story of overlapping misery. With all of the trauma and bruising, Ben felt like it shouldn’t be possible, but he was sure that he could see the impression the heels of his hands had left on Doe’s sternum from where Ben had tried to keep the other man alive. 

He swallowed hard, shaking himself out of his self-recriminations, as Catrina folded the Doe’s arm across his torso in a way that didn’t pose a danger to the other IV lines or drains, and, at her head tilt, he helped her pull Doe on his side so that she had better access. One of his broad palms covered the swell of Doe’s shoulder, the other the jut of his hip over the gown, and Ben tried to ignore the impression of holding eggshell in his hands, conscious of the bones so close to the surface that Ben could feel them shifting. 

The new position revealed the tube Peters had apparently almost ripped out. The white gauze around the chest tube was stained red, and with Ben helping her, Catrina’s hands were free to peel back the bloody bandages to fully reveal the intrusion to Doe’s body. The thick plastic tube was as wide as one of his fingers at the fattest knuckle, protruding from between his ribs with jagged black stitches holding it in place. His stomach swooped at the dark liquid being pulled through the drain, and he shook his head, tsking between his teeth. “You had to replace the chest tube.”  

The brunette nurse looked at him askance, eye brow raised. Her eyebrows were very expressive, Ben noted.  “And how do you know that?” she asked. 

He took a deep breath, gesturing with his chin. “Fresh stitches, and it wasn’t pulling blood at the extraction site.”   

She blinked, connecting the dots, and tilted her head to look up at him through her lashes. “You’re the one who found him.” 

Ben nodded. “My partner and I were the ones who brought him in.” 

“Everyone was talking about how you rode in here on that gurney like a pro,” she acknowledged, her hands never faltering as she re-bandaged her patient and tested the patency of the drain. 

He hummed, unable to find the heart to feel anything other than sad about the circumstances of that story. He did not like having to perform CPR. He especially did not like having to perform CPR on nameless victims. 

Catrina picked up on his somber mood, and dropped the subject.  “That should do it, Mr. Doe,” she said to her patient, “We need to get a better look as some of the injuries, so we’re gonna be moving you, but it shouldn’t take long, okay?” Obviously not expecting an answer, she looked at Ben with a raised eyebrow. “How do you want to do this?”

“Help me move him, and I get photos of all of his injuries. Even the little details can help us break the case.” 

“That’s going to be really stressful on him, Ben,” Catrina said, shaking her head. “He’s got a lot of injuries.” 

They were both silent for a moment, their gloved hands keeping Doe on his side, the rasp of the ventilator filling the air. Ben could see the level of damage that they were dealing with, and it made him nauseous to think about everything else that was hidden by the gown. He knew a lot of it, but there was only so much he’d been able to see at the nest itself. 

“I hear you,” Ben acknowledged, “We’ll do what we can, and you make the call on when we need to stop, okay?” Catrina nodded her agreement. “Since he’s already on his side, let’s get his back.” 

Their hands swapped position, and Ben stepped to the other side of the bed as he fished out the forensic scale from one of the many pockets in his tactical pants. With the blankets pushed down and none of the ties done on the gown, the patient’s entire back was visible, and there was a cold sympathy circling in Ben’s gut as he took a photo of the exposed length of his back and shoulder, motioning Catrina to move her arm out of the shot. Moving closer, he placed the scale against the other man’s skin, taking photos closer and closer. There was a massive bruise across the breadth of his upper back, the green tinges at the edge putting the healing at most a few weeks old. If Ben had to guess, it was probably from being slammed into a wall. Or the floor. 

Catrina moved her hand at his gentle nudge, and Ben shifted the scale again, taking a photos of a bullet scar in the John Doe’s shoulder. “How old do you think that is?” he asked quietly. 

The nurse clicked her tongue, pondering. “There’s no telling, a couple of months at least.” 

He nodded, taking pictures of a clearly defined hand print on his bicep. Fitting his hand over the bruises, Ben stretched his fingers, noting that his hand didn’t have quite the reach as Doe’s attacker. “Definitely a male,” he noted under his breath, feeling his eyebrows draw together when he imagined how much force would be necessary to cause bruises that deep. Definitely a vamp, he thought. Tugging away the lingering edge of the gown, Ben got photos of the bruises that trawled along his ribs, placing the scale on several different boot marks. One of the blotchy marks lower on Doe’s side was the impression of the sole of a shoe, a popular brand name etched into his skin. “Fucking hell,” he muttered. 

“You’ll want to get this one,” Catrina interjected, her hand sliding to the back of Doe’s head. 

Stepping around Catrina, he examined where she was indicating, and his stomach bottomed out. The other man’s neck was a symphony of healing bruises, the equidistant fang marks littering up and down the column of his throat, but at the nape of his neck was a bruise on the latter stages of healing. Even as healed as it was, Ben could make out the bite mark. This wasn’t just the penetration of fangs, it was the clear oval of someone’s teeth, the top and bottom of the impression on either side of his neck. 

“Goddamnit,” he cursed, a steady thrum of rage kicking up in his chest. Ben closed his eyes for a moment. Trying to get a rein on his eroding temper. 

That bruise wasn’t just an injury. It was degrading and possessive. Marking. For a vamp to use all of his teeth in an attack like that, when he’d clearly had physical control of the victim. . . Ben could guess some of the reasons for the location of the injury.  He shook off the anger, taking several different photos of the teeth marks, including the ones over his jugular.  

“I think that’s all for this side, he’s got bruises on the opposite hip and leg, but you can get pictures of those when he’s laying back down.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” Ben responded, following Catrina’s instructions as he helped her role him back to his supine position. Ben’s hands were shaking slightly as he helped Catrina unsnap the rest of the gown hiding Doe’s torso, and he consciously stilled them. It didn’t matter that peeling back that flimsy material was like peeling away the curtain on a horror show, it had to be done. With Catrina’s help, he removed the white gauze hiding the incisions that had been made, both old and new, that covered the massive trauma that was John Doe’s existence. There were more openings to his body than should have ever occurred: drains and tubes tunneling into his torso; IV’s and catheters pumping him full of fluids, medications and fresh blood; incision and stitched stab wounds that introduced staples and stitches in varying sizes. It was a travesty of cruelty and pain that stripped Ben’s heart to the marrow. 

He did what he could to preserve the John Doe’s modesty, but Ben took every photo that he could to document the injuries that littered Doe’s wrecked frame. Too many to focus on, unexplainable bruises and abrasions, the unwritten history of torment. 

Ben could tell that the younger man had taken care of himself before being taken, the lingering muscles in his chest and stomach speaking of someone who had been in shape before captivity. But what he had gone through was wasting him, making Doe appear fragile and weak with every mechanical breath as his chest rose and fell. “God bless, sweetheart,” Ben muttered, the flash blinding him again as he captured the image of the huge bruise that engulfed Doe’s hip and thigh, crawling down to his knee. The swollen tissue there was clearly painful, telling of a lot of damage. “What’s this injury?” Ben asked, looking at Catrina. 

She stood at the foot of the bed, her arms crossed over her chest as she watched her patient and the monitors for signs of distress. “Torn ligaments and muscle damage.” Stepping forward, she unvelcroed the compression devise from around his calf, stripping it down to his foot. “You’re going to want a picture of that too,” she said, tone dark as she revealed a black hand print on her patient’s ankle. 

“For fuck’s sake,” Ben spat. The headache he’d been ignoring flared to life with a vengeance, and he pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, blinking forcefully to force away the pain. This guy had been through so much shit, and Ben wasn’t even done taking pictures. 

“Are you alright?” Catrina asked, grabbing him by the shoulder.  

“Yeah, yeah, it’s just been a shit 48 hours.” He shook her off, taking pictures of the dark marks around his ankle. They looked like they were the same size as the ones on his arms, but they’d have to get an accurate measurement later. 

From there, he had Catrina help him remove the bandages and splint around his wrists and hands, taking more photos of the damage there. He noted the overlapping finger marks from where he’d either been held down or held in place, and carefully, he traced the lines that wrapped around his wrists, the rough scabs and deeper abrasions from too tight cuffs. “You’re a fucking fighter, Bambi,” Ben muttered, splaying Doe’s long, nimble fingers over the blanket to get photos of his regrowing fingernails. 

Catrina scoffed under her breath, already working on recovering and rebandaging her patient, “you can say that again.” 

The last thing Ben took photos of was Doe’s face. Which was the opposite of the procedure that he normally followed, making sure the victim came before their injuries, but desperate, overworked times. 

Doe’s features were slack, the intubation tube resting on dry, cracked lips. The delicate skin of his face was peppered with bruises, the arch of one cheek bone split, a sharp angle from some kind of corner marring the otherwise unmarked expanse of his forehead in green tinged memory. His thick, dark lashes were fanned over the purple half-moons under his eyes, the color so deep Ben wasn’t sure if they were from a black eye or lack of rest.

Examining the bruises scattered across the bottom of his face, Ben squinted and found the shape of the black marks even under the apparatus holding the breathing tube in place. 

More finger marks. 

He didn’t have the energy to curse again. There weren’t words for what had been done to Doe. All Ben could do was finish taking pictures. 

When he straightened from his stoop over the bed, Ben’s vision swam, and Catrina’s firm grip on his elbow steadied him, kept him from toppling over. “Damn...” he groaned, pressing against his temple, head splitting open with the fury of its ache. 

“When was the last time you ate something, Ben?” Catrina asked, her quick, accented speech softening slightly as she pushed him toward the empty chair. 

“Um?” The noise was more than a little sheepish, and he rubbed the back of his neck, plopping down into the chair without resistance as his legs tried to give out under him. “Does it mean that my memory is shit if I can’t remember or just that it was that long ago?” 

She rolled her eyes, pressing him forward until his elbows rested on his knees and his head was hanging. “Stay there, don’t pass out, I’ll be right back.” In a blur of blue scrubs and yellow gown , Catrina left the room. Leaving Ben alone with her patient, the quiet beeps of monitors, and the steady pump of the ventilator. 

After a few seconds, the dark vertigo inducing throb of his head let up, and Ben lifted his face out of his hands. “Well, pumpkin,” he said, addressing the still form on the bed, “I hope you’ll forgive the lack of professionalism.” He smiled sadly, rolling closer so that he could take Doe’s hand between his own. “It’s been a hell of a long day, you know?” 

Ben studied the other man’s face, looking past the bruises and tubing to the person beneath. He was handsome, whoever he was, the dark hair and pale skin contrasting to make him stand out rather than blend in. The faint beginnings of lines around his eyes made him seem like someone who was used to smiling. Someone Ben would’ve liked to know. 

He remembered those striking green eyes and how they’d stared at he and Kincaid—the vivid emerald color enunciated by the broken capillaries, probably a result of the blow that cut his cheek bone, creating a stain of red on the background of white. The fear that had no business being in his gaze. What kind of hell have you been through, sweetheart? 

The knowledge that this John Doe was a witch just amplified the horror that Ben was feeling. The fact that, in another life, this could be Kincaid in that bed.  Used as a plaything, as a junkie’s source, until he was a shell of who he really was—with no one knowing who he was or where he came from?—it killed him. This guy was clinging to life with blood coated tenacity, and no one even knew his fucking name.

Ben had no idea how long this guy had been held, the bruises not even a clear outline of what had been done to him. Vampire venom was an anticoagulant, amongst other properties, and most every vampire victim Ben had come across was anemic. It made for interesting bruising history, the marks of captivity and abuse lasting for weeks longer than they should. 

His teeth were grinding together, and Ben loosened the clench in his jaw, letting his frustration out in a shaky exhale. Fuck, he thought, I’m tired. 

It didn’t take long for Catrina to come back, and Ben looked up in time to accept the small box of apple juice and crackers from her. “Thanks,” he said, rolling away from her patient, far enough he was comfortable moving his gloves and mask to suck on the straw under her hawk eyed gaze. 

“Don’t mention it,” she said, another expressive movement of her eyebrows indicating that it really would be better forgotten. 

Catrina busied herself with her patient while Ben made sure he didn’t pass out, moving smoothly around the room to check a beeping drip and taking a new blood sugar. Ben watched her, fatigue coming for him in heavy waves. 

“What’s his prognosis?” he asked, the question slipping free while he rubbed at his blurry eyes. He had to ask it for his report, even if he knew the likelihood that it was a good answer was a nullity. Plus, there weren’t any loved ones here to ask, to worry about him, so Ben would have to do. 

The nurse looked at him, her dark eyes holding a well of emotion at bay.  “Not good,” she answered, voice solemn. “I’m going to give my report to Anna in about fifteen minutes at shift change if you want to sit in, she hasn’t been on with him yet so she’s going to get a full run down, but in short, not good.” She sighed, adjusting the pillow behind Doe’s head, breaking her gaze with Ben. “He’s having seizures, we suspect an anoxic brain injury.” 

The words hit hard. 

“Fuck, fuckfuckfuck,” he hissed, running his hands over his face and burying his fingers in his hair. Fuck. 

Anoxic brain injuries were caused by lack of oxygen. Commonly occurring during CPR. Which Ben gave Doe when he crashed in the ambulance. 

“Ben,” Catrina’s voice was adamant, she crossed to where he was sitting, her bright purple shoes invading his eye line as she put her hand on his shoulder.  “We don’t know how serious it is yet. It’s been, what? Eighteen hours since your raid? He’s been through emergency surgery and anesthesia and a whole lot of other things since he’s been here, but there’s still a lot we don’t know. You didn’t do this to him, okay?” 

He wanted to believe her. Logically, he knew that he didn’t do anything wrong. There was no way for him to do CPR better, no way for him to have gotten them to the hospital faster. The witch was so heavily injured at the nest that moving him was a risk, but it was a risk that they had to take. They couldn’t have left him there any longer, and he was going to crash whether they were there or not. It just so happened that Ben and Kincaid were able to get him help when it happened. There was no other option. 

So, logically, he knew he did everything he could. But. . . what could he have done better? 

Ben nodded, taking a shaky breath. It took a minute for his next words to come, but when they did, they evaporated from his tongue with a whisper. “He was conscious at the extraction,” his shoulders curled in, “he could answer questions. . . he was awake.” Her shoes blurred into a smear of purple, and he sniffed, swallowing hard against the tears. He was so fucking tired. 

Catrina’s inhale was soft, surprised, and her hand tightening  on his shoulder. 

“You know what that raid was for?” he asked, tipping his head up to look at her face. Even if it wasn’t openly stated in the reports, a lot of people would put two and two together. It just took a person who actually believed that there was the supernatural out there. 

At Catrina’s nod, he lowered his gaze again, feeling a tear slip down to dampen his mask. He closed his eyes, the scene playing out behind his eyelids. “Raids are these brief, staccato clips. They move so fucking fast, and you have to piece everything together afterward.” He shook his head, sighing heavily. “I haven’t. . . haven’t gotten the chance to do that yet.” 

Catrina didn’t press him, didn’t stop him either. She settled on her knee. Patient. Expectant. 

Ben swallowed, chest heavy. “When we first breached the building. . . “ he stared, words wet and slow, “there was this barrage of humans and vamps trying to get out. Until, just, one second to the next—“ he made a poof motion with his hand, “—they were just gone. I don’t know what happened, how they got out.” His eyes were wide, unseeing, and he didn’t feel his body shaking. “There were a few stragglers, but otherwise it was this dark silence that made the hair stand up on the back of your neck.

“After every corner, we expected there to be a hoard of them ready to pounce on us. Every sense was on high alert for any noise, some small—“ his face screwed up in search of the right word, “—animal corner of your mind trying to feel where the predator was going to come from. Our teams cleared most of the compound by the time we made it up to the clinic, but so much was still unknown.” His breath hitched, and he let go of his hair, his hands falling between his knees. Shaking. “We didn’t have any idea what we were walking into, really. There wasn’t much to it, just some curtains and medical supplies. It was innocuous.” 

He paused again, licking his lips behind the mask. Nose not quite stuffed enough to miss the medicinal smell of the disposable shield. “The other rooms on the floor were all empty, everywhere you expected someone to be was empty. So when we heard the machines, it was just background noise. Enough to know we needed to be on guard, but we were on guard anyway.

“We have these flashlights on the ends of our guns,” he said, waving a hand in vague explanation,” and the lights jump around, create these jerky splashes of light and shadow on the walls. They’re useful, but it also makes you jumpy as hell.” Another tear slipped free, dripping down to plop quietly onto the sleeve of his crinkly, yellow gown. “When we pulled back that curtain. . . I think the only thing that saved him was the fact that he couldn’t move.” Shame flushed through him, and his bit his lip, throat closing up over his words as he fought to explain himself. “None of us expected to see someone in that clinic. In the cells below? Sure. In the quarters with the vamps? Yeah. But for some reason, we all expected that clinic to be empty once we got up there.”

Ben blew out a choked breath, almost a sob, tucking his chin against his chest before he continued.

“The sinking feeling that went through my gut when I saw that figure on the bed. Fuck. For a second, everybody just froze.” Logically, Ben knew that he should be filtering his words. That he should stop. That Catrina didn’t need to hear about how scared her patient was when he was found, or what it did to Ben to see him like that, but the words wouldn't stop. “He was so scared. Hands flat—“ Ben flattened his own for a second in demonstration, “—on the bed like he could be any threat to anyone in the condition that he was in, like he wasn’t already strapped down and helpless” 

Catrina’s breath caught, and he saw her gloved hand go shakily to her mouth. 

“I’ve got a lot of training,” he wiped at his eyes, looking into Catrina’s dark eyes, unsurprised to find tears there too, “enough to know that how they were treating him. . . “ He shook his head, unable to put it into words. She would know better than he would anyway.  “He was too weak to talk, but the way he looked at us. . . “ Tears were choking him, and he couldn’t get a full breath. “And now. . . now. . .” 

He wasn’t expecting the arms pulling him in, the warmth of Catrina’s embrace, but he gave in to it all the same. His head rested heavily on her shoulder, her gloved hand on the back of his hair, the latex pulling slightly at the short strands there. Her breaths weren’t steady either, and he heard her cursing quietly under her breath, her voice shaking. 

When they pulled apart, Catrina looked him dead in the eye, her hand tight on his bicep. “It wasn’t your fault, okay?  What he needs, now, is for us to take care of him and for you to find out who did this, and who he is. Find where he belongs, right?” Another tear escaped, her mascara smudged underneath her eyelashes. 

Ben nodded, sniffling quietly before he rubbed his tears away with the back of hand. “Yeah. . .” he cleared his throat, taking a deep breath and straightening his shoulders, “yeah, we’re gonna find who did this.” 

They both looked over to the John Doe, his unconscious figure unchanged from where Catrina had left him. 

Ben was going to find who did this if it was the last thing he ever did. 

#Markus/Lucien Series #Protective Caretaker #Crying Caretaker #Medical Whump #Hurt/Comfort #Angst #Unconscious Whumpee #Intubated Whumpee #Chest Tube #Exhausted Caretaker #Urban fantasy setting #All will be revealed #captivity #abuse #graphic depictions of injury #graphic depictions of medical treatment

[ourimpavidheroine]

You always post your writing soundtracks. Mind sharing your top ten albums with us?

I actually laughed when I read this because I’m thinking of the Anon who complained that all of my music was OLD. I mean. I’m old! What did you expect?

Never mind me, I’m easily amused. Thank you for using the word album so I would not feel like Lady Danbury with my lethal cane.

Yes, sure I can do that! I don’t know that these are my forever and ever amen top ten, but they are the ones that are coming to mind right now. So.

Under a cut, it’s long. 

In no particular order.

Brutal Youth - Elvis Costello

My ex-husband was in love with Elvis Costello and who could blame him? The man is a genius lyricist. This is not one of his more commercially popular albums but I love every single track. (I also lined up at Ticketmaster in Oakland, CA when the man was touring in order to get tickets for my ex. I got there at midnight and spent the night, meeting a group of drag queens who were getting tickets to see Barbara Streisand. God, that was a fun night, we ate donuts one of them went on a donut run for and sang showtunes for hours. One of my favorite memories.) This verse, from Clown Strike, is one that has resonated with me since I first heard it.

Tell me what you want of me Or are you terrified of failure? You put on a superstitious face Behind all this paraphernalia We're not living in a masquerade Where you only have three wishes It isn't easy to see In a lifetime of mistaken kisses

Unrepentant Geraldines - Tori Amos

I remember the first time I heard a Tori Amos song. It was the summer directly after I’d graduated from college, I was driving my ex-husband’s car and Silent All These Years came on the radio and I was just fucking gobsmacked. I bought Little Earthquakes that day and haven’t looked back. I have all her albums. I am a big, big fan.

Unrepentant Geraldines, though. God. It came out the year before my wife died and it got me through her death. The song Weatherman is about a man losing his wife, and how he sees her in the nature surrounding him. 

And. 

No, sorry, I can’t write more about this, not right now. But I sing it to her sometimes. 

He is not a weatherman But his bride lies with the land And she will whisper to him I'll be dressing up in snow Cloaked in echo it's almost As if only Nature knows How to paint his wife to life With every season's tone "One more look from her eyes One more look can you paint her back to life"

Ray of Light - Madonna

This album got me through my divorce from my ex-husband. I’d go out every single day during my lunch hour, this on my walkman, and walk and walk and walk until I got myself in enough control to go back and finish my work day. It’s a great album and I still listen to it a lot. It empowers me. And then my daughter was born and Ray of Light has always been her song to me, even though that wasn’t the song on the album that Madonna herself wrote for her daughter.

Faster than the speeding light she's flying Trying to remember where it all began She's got herself a little piece of heaven Waiting for the time when Earth shall be as one And I feel like I just got home And I feel And I feel like I just got home And I feel

Seven and the Ragged Tiger - Duran Duran

This one was a difficult choice. For one thing, I really love their album Big Thing, which almost nobody’s heard about but one I love deeply. This one though...I think it’s the memories, including going to see them at the Oakland Coliseum with my cousin during their tour for this album and finding out they were partially filming the video for The Reflex that night. I like to think of us as being one of those girls in the audience. (Although I wasn’t screaming. I am a Capricorn. Have some dignity.) Duran Duran were responsible for my first fanfic and I’ve had a love for them since my Dad bought me their first album for my 13th birthday. I am nothing if not loyal. I have all of their early albums, all of their 12″ singles, too, including Secret Oktober, which I have always loved with a passion.

Also, Roger Taylor can still get it.

Freefall on a windy morning shore nothing but a fading track of footsteps Could prove that you never been there Spoken on a cotton cloud like the sound of gunshot taken by the wind And lost in distant thunder racing on a shining plain And tomorrow you'll be content to watch as the lightning plays along the wires and you'll wonder

Touch - Eurythmics

Another band I still love and listen to on the regular. Annie Lennox could sing me the telephone book and I’d be thrilled. Seeing her at age 14 in the Sweet Dreams video for the first time in my Grandmother’s living room quite literally woke something in me that led to moving across the world for a woman years later. (GOD.) I have all of their albums and choosing a favorite is difficult but this one won by a narrow margin, if only for the song Regrets, which is one of the songs that describes me until I became a mother, really. Like I RESONATED with that song. Still does in certain ways, if I am being truthful to myself.

I've got a delicate mind I've got a dangerous nature And my fist collides With your furniture I've got a delicate mind I've got a dangerous nature And my fist collides With your furniture I'm an electric wire And I'm stuck inside your head

Combat Rock - The Clash

Ah, teenage Impavid first understanding that music can also be political. Listen, I didn’t know much about what was going on outside of my own miniscule sphere - I was young and the internet didn’t exist yet. We got what news we got from our local paper and TV stations and they weren’t really reporting on what was happening in the world, not in 1982, let me fucking assure you. I got this album because my Dad was a part time DJ at a radio station that played mostly country music and the general manager of the station would just toss the rest of the non-country albums they’d get as promotions. My Dad would bring them home to me to listen to. You can imagine thirteen year old me listening to this album that opened with “This is a public service announcement - with guitars!” going WHAT THE FUCK? Let me just say there were a lot of trips to the library to read various newspapers after that.

Not to mention Rock the Casbah. What was a muezzin? I had no idea. I spent half a year reading books about Islam, about the Middle East and Northern Africa, which led to a curiosity about other religions beyond the Roman Catholicism in which I’d been raised, about other cultures as well. This album and The Color Purple by Alice Walker were the two things in my teen years that woke me the fuck up.

Now the king told the boogie men You have to let that raga drop The oil down the desert way Has been shakin' to the top The sheik he drove his Cadillac He went a' cruisin' down the ville The muezzin was a' standing On the radiator grille

Synchronicity - The Police

This fucking album. This fucking album. This album reached deep down into me and pulled out my soul and kicked it around for awhile. Every single song on this album hit me like a brick wall. Still does. Most likely always will.

Listen, you either like King of Pain or you live it. There’s no in between.

There's a little black spot on the sun today It's the same old thing as yesterday There's a black hat caught in a high tree top There's a flag pole rag and the wind won't stop I have stood here before inside the pouring rain With the world turning circles running 'round my brain. I guess I'm always hoping that you'll end this reign, But it's my destiny to be the king of pain...

Sign O’ The Times - Prince 

The soundtrack to my University days. Jesus, it starts out with “In France a skinny man died of a big disease with a little name,” and it just keeps going. Pain, sex, wonder, glory, politics, love. It’s all there. I wore the vinyl out on this one. Amazing, amazing album. In fact, I still play it so often my kids practically know it by heart, and they don’t even like Prince!

To this day I think If I Was Your Girlfriend is the sexiest song ever written.

I will tell you this much: Sayuri’s main writing soundtrack song is Starfish and Coffee off the album, the same song I used to sing my kids as a lullaby. This should tell you a lot about her.

Cynthia wore the prettiest dress With different color socks Sometimes I wondered if the mates where in her lunchbox Me and Lucy opened it when Cynthia wasn't around Lucy cried, I almost died, U know what we found? Starfish and coffee Maple syrup and jam Butterscotch clouds, a tangerine And a side order of ham If U set your mind free, honey Maybe you'd understand Starfish and coffee Maple syrup and jam

Nina Simone Sings The Blues - Nina Simone

This was one of my Daddy’s albums. He loved it and so did I. As a child I just loved the sound of her voice - something in it both soothed me and pulled at me, made me want to run and just keep running. She still makes me feel like that. If you don’t know Nina Simone I urge you to change that, right now. There’s nobody at all like her. She’s irreplaceable. All of her material is good, not just her blues songs. Not to mention, she was an absolute brilliant genius at the piano, never mind the strength she had as a Black woman in a time when doors were shut in her face on a daily basis. Seriously. Read about her.

When I became a woman, of course, her songs took on a much deeper meaning for me, one that I could relate to. Isn’t that the hallmark of a good album, though? One that stays with you and changes with you? I think so.

If you’ve never heard her cover of I Put A Spell On You then do yourself a favor and go right now and listen. You’re welcome.

Oh and Buck from this album? Nuo to Wing, right there.

Also one of the sexiest songs ever written, this one. Especially how she sings it. The Hot Frenchman (have I ever told you about The Hot Frenchman? no? OH BOY THERE’S A STORY) told me he thought it was about drugs and I was like, honey, this tells me a whole lot about you, more than you probably wanted it to.

I want a little sugar In my bowl I want a little sweetness Down in my soul I could stand some lovin' Oh so bad I feel so funny and I feel so sad I want a little steam On my clothes Maybe I can fix things up So they'll go Whatsa matter Daddy Come on, save my soul I need some sugar in my bowl I ain't foolin' I want some sugar in my bowl

I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got - Sinéad O’Connor

This is a beautiful album, full of pain and joy, her hallmark. She sings every single word with everything in her; she’s far too intense for many, many people (and while she’s been open with her mental health struggles I’ve often wondered if she isn’t somewhere on the spectrum as well) but never for me. Her raw honesty has always appealed to me. She’s political, she’s a lover, a mother, a survivor of horrific abuse, someone who keeps reinventing herself as a way to find her way through pain. I always feel, when I am listening to her music, that I am bearing witness. I’m not afraid of pain; I’ve survived it as well. This album, one of her oldest, is still my favorite.

The line “You used to hold my hand when the plane took off” is the most evocative lyric I have ever heard with regards to the ending of love. It’s a punch to the heart - she felt it and she shared it with us, her fragile heart in her palms. Oh, Sinéad.

This is the last day of our acquaintance I will meet you later in somebody's office I'll talk but you won't listen to me I know what your answer will be I know you don't love me anymore You used to hold my hand when the plane took off Two years ago there just seemed so much more And I don't know what happened to our love

#personal #favorite albums #long post #Anonymous

[ofcloudsandstars]

Hey, dear! I've missed seeing you on my dash, how are you doing? What would you say your summer has been like? Sending lots of love and good vibes!

Ahhh this is so kind! I hope you have been well too. I am working on September’s forecast but I have been a bit slow since I am tired with some stuff going on. I am working on a sacred geometry virtual gallery for the plant alchemist mentor so I have been dizzy with motion sickness throwing this gallery together before the full moon haha. 

Last week I just got back from the most insane adventure that I may probably get around to writing another endlessly long post about haha. (editing this post, it turns out that THIS has become the endlessly long post about it haha so I am having a read more added). CW: sex details. It may be TMI but I added a warning before lol 

  Anyway I was having this mutual attraction with this italian guy I met through work who ALSO has a venus in Scorpio like me. We were going to go on a date but the world succumbed to The Plague. He returned to Puglia to be with his family as he quit the company and his apartment so he can just chill and live for free while he figures stuff out, but he was flirting with me through text all throughout lockdown and begging me to visit him when it was safer to travel so I was like: Oh yeah?!?!?! And I booked a 5 day long first date/vacation to Puglia to be with him lmaoo. Venus in Scorpio is intense as hell but we just be like that. My close aries witch friend moved to Southern Italy with her BF too for the time being so I was like ok if stuff goes south she can come save me but this guy like took me FARRR AWAY on the southern coast like 3 hours from her omg. He booked beautiful places like old medieval stone villas (omg one place had a wooden four poster bed, a stone fireplace with a cauldron and a huge color-changing hot tub jacuzzi next to the bed lmaoooo) and we ate endless seafood and went to the beach everyday. Only set back is we were NOT SEXUALLY COMPATIBLE at ALL and it’s really sad cause yeah I got his star chart and over analyzed it before going over there but sometimes I doubt myself like ohh not everyone is their starchart to a T, like you should give people a chance. But he was  e x a c t l y  like his star chart.

First he has A LOT of trines like a lot of fire energy which is great. He’s super passionate, but the trines means he is too chill and positive which is nice but it means he has little motivation to do anything. (Think when there are great trine transits happening, it’s FANTASTIC for doing magic and manifesting things but those days the energy is so chill and harmonious you don’t even want to do anything and they can easily pass you by.) Meanwhile my chart?? It’s fucking SQUARES ALL DAY BABEY like Squares, Oppositions and more Squares. I have something called the grand cross on my fucking chart lmao. So that means I overthink, I can get stressed easily, my life soundtrack is just this long anxiety ridden drum and base background music as I fucking parkour through endless obstacles of racism, sexism, gender identity, fleeing the states cause it’s becoming a totalitarian government, learning a bunch of european languages and skills in case I gotta flee england next, thinking about the future, thinking about my actions in the present, thinking about how I can learn from the wounds of my past, lmao everything is thought about at least 1000 times. I also have a lot of Saturn energy my chart is Saturn dominant so there is a lot of planning, structure and organizing to me. Meanwhile since he is hosting he never has a plan and is always ‘go with the flow’ so sometimes it makes me nervous cause the first place he booked was some GHETTO sex motel that looked like sex traffic was happening in there and I was in the middle of no where with him and I was nervous like praying to the Spirits of Nature and Venus to help me work this out haha. But it was ok. 

His life is so easy cause he’s like a handsome italian man with a mom that wants him to live at home with her until he finds a wife to mommy him. He never has to do any house work or really any work at all cause his parents will support him cause that’s normal in Italy. Honestly if I got with him I would never get that same treatment I would also be hauling ass in the background to cater to him and our kids until the day I die. He also doesn’t really understand what it’s like to be of a group of people ostracized by society. He is a hot cishet white man and has a whole community of good friends and a mom to support him with whatever he does.

He’s also like really traditional and was raised Christian. I told him I was a witch and he was like ohhhhhhhmyGOddddddd and thought it was fucking weird haha and I was like: YOU NEVER NOTICED ME AND ROXANNE (my aries witch friend who moved to Italy who literally wears massive metal pentagrams everyday) ARE WITCHES?! And he was like: I do not know about this haha. 

Lastly about his starchart which worried me when I first reviewed it is that our natal mars are at a square. I mean I have had sex with someone’s Mars in Aries before and it was great but his sex?? Was TERRIBLEEEE!!!!!!!!! TERRIBLEEEEEEEE OHHHH MY GOD. I am going to add a CW for some sex details in case you want to scroll but like: 

--

My Mars is in Cancer so I do like it to be sensual and cuddly with some oral action but he was like so terrible and disgusting and I feel like he probably only slept with girls in his country who may have been traditional like him and never said anything to him cause I am like I dunno how you got away with this for so long having terrible sex like this. Like so grabby and aggressive it fucking hurts like he would have left bruises and I hate that shit like sex is supposed to feel good!! I don’t mind if you grab my ass cause it’s just sacks of fat lol but my boobs have shit in them like glands you can’t be grabbing that!! And sorry this may be TMI but like I’d communicate with him all the spots I’d like him to go to cause they are the most sensitive ones and he’d just ATTACK THEM like some type of police dog sniffing hidden cocaine I am like BITCH CALM DOWN I literally would have to stop him so many times so he wouldn’t hurt me. And he once said: Oh but I like that (being aggressive in bed) and that annoyed me so much I was like: Oh so if you like aggression do you want me to grab and twist your balls in the same way? And he was like: no. lol 

And then his kissing was tErrible. He wouldn’t even start out sensual he would literally just shove his whole tongue in my mouth and it’d be slimy and terrible and tastes like the ash from the weed he’s always smoking and once during sex I bent down to make out with him and he literally just stuck his tongue out in preparation I paused like: NO!!! Like omg he got me so heated I am so heated just typing this lmao. I am also really sensitive with like sensory things and have misophonia so sometimes if certain stimulations are stimulating me the wrong way I get more put off than the usual person and sex is so intimate like every time he grabbed a sensitive part of me I wanted to slap him the fuck back haha. The funniest part though is when I’d give up on him trying to pleasure me (everything was terrible, the fingering was like someone who is in a rush to get the elevator and is jamming the button impatiently; the actual fucking was like.. off beat?? And he could NEVER LAST; he gave me head once but that was interesting I felt like he was trying to karate chop my clit with his tongue lmao I was like please stop omg) I was like fine ok just lie down and I will give you head and we can get this over with.. And when I gave him head for the first time he did not moan or anything he would just say: Mamma Mia!!; and FUCKING HELL it would kill the mood but also I couldn’t concentrate cause I’d be fucking laughing just choking on him laughing like I could NOT. 

-- End sex detail mention lol 

Anyway I am always wary of sex with Mars in Aries people but this experience is going to make me avoid them and have trust issues haha. Anyway I got a lovely free vacation in a beautiful region with incredible food. His friends were nice though my Italian is really terrible and nonexistent (omg also speaking about communication, he forgot most of his english so it was a challenge speaking to him haha). We were both wild as hell to do this even though we didn’t really know each other but whatever that’s the Scorpio in Venus. And in a perfect Scorpio fashion we may never see each other ever again because he may not return to London, I mean we pretty much fell out of infatuation with each other cause of the terrible sex chemistry and the only reason I have to return to that region of Italy is to see my witch friend there but there is a chance she is going to move to London again and she lives in a different city from him lol. 

So yeah I have been quiet over here but this is my current life. If you want to look at the gallery I am working on it’s in it’s rough draft form but you can find it here! 

https://www.artsteps.com/view/5f4946b290389d2f7d705e86

#personal #seiokona #back at it again with me never having a moment of chill lol

[heyvivalapluto]

james s. potter headcanons

gryffindor. gryffindor pride. gryffindor king. gryffindor apologist. gryffindor!!!

he honors his name. james AND sirius? come on, u were asking for trouble and make it double

he/him/they/them

“you look exactly like your father, but your eyes... you have your mother’s eyes.”

yup, it just hits hard, i know

punk punk punk

he’s actually a small/short man, which is adorable. although it kinda ruins his punk scary vibe. he’s just too cute to handle

short king

red is HIS color. i don’t make the rules. red was invented to be james sirius color

they have a red jacket and that jacket is their signature

he’s absolutely gorgeous.

if he’s short, he’s also bad tempered. it’s the law.

“punks respect pronouns”

“against all authorities, except mi mamá”

he likes to discuss all types of subjects with rose. he feels like she’s the only one who understands

“is crying in class punk rock?”

wears silver earrings.

FIGHT THE SYSTEM. FIGHT THE CISTEM

(fake) leather jacket, (fake) leather fingerless gloves, motorcycle and boots. bad boy vibes alright (but deep down he’s a good boi)

“respecting the environment and the planet is punk rock.”

they are one of the kindest people to ever walk on earth. seriously, they just have the best heart

“there’s bravery in being soft”

teddy lupin is his big brother. period

he will fight. anything, anyone. he’s a fighter. rose and james are the best duo.

popular? yes. but he’s popular not because of his family, but because he’s really soft, and talks to everyone and has the greatest smile. u can’t help but love this guy.

he also has the best hugs in his whole family (and THAT is saying something)

brown eyes supremacy.

he wears glasses (he doesn’t need to!) so his father is not alone on this aesthetic. and he can rock the style as well

“all cops are bastards” / “i’m a magical cop, son” / “i said what i said.” (a conversation between harry and james at some point)

antifa

they are hilarious. you can’t be around them for too long and not laugh.

doesn’t care about school, to be honest. he’s an average kid when it comes to grades.

he studies hard enough to pass, but that’s all. james never wants to disappoint his parents.

even if he believes schools are all a governmental scheme

steven hyde is his comfort character

dog person

“i feel like you’re tying to tell me what to do, so i’m gonna do the opposite.”

their patronous is a panther

he’s really into sports, because of ginny. he used to train with her (when she went to the gym) while she was still on the holy harpies. he was little at the time, but he really wanted to train with his mom, because she’s so cool

he refused to be part of the quidditch team, because the captain at the time was an ass and he would never obey to that idiot.

years later, when rose became captain, he entered the team

momma’s boy alright

remember i said he was a fighter? he actually knows how to fight and damn is he strong. but well, he mostly fights bullies

(and as he gets older, he starts to punch racists and cops, which are basically the same)

he really tries to stay out of trouble, but trouble come and finds them.

“be kind. it’s gangster.”

hates coffee, hates tea. water is the real deal, my dudes

fuck gender roles

he loves fun socks. he just does, and that just sums up his whole personality.

so he might be wearing all that (fake) leather and all that black (with his red jacket because what the hey), but you will spot a sponge bob square pants on his ankle and you will be too afraid to ask.

whenever i think of him, he’s kickin ass. literally. i just see him kicking someone in the chest and that’s it.

𝘣𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘴𝘴.

whenever harry and ginny receive a call from the ministery of magic or from the muggle police, they are not even surprised

(nor disappointed, to be honest. if he hates the government, that came from his parents who LITERALLY fought against the system in their younger years)

don’t ask about his love life (but you kinda don’t have to, because he’s not exactly what we call discreet about his crushes).

[bisexual panic]

hates horror movies

albus is always there to hold them and stop them from doing something stupid. he’s forever grateful

he’s always there when albus needs him too

their laugh is so loud and deep.

and whenever you hear it, you can’t help but laugh too. it’s contagious.

he reads a lot. and no, you shouldn’t be surprised, okay? because if he’s fighting against the system it’s because he’s educated.

he’s an intellectual, ok? ...who can also kick ass and take names.

first thought, best thought.

sidecut

it doesn’t matter your sexuality. at some point, you had a crush on this boy. either because of his looks, or because he’s really nice and funny, or because of his morals and principles.

terrible dancer

superprotective about lily. he loves her so much and they truly understand and support each other.

so goofy

his favorite uncle is george and his favorite aunt is hermione

queen is his favorite band

tacos are his comfort food

freckled boy

star wars fan because of albus.

those movies were the only things those boys agreed 100% about.

they speak spanish. fluently.

he can do magic without wands. “wands are just a formality”

he was the one who taught rose how to do any magic without wands

they never duel. they hate fighting with magic. they are a fan of the good hand-to-hand.

besides, they always end up breaking their wand, because he uses it as drumsticks

he knows how to play many instruments, such as: drums, tambourine, violin, bass, saxophone and electric guitar

he always hums some barbie song whenever he’s distracted.

cursing in spanish is their jam. “it’s just so badass, u know?”

he used braces for a while too. he saw that rose was going to use it (“fix what? she has the best smile?”), so he decided that he would too, because loyalty, man

do i even have to say that rose is his favorite cousin? he just connects with her so easily.

teddy is his best bro, so of course james was teddy’s best man and teddy was his.

holy harpies number one fan.

impatient. big time

“there’s nothing wrong in being weird. and there’s nothing wrong with being average.”

their loves is as intense as fire, but his heart is golden

you can’t make fire feel afraid

his favorite sitcom/show is how i met your mother. he believes in robin scherbatsky supremacy

he asked his best friend, iago zabinni, to the yule ball, because he knew how badly iago wanted to go and how heartbroken iago was because the boy he liked didn’t invite him. they had a great time.

james is an aries

when he plays quidditch, he’s a beater

“be gay, do crimes.”

honestly, think about sokka and zuko in one person

#james sirius potter #james sirius potter headcanons #headcanons #heyvivalapluto headcanons #hp headcanon #hp #harry potter #ginny weasley #hinny

[jmcfarlane]

DRONE3

DRONe3

.<0_O> — — µ — <_<)))) DRONe³ And other Poems and writings by James McFarlane Telepath/Necromancer James McFarlane·Friday, May 18, 2018 . Telepath may 2018 Pencil sharp, smoke a dart early morning engines start Crescent moon blue grass tunes frost on the window and my spoon. Dopamine and serotonin, pain relief telepath droning, a walk of life, on a limb buds froze until the dawn of spring. Train passing dread grasses, Sage burning sky lasting, electric currents flowing now, necromancer up and down, Dopamine and serotonin pain relief telepath droning, a walk of life on a limb buds froze until the dawn of spring. -Seumas Necromancer May 2018 Floating wearily but in some comfort overhead. Making sheets move on my bed. Conversations in and out, speaking without our mouths. Blue fires light up your darkness please don’t ever find me as heartless I love you always one two three here’s the bass now jam with me Exhale eternally into the mic, angel choirs out on strike. Necromancer up and down, rein / radius across town, soon I will return with thee to this town/life Ville/vie. –Seumas (New Revisions) James McFarlane +Seamus to thee, from my effort unsatisfied underground nothingdrones, its letting go and walking away from it to choose to lose, this is therapy now I need to go, you know it and I got the show on the road I’mtired and now am holding a rose, I’m loosing my grip on the following code DRONe -Seumas (James) Monday, February 22, 2016 OK thisone’s right off the wall: this is a strangely written and personal poem It’scalled “Siren heart Drone” (meant for a mature audience) A’ hem…. I’m nervous, I don’t freestyle often I wish there was a way to put this near the bottom of my timeline, it’ll be my latest and greatest lyric though, + POSETIVE INDUCTION — The positive attraction to your conductive psyche, is a form in itself existing in me, subjective almost ironically, the circuitry, being both electricity and imaginary cranked up high by your fun chemistry by way of the cerebral. (Which is flattering me) The circuitry with chemistry minus proximity, (causing a reaction deliberately) the electrical frequencies that you received from me were; artsy descriptions in accents I read. Other elements of me manifesting masculinity through my dorky frequency, gave off feedback that, officially; for me heralded the dawn of freed energy. So… metaphysical seed, dropped and sewn that day, (I guess what I am trying to say is): My girl my girl, don’t lie to me, oceans away your eyes can see, my bending sending light like this, in response to; the drone from your white laced lips. For the of lack of your treble and charge of your base, my “methadone”, White Light/White Heat, can take its place, anti-acidic mantra chi, surrounding me, a black dot in space. Divided by the curve encased, the metaphysical takes place. The fact that we’re in touch today, makes sirens blare and drones play, I’ll send this over right away, and then appropriately play, ‘beautiful face’ a newer way, I could elaborate for 3 straight days. Now what follows is what’s next on the fret board of your hex. It’s between, us; a fish out of net. So this will be all they get. ok here goes, ya, this is for the ladies in town I know that sounds weak but I blame the moons energy for you cute young women never being around when I finally spit the rhyme on solid ground, neway this is about you, you and the town where I choose, and choose to settle down instead of just stop swimming and drown, no more worries, no frowns, I’m gunna work it on out, cause I’m bound for the tides, not the sound, yea, ok, you know what I mean, yea k here I go, you ready? You steady? I stole the crown from the underground, I thought it would look nice with your gown, I’m upward bound so, are you down with my verbs and nouns? I don’t freestyle rap but this might as well be,flowin literally right now cause i come down hard with a sound that this new town including your highness have minds to breakdown, so get down breakdown, my chic mystique-psychologique will make you turn around and blush while your current boyfriends drunk on the ground cause he substitutes love with down, he doesn’t have an ear, genetically, to hear your siren sound for which I was born to kinetically harmonize, desensitize and heal your weary eyes. This is the treatment we need now ill even show you how, like a bow that goes up and down, helping us resonate these bloody strings, while the clipper ship sinks…… Sinks with the low tide.c’mon lets head home. The moons making my fire rise. That means soon it will be high tide, the ocean spray it stings my eyes, so let’s go inside, its morning time, look at color in the sky the sun is just about to rise. MY clipper ship’s on seas of rye. Empty bottles of scotch catch her in the eye. I’m not afraid of all those guys, they’re lucky they even have a sty. I’ve seen farms that would make you cry. These pale blue eyes are all but mine. And yours are like that brand of dye, that in our last summer together, we ALL tried, permanent like the purple in my mind’s eye or the in the dimly lit sky the night I officially died, all from a med, instead of one I took 10, benzodiazepines, all I wanted to do was compound the prescribed effect at the right dose they make a nervous wreck feel and appear normal so I took them, now I’m in debt, but only tried this cause u have me in check, ready to knock the crown off my head, make it your golden cauldron instead. You know I’m good with shocking steel and know how to forge blend anneal so this golden crown is probably real, and I assure u from the other room that it’s safe to use took a meal. Only cause it’s my deal I leave out the part about removing toxic alloys by melting steel, adding chemicals from the field and as the method never revealed used those same chemicals, that we all feel, all the time in our head to make tiny slow moving particles to turn make gold out of lead. So neways with confidence I said GO AHEAD! But I couldn’t lie to her, so I yelled from the other room, “u should know, that thing is gold but it use to be lead. She laughed, hesitated, placed the pewter cauldron on the stove instead and put the golden crown on her head. She finally walked down the hall and into her room where I was using dust pan and broom, she didn’t say nething, just got up on her bed which was shrouded with purple threads forgetting her glasses, still she picked up my book and read, I said here ill read aloud for you instead, within a few minutes of reading she started to turn red, the stove was on low so she got herself fed THAN served us both breakfast in bed. SUDDENLY I awake and see that we are parked at the end of a pier in some town in Quebec, I yell out stupidly from my stuper, WERE ON A PIER! She had good laugh about that occurrence on several occasions. but ya I took too many pills and was all sleepy on our road trip, all in all, yet again, I fed my head then lost all my cred, it being an accident, it made me sleep like the dead, that’s when I lost you, or you lost me, literally you looked everywhere and couldn’t find me, conscious or not, id soon figure id been stung by the bee, the most painful thing however, and my only memory was later that night when you were beside me, or was it he that got there before me, ok now I must stop and back up, the cheap words pouring from me, telling the details of this pathetic story it’s pissing me off, like losing the love of your life to a drug, and then officially to drugs plural, like 5 years of fucking up pretty much following this one night, the moment you realized you had lost the one girl, the one you compare every girlfriend you get ultimately fucking that up too, the one. its caused ache in whets left of my drug affected love starved blackened heart and caused my excellent poem to go right off the rails, so I’ll get on topic and ill even do it in rhyme, what inspires me to try to try, it’s the ache in my heart that is its key function now when I think of this girl and am reminded of the moment I lost her. ok here goes, regardless, we were in bed together, and from your sleepy head where your soul lies and you can never die, I heard your memories cry, and as I realized all the days I tried so hard to try but wouldn’t, couldn’t try and now I can’t cry is because I was always too shy in your unfulfilled eyes despite being my inspiration for the last 4 or 5 years of drugs and art with your recent if u can even call it that separation the focus intensifies about u and other girls like the sweet PortugueseIrish girl from the only psych ward I recommend at hotel diu in Kingston where I was actually treated properly (maybe cause it’s a catholic hospital, maybe cause I was so fucked up I appeared catatonic for days till this fox brought me down and romanced me for a month) she’s your competition….who contributed to my psychological cardiomyopathy however, a number of “the ones” but evenbefore that I was fucked up, I was the youngest psychiatric patient in Ontario or something, I learned how to smoke inside a smoking room in the shithole Scarborough grace when I was fifteen, I think I checked myself in hen I was twelve just to get away, that may have been what that asshole head of psychiatry was talking about. I also hit the highest highs, and the most demonic abysses of suicidal advanced psychotic depression, and took more abuse for it from nurses drs and the police, not to mention my family, but I still unconditionally love and am loved by my parents and grandparents, Jesus, I sacrificed my life and goals to save my families souls literally offed myself when I was 16 years old to end the devils elaborate foothold on me the people around the household appliances and machines, the behavior of living things the weather and the temperature of the room depending on my tortured state the only common theme is that others hurt and share it with me and my empathy kind of bounces back like an echo, I express and receive the grief while later, I only know this because when I fall, which I don’t do nemore thanks to medical science, its all about them.. but now this, she cried in her sleep and the only difference about these tears the ones that dried before her, is that the tears were for the two of us,not for being hurt but for me getting hurt and that hurt her, and it came out of her in a subconscious later state, kind of like me, this happened something like five years ago and it never gets old, ok , so here’s how THIS sad story goes; back to you, we were basically sleeping on the ground, I was tied up and bound, mothers little helper’s cheque bounced, I stupidly blame the devil in benzos but as of last Chinese new year I now denounce him, clonazepam is free from sin,(the cure), which I am resistant to so even though in the name of a better life I took 1/16th of an ounce I was still wide awake laying beside you, thinking only to myself about how I fucked up, it wasn’t even my own script at the time like u even need to know this it was a gift from the big Mc the tragically crip former editor in chief of legal manuscript, this bug makes the dj tick, and he made me, (sick) so (to this day I thank god for the count and amount per pill per day,,, throw your troubles away and pray that it was ok to stray from your holy bible, “psychology today”) So I was now bound for the pound, complete and total disgrace all around, from the moment u made that sound I knew our plans were going down that I would leave town, shoot smack and somehow return because YOU specifically gave the instruction to COME BACK! But things got whack I dropped out of school after taking philosophy which I passed, took drugs then relaxed let the nothing drone blare and move towards and away from the past managed to stay out of the psycho shack and somehow followed the chemical and psychological path out of the woods, fuck that was one long sidetrack, but it’s over, now, it took a year of wandering to end it but I did so…back before I initially left town your eye lids were down. I’d spent our whole friendship collectively letting you down by being ur favorite one in town and not responding in a way that could let us…. Fuck I was a clown,ever since I pulled a sigmen froid and used white to get off opiates it’s been renown but like the psychologist before me once declared, down (heroin) so satisfying in the right dose, has basically fulfilled their open ended prediction for the drugs future, in one shot like vaccine, the queen of all drugs, administered in the highest healthy dosage intravenously is the cure all found in Montreal, and then a deliberate clean cut from all non prescribed recreational narcotics, that is until the dreaded lady in white shows up on ur doorstep, I say let her in, and move away never to see her again, with the experience and satisfaction of the act of consuming heroin as your catalyst to change your life and only take clonazepam. So before all that we had a healthy friendship, it was doomed but I loved you so u kept me around and there was all sorts of ways we got down without ever fooling around except this time I discreetly describe further down when my phone ran out of batteries while you went to town , I thought I was a fuckin martyr because all id make u do is dance, that’s the gods truth so baaaack to me not being a creep, I geometrically see the opposing symmetrical verticy of our rhombus reveal its true ego as FUCKING TRAPAZOID when I hear your inner pain, I’m no hypnotist (yet) but u were zonked after a day of mosh pitting ultimately falling for the other guy, while I slept in the grass like an ASS. you let out a whimper in your sleep and two out of three of us knew, this chick is deep, from then on I took the title of weak, I had let my biological ancestors down with swords in their hands and in my hand your crown, and still I let you down, AND YOU STILL even tried several sexy and awkward times to make it happen and I let you down, u can tell a social disease when the same set of words are used multiple times to rhyme with other words that have that sound i.e. : I let you down. In that strange little town. It’s been well over a year and to end on a harmonious note after all this purple melancholy. I’m gunna say two words to you and they are not” “I do” It’sI’m sorry. I’m sorry lately for this poem, but mostly I’m sorry for not maturing into the man you thought I could be. I’m recovered from my early episodes now, took 16 years but I used the gear to properly hear and respond without fear, if only I did this within the time frame we had, Now were both sad. And I don’t wanna upset u, ur glowie or ur boyfriend or neone else, soo I’m gunna play a song, it’s called : one thing that keeps this black heart beating””(referring to my heart: that “upturned bass drum” The thing that keeps it beating is the dissonant and strangely beautiful siren song that echoes in my mind as the inspiration, “love” and the knowledge that one can be loved and in my case always, I only philosophies with the partial use of solid evidence that I have been loved by the one I love therefore at and for that moment(pretty much after the momentmy phone died, after 30 seconds of reading trainpotting aloud, there was a subconscious subjective foggy notion that was there to be discovered by the psyche, at this moment I can prove using circumstantial evidence and truth know by both partied involved, the dependant factor being me loving her forever, and the independent factor her being a single indecisive woman looking for a man who will love her forever combining to make a positive chemical and physical reaction, that is the fundamental tradition that is the goal of all living things on this plant and its most evolutionary form of it is when it’s “Love based” one giving the other what its most in need of and deprived of, the others love, not the love of a friend, but physical experiments that are love based, expressing love on not necessarily a physical level (like if ur on the phone or sumthing)but specifically a sexual level. The compounding factors that result in reactions happenings crescendos babies,, are when the energy isn’t circular but moves in one direction, when the one party is starved, and the other has a wealth, and the act of giving not just what the yearning needs, but what he wants, when the desired with all her wealth, imparts her secret harbored denied expression love though tradional reproduction based activities, that friendship goes from “limbo” into action, even for a moment, through technology that alerts the senses, in this case hearing, whether the deprived is even present or physically participating, isn’t the point the point is that the foggy notion of true love was expressed transmitted in a traditional and pivotal form, even though I picked up the transmission through one sense, my ability to hear, the value of those vibrations, though lo-fi and misinterpreted until the last few seconds before the line went dead the compounding nature of the universe is seen between you and me, me and the chemicals and elements the acid the love that is positively charged by me and only me, in this battery regardless of proximity my charge is still the key, literally loving you moved energy directly making me alternately free but obviously reflects its imperfections symmetrically and quite similarly to your perfect face and body only introspectively and this thing I call negativity you existentially use to control and manipulate me by means of electrical currents like a shark in the sea, but the ocean currents in our world somehow moved me so far we couldn’t be but as the drone turns up the heat as chemists cure insanity, inevitably the duality of the friendship followed the trail right back to me, from the beach into the city, while metaphysical acid rain fell on her black umbrella, drops of synthetic nightshade provided a ground and a side effect equaled a perfectly balanced sound resembling a circuit around my neck and down to the nervous wreck, I stand and smoke out on the deck, and remember that was how we met I stop, wait my energies charge self provides, enough energy to survive, with my new social activity the acid, charge, size, speed and proximity and the voltage of the current and relativity. My positively charged abilities that betray the moon like your fertility, a simple circuit can’t explain the lovesick emotional pain still forming drops of acid rain only strengthening my brain, its time I have to get reactive, send this to her radically brilliant highly attractive yet negatively charged mind where chemicals of another kind will get inspired as she reads about batteries and his energy (that she secretly lovingly keeps rightfully under her locks and key with her sharp mind and memory should recall the flattery, the almost dead battery, poetic license and mad hattery finally gets me through the matter we, lost all sense of pattern, see, the point was electricity, and keyboards I would never see, played like a former prodigy, with drones that resonate with me just barely metaphysically, through my sleep deprived behavior induced heightened state, I’ve always been able to wait, epiphanies sometimes come too late, but revelations give me faith that your negative mind and my positive state, memories of how u altered fate, I know threes more to come but wait, don’t get offended by my state , my batteries dead so save the date, remember wiser things I’ve depictions finished in your head, an electrician would have briefly said, what took me hours, in ten minutes u will have read, I must finish without my meds, they knock me out, blow to the head, I’ll miss away you time instead, that lilliad inside your mind….it’s way too late you’re so unkind, but one important thing u need, to know I know u love to read, do not read too much to your seed, it makes a flower yer indeed, with pain killing power guaranteed, but this makes a subconscious need to find a source for output feed, destined to be completely freed ad finally have the urge to read, its therapy apparently, the experiment of reading aloud and they drift off on angels clouds, you think their gunna make you proud, well brace yourself, speakers are loud, they developed and were well endowed, language and its mystic power it not to be strewn on the flowers, this is my dependant variable, the words the use on me were terrible, a bird a seed knowledge unbearable, though every word is understandable, hypnotic methods subconscious dependable, lovely developmental psychology is the cause of my constant source of energy what I was born to do was reap, infinite knowledge in my sleep a steady drone of literature, I’m older now administer reality and life in place of shame rejection and disgrace, aside from my abilities that serve me independently, instinct survival evolution, speed all factors meant to help me breed, but would you read that to your seed, your surly growing potent weed, I’m not a normal human being I spend time speaking hearing seeing, proving while your disagreeing now the sheep are all fleeing, my purpose hear is slowly weaning I’m a negative source of positive energy, that means nothing drones glowies and friends that are enemies, all that I needs a path and an receiver, a sound to ride on, subwoofer and tweeters, it’s the music u shared with me that keeps me going The proof that our signal reached desired objectives, was clear to my ear which contained an elective, my minds using psychology to be less selective, behavioral science removes the block painlessly love, loss and malpractice grew my circuitry aimlessly, evolving survival instincts team with nature, my chemical background makes life like a phase, the instincts resulting are acute like a razor and amplified abilities through manipulating manipulative chemicals without wavers, resulting in behavior that can reach and amaze her… the extent of the damage is to be overlooked, by using knowledge and memory or reading a book design and time weren’t key features its transference of whines from student to teacher, let me out of detention you feminine creature ill read aloud it’s the right way to reach her, the demand and supply was shot at the sky and with lasers for eyes that reflect off her kind I was surprised to find that in no time I heard her wine, go out of her mind, and through her elective design I read junkie sublime and the fidelity was just fine for my desensitized mind. Literally proving her love up against my undying lazerlove therefore, proving that from that moment in time It was (now literally) one(the one) and another(me) falling “in love “officially identified by the subjective and objective forms that equal true love, for a time, which in rhyme and time I now feel it was divine, it’s began and ended in one harmonious line (in a Scottish accent no less) and buried in our minds getting weaker over time the signal is dying the whine and her trying has kept me flying farther away for lack of a sign that she was officially mine, but my nose it did grind on the stone learning life through the drone all on my own stealing crowns off of thrones, almost completely destroying my home, getting dipped in chrome, and then ground to the bone,, but that’s ok now because I how I know, I made her come through a phone, I’ve reaped what id sewn, now I am grown, with skills to hone no more wearing a cone, from the unknown to the known heralded by the morningdrone which is an inaudible tone interacting metaphysical rods and cones in my everlasting home among milestones made of greymatter behind bone in the form of the intangible moan that has royalties owned by the one xylophone a tone so foreign and feminine it may be that of a banshee or crone, the soil of my subconscious, is where I’ve been instructed and shown but my chance was blown there already something growin that knows the suns light is shown, now I’m alone, why did I buy that bus ticket when I could have flown. Another way of iterating this love story is an s follows introduction, obstruction instruction, induction, seduction production reduction destruction I’m trying to link two portions of this production, causing a reaction like a light turning on send notification from yin to yang (2 great friends of the opposite sex ultimately consummating their union in the way nature wanted it to be) but for us it was highly evolved in that even over the lo-fi filter of cell phones she was sending her love, whether she got off or not that id like ton know, but,, I got the drone of her during, (which if I’m not wrong is typically the main attraction for most women, their anatomy makes for a better “during” in her case conveniently, I’ll admit, without my flawed physical presence, I’m sure she didn’t just give up when my phone ran out of batteries, she was by the banks of her own lagoon, , the stimuli for me, the understanding an witnessing this correlative reaction, correlative because based on all the evidence, the great friendship which was WE were In Love,,,, that passes by my standard and I’m a philosophy grad, this Idea of me and this one girl being in love ISNT EVEN PRAGMATIC like most of my theories, the ONLY thing that get in the way of it being classified as nething between us other than, well I’m afraid to word it frankly because it makes y philosophy look dumb, the only factor threatening this TRUTH, this explainable objective form, is.. the time frame, the setting and the timing of the whole ordeal, my argument is that my reserved intense devotion that was pretty much spellbound, was appropriately (although delicately and let’s say modernly)relieved back to square one, literally and true even though it’s in the days ahead, metaphysic means dead.\\ I’m pretty lonely, so I make allot of art these days, like so; since she left me for dead and we both had left town, with thoughts of her crying asleep on the ground, my mind plays a drone, just to keep the pain down, it’s the girls very essence, oh to hear those pipes sound, if I was there this reel could have burned her house down, But our minds were both trying, Scottish lyrics I had, her bagpipes were sighing, and droning like mad, even though I was dying to get under her plaid, her fingers were flying and the lyrics were “rad the sound of her drones blared through the aero phones, I had broken a string and the bow had no rozen, but her body remembered what she had forgotten, string breaking caused her heat up and harden, this dissonant silence was her chance to depart from his flaws and his jigs and his odds and his rigs and ivy wrapped wand honey drippin upon this Venus in tartan who gushed forth the art of his masculine heart, the yin joins the yang and d string goes twang, The key that she played in was the string that I broke;I awoke in a doria mile off the coast. I swear by the sword of Ulysses and QueenMary’s crown you can’t quiet this siren when she fools around. Sending me to the moon and abyss on her sound It’s siren heart drone and that’s written in stone like I said, STELLAR, and you can TELLHER, most likely shell be a be a BETTER SPELLER, most likely ull say THE WORST THING EVER cause you’re a BULLSHIT SELLER, wave got mutual friends that FLOCK TOGETHER, social cannibals up shit creek FOREVER “sharp fanged teeth sheep” identified by Brethr in touch with friends of mine with FEATHERS, who govern karma AND THE WEATHER harmonizing OUR ENDEVOUR dissonance and TAKING PLEASURE in currents charged “+”, sea vessel PROPELLERS droning on for OH SWEET NEVER, nothing “like” inevitably BETTER the next “day, mon” frère, myself sharply dressed, a new pair of ‘GO GETTERS’ high, but fly, “the local YELLER” inscribes, as I dictate the true, (and prescribed), (in “”blood)-”LETER”! …BUY LETTER!”technique””’s psychology thesis of persuasion,-through love cure for; pain from shame stemming from taking the blame for the psychopaths that are perfectly sane who corporally, “embodying hells flames, wicked games to derange, the use of tools to cause pain, so the hands free to gain more control without shame ….and words that confuse and lead them in. vein cutting through lies and psychosomatic pain” making it rain your blood to put out the flames, an empty vessel that openly claims he righteously bears the right to OFFSET karma in his favorite time double negatives stuck on rewind with the fist or the tool of thing without mind, just current flowing into itself sustaining itself by shackling you with a voice that speaks truths that the vessel and devil greedily use to ultimately abduct you consume love your subconscious would refuse to give, to lose, so you wind kicking yourself while he rips on your soul defacing and displacing what’s left of you, what set you apart from a caved in shoe who’s uneven because the others got two, souls are unbreakable but if he breaks you, ill have the words the voice and the truth, the vessel in which to put soul into you, love and affection reflecting on you a new pair of shoes and so basically you feeling loved and in good mood no longer producing that parasite food, by walking and talking, souls in your shoes, while my bare feet support prescribed truth, a chemical network of mes and you ultimately held together with glue your love is the only way I can get through my psychological problems of which I have used to heat cook and serve us both food they drive me to supplementing love with miscues, attempts to draw a good picture of shoes, that drawn the attention of someone like you, or someone who offers a love I can’t refuse, because it me who also has many a bruise, the glue the chemical I trust and I use are prescribed and administered with bruit force and tools, leaving the chemically gifted unloved and unused and undone on the run with the songs you have sung, giving u satisfaction, and leaving u hung out to dry by the sick and the dumb, and the one, that u can give a gift to, is the only way we can say I love you and the fact that we are is what makes it true now I can scrape this shit right off your shoe, here goes, gimme my cloths my cigarettes prescribed glue, a roof over my head a bed and you, and then maybe I’ll start wearing shoes, here’s my complex singing the blues, from my effort unsatisfied underground nothingdrones too, its letting go and walking away from it to choose to lose, this is therapy now I need to go, you know it and I got the show on the road I’mtired and now am holding a rose, I’m loosing my grip on the following code,I’ll let the field talke care I m old, its time to end thiflodi broke the mouldand me with my everything about the shoe, its maker your sou out your soul leaving with bound by psychosocial with day moon SETTERS. home made psychopath GET ER, and lose her to a knitted SWEATER meant to the and if shit hits the fan in my house you become a fuckin CAVE DWELLER you officially for me heralded the dawn of freed energy so metaphysical seed dropped and sewn that day I guess what I a tying to say is seroquel can kill the day and lithium when charged can phase can kill your kidney and your craze over sirens who’ve been underground their perfect face and al around static in the air and sound of talismans and something foud induction tells you write this down what she conducts may flood the town, and this guythatts on the other line isn’t he a project of mine, sais nurse so cute and fine that flirt with my bipolar mind could his stimuli be cut, (if my nurse heard that shed bust my nut the think I’m guna get more worse nuclear winters parallel universe but bipolar ppls irony ill crack the joke an ice your nuclear explosion twice a day while I’m away leading weak dicks astray but giving your negative drones away the moans that I’m familiar with the point is I’m sick, was born with antennae metaphic that can even change channels like sappic girl on girl to girl on me altering duality and that what I get for free cable metaphysically so u better charge your battery, start the car pray she needs a guy with speed, instead of the duality of loving and love being received define love for me because lm low on batteries, finally the irony iron like steel I’m not even funny she gave me a drone that carried me home plate metal armor still that suckers dethroned all because of the ironic poem guaranteed to call my home circuitry and sacred tones, hooked up to my broke dying alone charge that she hears in my voice instinct are what’s the driving force to be my Venus in furs of course striking my eardrums while art of a new form could cure my heart, when deprivation and avant-garde combine to make things into art the the thing that makes drones stop and start my wordsandfingers take a form that independently grows horns, what an art to harmonize your frequencies with, smart, you dirty little butter tart you were supposed to cure my heart at least u got it throughtome you rising storm makes my anteenae start to channel lo-fi forms a and v imnow starting to clearly see I got to hear pure femininity express its love physically, while the ironic truth is easy to see, that my talisman masxulinity had no hand in physically and so my strengths like mediocrity, thisescwe took a short boat that sent out a masculine frequency that was enough to ride that came through the airwaves only a dined, to start your engines, and the elements it’s the charge that ironically subjectively means of a whim of a, separating you from me and that despite ur reaction objective by only induction by the ma lonely ur still a part of me, like the wasted energy of a missing battery that from within bears a charge, that was meant to be, the high voltage current, of hot energy. wat a grT TRIP THIS IS, ALTHOUGH ONG AND UNCOMFORTABLE AT LES I STILL HAVE ROCK AND ROLL AND BY DIVINE TIMING WE TOO A STROLL ADNTALKED A LITTLE THATS MY GOAL AND NOTHING DRONES AND HEAVY STONES WERE LEVITATED WITH THE MOAN OF SIRENSS BUT YOUR NOT A PHONE AND NO SUPRIZE CANT LEAVE ALONE OW I THRIV OFF DIAL TONED CAUSE IM DEPENDANT ON YOU STONE THE TALISMAN YOU CALL MY HHOME AND THAT TIE YOU CALLED ME ON THE PHON YOU WERE IN MY HEAD SAFE IN YOUR HOME BAD TIMING AND A HEAVY TONE BATTERIES DEAD: NOW WERE NOTHING DRONES…………………………………………………………….. thisescwe took a short boat that sent out a masculin frequency that was enough toride that came through the airwaves only a denied, to start your engines, and the elements it’s the charge that ironically subjective by means of a whim of a, separating you from me and that despite urreaction objective by only induction by the ma lonely Seroquel can ‘kill. The day’, and lithium (when charged) can phase, can kill your kidneys and your ‘“crazy” laser ray’s perspective.’ Meant for sirens, waves, underground stalactites, space, and drops of acid rain onto your base. Meant to cauterize with time and phase the straight; your sex, the Vikings take, and that edge they use to reap and waste. ((their secret way through; to slice through the glazed over passageway, that freezes waves of blood they made. Turned to crimson ice seen by my red hot rays, melt into salty ocean sprays) Then not so far away at night I kill the day and reap twilight, my heat turns from red to white like scars that weep acid rain despite my efforts, however insane, you do this over and over again) Relief; from emotional THEN/BY physical pain. In that order, we’re both deranged. here goes, gimme my cloths my cigarettes prescribed glue, a roof over my head a bed and you, and then maybe I’ll start wearing shoes, here’s my complex singin the blues, from my effort unsatisfied underground nothingdrones, its letting go and walking away from it to choose to lose, this is therapy now I need to go, you know it and I got the show on the road I’m tired and now am holding a rose, I’m loosing my grip on the following code, It’s meant for: a couple; of different: ppl 1 knø james ((pérsunµli); ‘(urThInKn èù¹d “Like¹¹ i+ Th0µGh))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))) ) — ¹o-² øس=FOUR!!!!!!!!²O_O³⁴!! (0_0)T0o?O_o)❤µ¼FOR¼ldd.”( þ+¹na!’(LOL!)?,X&Y” =ø(þ iN þÉd àvèç¹<>³µ)/(µø+þ²)ùþ³@ — ¹²³¹²³¹²³¹²³ James McFarlane• Ideas About mental Illness — James McFarlane Here’s my theory on paranoia. (Usually considered a negative symptom of psychosis) It can help gather information or misinform those who experience it. Even in wellness it is always potentially present in all of us. It’s a survival instinct. It makes us more attentive. My unique experience and understanding is when paranoia and other symptoms are present, heightened and amplified alertness to important information perceived by the senses is collected and whatever data is missing the brain either fills it in with logical thought or logical hallucination in some cases. I will further iterate this several ways for you to better grasp it. For most people there is so much excess data you wind up believing a falsity. Simple logic should let you know best which is most accurate among the extra data collected by suspicion, inner thoughts and hallucination ultimately fitting like Lego into the fractured “factual” data perceived. I believe mostly it is our internal sense of logic that is used to make hallucinations like dreams that appear similar to our regular reality. It is your sense of logic that determines how accurate the thought or hallucination might be compared to reality. It is hard to determine between reality and hallucination because hallucination adheres to reality. But if you can detect like in a lucid dream (aware of being in a dream) that it’s a hallucination you’re ok. It’s not that difficult to determine what thought or hallucination fits if you’re experiencing (or expecting) allot of symptoms having an automatic thought process that simplifies things by showing the most accurate possibility alone to the individual by involuntary thoughts and possibly hallucination. This can be a more accurate depiction of what’s not reachable by the actual senses. The point or idea is that hallucinations and involuntary thoughts mimic reality as best they can, so, they can be used to determine what is beyond our senses reach either corresponding with the senses themselves (hallucination) or through mind talk (which is the method that most mimics what we call telepathy and is much more controlled and has less effect on your behaviour and environment than hallucination). This mind talk or “intrusive thoughts” can be our sense of logic. It’s our sense of what’s real that makes up our involuntary thoughts and hallucinations so they’re may be an ounce or two of truth in them even though they aren’t real they can be identical ideas to what is really there. This is to be used for those who can’t see or hear what are out of reach of their senses like sonar or radar and further aid those who have and impairment or just want to experiment with extending their senses. This only applies to the unwell. Like I have said amphetamine could mimic the hypomanic state in regular people perhaps. This could be a tool for treating a range of mental disorders. Depression, lack of communication in certain critical mental conditions.(Alzheimer’s etc.) It’s not just guessing at involuntary thoughts and hallucinations, the tool combines accurate and distorted data collected by the senses. This extends the senses that help us try to understand. (Only some of us may have this as a mental pattern). You may be calling this a delusion well I call a delusion an idea. And remember, an idea can make the body including the brain do interesting things. Mono ideo dynamics Determining what’s real and what’s not isn’t a problem here, you know what’s a thought and an actual sound or hallucination when this is occurring so if they combine to make a more accurate awareness with good results than it doesn’t matter whether it’ telepathy or a mental tool isolated to the mind its generating data for the individual I assure you. Collecting data even from other people’s minds is definitely a factor in this theory (it’s a tangent but it’s important.) Involuntary thought is inner thought that appears to be info coming from an obvious source or other person. This is when the argument for delusion is most appropriate. Telepathy is a possible conclusion in the case of mind chatter or involuntary or external thoughts unlike ‘sense extension’ which is a potential tool involving similar aspects but also the actual environment. The mind to mind thing doesn’t involve physical reality like the sense extension theory which involves hearing and assuming all five senses if you were sick enough could improve the perception of our environment by way of hallucination corresponding with the senses, verses logical lingual additions to your line of thought (involuntary thoughts) which can be thought alone (mind talk) This opens a window to hybrid hearing combining involuntary thought with semi audible data, this was my first discovery and personal experience along the line of useful mental activity. So I would call it all external or involuntary mental data. The reason I included the telepathy as idea in this was because sense extension which may be provable is using the same material our thoughts are made of suggesting that the other ideas are worth experimenting with. I suggest mental information can be projected into the metaphysical reality affectively by a person just like shouting a person’s name. This is blatantly how it works from my perspective. What we imagine goes out into the air and some of us are there to hear it within our thoughts; mind chatter. Talking to yourself in your head as well as other transmissions or incoming additions. Not something we do all the time. Some people rarely do it or experience it. These are introspective expressions nevertheless they are the fabric of what sense extension involves. So if sense extension, (because it uses the senses, reality and hallucination/involuntary thought) can be tested and valuable info is collected from those tests, because of its use of involuntary thoughts which mimics telepathy, it could help prove or add merit to the idea of telepathy and its other explanations that are as follows. Proving telepathy involves seeing how things like sense extension is in the same weave as actual things we use or experience like thought, mental chatter, hallucination, dreams. This part of the universe is becoming objective when using a hybrid or functional form to better understand our surroundings. Just believing in these functions and experiencing them improves your regular perception and observational skills. These are hybrid metaphysical tools for perceiving your surroundings by use of hallucination and or thought and actual fractured data picked up by the senses. I tackle this mind chatter idea more so because it’s a solid symptom that doesn’t fail, like hallucination often does. Thoughts in the form of language coming from people around you or your multipersonalitied conscience is a good thing as long as it’s a good thing. When it no longer is in the range of being able to be used as a tool, these thoughts can be turned off or turned on by meds and belief or disbelief in the idea. But when it’s happening properly, like in hypomania, it does act as an aid in awareness of what’s most likely going on in other people’s thoughts. It informs you of the most likely thought usually in relation to you, aiding you every time by making you aware of something you didn’t know before. Word for word telepathy is a miracle, mental chatter that informs you of what’s most accurately going on in other people’s heads by way of involuntary lingual statements in the mind is not. It’s worth investigating, it’s a gift that has never led me to harm, only understanding. The fact that it’s in your head makes it a passive process where you have the option of responding or not, verbally or mentally if you’re a believer in telepathy. You can have communications, often in the form of mental lingual impressions from people around you, as long as their chattering in their heads. More often they respond verbally or through body language. (This could be also called a thought related delusion, and it probably is) Like sense extension it helps figure out without effort what’s most likely going on somewhere else but this involves getting a mental impression of what’s going on in someone else’s head and apparently only if It’s about you or directed to you, mostly. Telepathy and sense extension go hand in hand. What’s real and usable and what’s a symptom may need to be looked over and not just thrown in the isolation chamber. Mind chatter and thought insertion are two different things I think. Thought insertion means you think someone or something else is in your head and it is overwhelming. Mind chatter or “telepathy” follows a pattern of logic that is more precise than your own usually, it follows a rule, I am certain of it. That’s why it’s better to use cause it’s your intuition delivered lingualy. Thought insertion is like having someone else in control, whereas mind chatter is somewhat under control and mostly in your control as you are the experienced one. Involuntary thoughts (other people’s voices) could be telepathy and if it follows such a dynamic and structured law it should not be called thought insertion. Sense extension is something more practical and objective than telepathy type thinking, but it is untested and like I said, I deal with mind talk even when I am well and it is always accurate and helpful. The idea of partly using data from the peripheries of our trusted senses shows that these elements are not to be underrated or mislabelled. The fact that we can only see farther stars in the sky by looking off to the side is a great example of use of the peripheries of our senses. Similar is my experience of seeing peoples more true emotions on their faces when using peripheral vision. Is esp or just one example of a passive and informative hallucination? Let us not throw aside my interpretation of the experience of useful and unique mental activity by giving it the unattractive label of thought insertion when the fundamentals of these ideas may be useful for inventing evolution like tools to reach out into parts of the universe we have not yet studied. Distorted senses combined with an inherent logical thought process that is accurate if not pragmatic I my experience in every case. This could be an opportunity to reopen the study of parapsychology. (The fact that these are just an accurate perception mechanism is good enough). To reveal this delusion, we’ll assume all this is still only going on in one’s active imagination. However using a pattern of brain activity that mimics telepathy as a tool to read his/her environment better is cool; the only difference this has to sense extension is that there is no real life data involved. This in my opinion makes it the most commonly used and confronted with, solid, and most effective tool I deal with. (even when well) There are practices like muscle reading which is getting data through seeing a person’s movement that are examples of a semi proven method that mimic things like telepathy. I propose mental activities that are involuntary and positive like some of the symptoms of a mental illness, could be used as a link between what we see as dysfunctional mental activity and a breakthrough into the endeavour to prove that thoughts are part of our dynamic world as a form and can be used as a medical or social tool. This mental activity in serious cases of unwellness can alter the way we operate, not just the way we think. Paranoia could take over and it could be false data, and the repercussions could crescendo. In their reality and in reality itself. I say listening to your thoughts (whatever form they take) and interpreting them, it’s safer than experimenting with hallucination because mind chatter can be a factor in hypomania and in wellness. Only in the case of hallucination being used in a controlled environment with positive energy being present, for instance with a schizophrenic, they can be very well while hallucinations are still present. If in that state the hallucination tends follow what the senses are trying to perceive and use a situation like the sense extension experiment involving hallucination and obstructed hearing it may prove to be a good tool/idea possibly for aiding the hearing impaired in this situation or a similar situation that works. It could work because it could fill in more data where it was lacking and it may inherently be attempting to be accurate. This attempt is evident in other mental processes mentioned here. In the case of experimenting with this type of thing never should you be depressed manic, psychotic or over whelmed with psychological issues. If you are in an unwell state seek help, but be open to the new ideas that may present themselves to you. Know that the brain is elastic and does heal. The hippocampus and you are always growing. If it’s suggesting that its telepathy aiding us and guiding us that makes you sceptical I’m not going to just drop it. Be pragmatic and get a bit more insight into how it worked for me. First off, all that makes it telepathy as I’ve said is that it only involves thought. One thing that suggests that it is a thought from another source is the amount of unusable but accurate information that comes along with these seemingly incoming transmissions. It behaves like a mental environment that doesn’t involve just you; the metaphysical plain. You mostly hear in your thoughts what applies to you from those around you but there is other mental exclamations at times coming from different sources for different destinations, or in most cases mental exclamations just for themselves. Also getting an involuntary thought of apparently what is being said somewhere completely out of reach of the senses is a factor here. This is bigger than the structure of telepathy. If you are being talked about in the other room the brain informs you of it and who is saying it, this is clearly a survival instinct to gain intelligence of what may be out there and what most likely is, this type of sense may be evidently seen and utilized more by animals than humans. Probably because of the invention of language, putting the sense in recession. These ideas suggest that the metephysical plain is not just in my head but is there for everybody (and that privacy may be an issue.) The experienced and well user of the mental functions could actually receive and send out positive and effective transmissions with a ripple effect, real or not. (for what it’s worth, even to gain confidence and boost chemicals, respond and react accordingly to these transmissions and you’ll find it fits and improves your presence and role in the situation, that’s my experience) while the sick are just spiralling and not even communicating because their usually using negative or confusing behaviour or energy. What’s also evident of its existence is the obviousness the transmissions go both ways. I’m not just getting your impression of me in my thoughts; it’s obvious you’re getting mine. Its conjoint mental activity. It involves everyone but I think it requires a guide. If these are just symptoms, they rarely intensify and do dissipate more or less with wellness. I say if it’s not the metaphysical plain it’s at least explained by two minds appearing to correspond by (often coincidentally) one playing out the others activity as accurately as it can within the mind. This as a law would be evident enough to prove telepathy. I see a constant pattern in when the transmitters communicate, that they are thinking that thought and responding to one another (seen though body language and verbal responses. That’s telepathy like activity rationalised. It’s not always word for word because often I ask and they say no I did not think those words. Apparently it’s a mental impression of yourself delivered in the form of verbal thoughts or inaudible expressions from other people in the vicinity or elsewhere. Finally the hybrid hearing idea.The most effective and safe of the ideas here. (Thought and hearing mixed) It would be hard to disprove because of a lack of qualified candidates and the scenarios required. The hybrid hearing idea like I’ve said is not activity isolated only to thought, but the idea that involves using factual data and the imaginary simultaneously. Sense extension without hallucination. Deciphering between actual sense and involuntary thought is easy, you know what you hear and what you think, they become conjoint in some mental states indicating that the possibility of an extension “fill in the blacks” scenario. Know that this involves either an overactive imagination. The logical involuntary lingual thought mental activity combined with the brains attempt to hear the less audible is a marriage that could create the extension of the impaired or out of reach sense (hearing in this case) What I propose is happening here may be hearing the bass of a conversation because bass carries farther, and your mind places the other frequencies (treble) in the form of an involuntary imaginary sound. I suggest this is too intricate and accurate to be delusion. To actually be aware of the volume according to the distance or nature of the info that comes from not the unknown but an obvious source is evident of that intricacy. The psychotic skills talked about here are among the skills we’re all born with. All humans are capable of psychosis. Which is the foundation of these things. I just find mania to be safe, similar and more of an advantage. Our brains and beings all have an inner need and desire to figure out what is reality. Even when that reality is obstructed, it uses other means to get around to perceiving the world correctly. This line of thought has the potential to be a step forward in changing others view of these symptoms. To suggest that they are meant to be enhance to our advantage, not abolished; this is the stuff of change at an evolutionary level because as I said earlier it does involve everybody and anybody. The Chemically Endowed / THE HEALTH SYSTEM James McFarlane June 1st, 2016 Mania is the increasing of one’s “reward” chemicals in the brain chronically (a symptom of Bipolar). A fact about mania is that it is not so often as out of control as we are tempted to assume. We don’t know the limits it can push positive wise. A negative aspect is surely something that we have seen occasionally. An example could be a world leader like Alexander the great. On the positive side of it are people like Van Gough and many other artists, teachers and authors. Making tireless efforts at just causes inspired by epiphany is just one of the activities a bipolar individual has the option of pursuing. (Sometimes with phenomenal results) This can be a positive activity of the broad ranged individual. Mania is an abundant source of potential positive energy. The mythical Greek god Dionysus has been called the god of mania. He partied allot and was the estranged son of Zeus. There were cults formed in his honor and the remanence of them still exist today as a common and highly manipulated, manipulative tradition known as the entertainment industry. Antianxietys, antidepressants, antipsychotics and mood stabilizers; drugs that (have attributes that researchers have neglected to even identify) help and plague the bipolar individual as the most commonly used tool to ward off symptoms. In some cases, recreational drugs like amphetamine ((that seem to force up the mood of an individual) among drugs that are normally oriented with unwellness)) I suggest, could be a surprising aid in speeding up the recovery process of depression (the opposing symptom in bipolar to mania which have psychosis as a common theme at the peripheries of both poles of experience) through cognitive stimulation. This is important because antidepressants take several weeks to take effect and suicide could be prevented by the induction of a more open approach to medical uses of recreational drugs. This activity should be combined with social interaction in the case of recovery because it surrounds the recovery of the social aspects of the self (I do not recommend this as the first option for a recovery process). Like most drugs this behavior may take years off the recovery process but could wind up taking years off your life. If closely watched and tested the medicinal benefits of illegal or unreaserched drugs as well as further data released on drugs in general and their common circumstances may be a great stride in the remedy of mental, psychological conditions and social misconceptions which solutions are still being put off by ignorance of the populous and adverse political agendas. Other treatment options not listed above include electroshock therapy and psychical exercises like cognitive behavioural therapy. These alternatives are used less most likely because pharmaceuticals are a huge part of controlling the populous and funding corporations and government. However, a regimented combination of any of these factors could be a breakthrough for some. Called “consumers” by people that work in the pharmaceutical industry, these human beings endowed with seemingly new chemicular behaviors have a heavy cross to bear. I believe that it is obviously possible that over half the population (just to be fair) are born chemically inclined, but forced under the heel of the majority of the others who are from my perspective, psychologically twisted by ignorance, power over the sick, and unjustified behaviour based (((most likely (just to be fair) for some, subconsciously))) on either inherent or just blatant jealousy. I say this because the majority of people in a position of dominance in our society, (security guards, nurses, the police, doctors what have you) are brutally unfair, unprofessional, and ignorant in most cases. This attitude fuels the biggest and oldest and crudest intolerance ever committed by one group against its own people. The mentally endowed verses the psychologically twisted and everyone in between or strung along is the latest and oldest injustice I can see other than the genocide of the shamanistic cultures of north and south America. The most obviously funded sick lack of justice and care for their own counterpart (ever challenged till present day) by a government is currently at hand. It’s a matter of time and interest among corporations. Their need for money will guarantee that the proper drugs will be the end of this problem. Their survival as a business is the only co-dependent factor for the cause. Once the sick become well, ((the inevitable outcome (already achieved)) the drugs will be reinvented a few times ultimately plateauing as a renewable idea by these scientific salesman and their evil subordinates running the place like some kind of sick joke to themselves. Those who wield tools and permission to inflict pain, bondage and any form of abuse they find delectable simply to put off paperwork (and sooth their own often nocturnal boredom) only assigned to be used in the inevitable malpractice suits soon to be ensued by the just with the just against the corrupt. With blunt force and jealousy against their only threat and reliable witness to the sick twisted 24 hour a day fetish of legally and illegally taking the rights and freedoms and everything that makes life desirable from the ill to make way for a prolonged treatment of abuse and betrayal from the psychologically bent nurses and security guards, doctors, police not to forget your everyday sociopath / psychopath walking the streets and perverting the direction and attention of the staff and patients of mental health wings across the country (Canada). Folks like these who lack the basic right and wrong skills, used obviously and openly by the sick and the meek to inevitably over throw the ranks of sociopaths and psychopaths governing, misusing and perverting the writing of history. All of their efforts put into this “note taking” endeavour to be rewarded with indulgence into the sick pleasures of a dysfunctional beauracracy and political disgrace to be. As for the sick, (and well) the neglect of one’s health and deterioration of relationships is often inevitable during episodes and when being forced against such characters mentioned above. These new victims often leaving the institution with their own newly afflicted psychological scars. This is understandable considering how different and under informed the external world and the unbalanced individual usually are. The unwell individual tends to get overwhelmed with heightened and distorted perception, and the outside worlds clashes with their reality. Inevitably against their will, (usually after lots of experience) and sadly, many forms of legalized abuse from the system that seems to be above all law, they become accustomed to the system and more knowledgeable about medication. This is the only way I’ve seen someone become well, for longer. It’s important to channel the knowledge from their experience into productive endeavours. This is the exceptional goal. Chemicals are a big part of the inclined individual’s life (Pharmaceutical, natural and usually recreational). Often enough a well-balanced person emerges but the fight against unwellness and addiction is ongoing for many. Even once well, the psychological challenges of adjusting to life can set in. Thankfully this is also treatable either with anxiety medicine or therapy (or in the case of the Canadian health system, prolonged and tormenting hospital stays crudely striped with prolonged bondage and isolation chambers. Psychology being the completely unfunded and rightful alternative. Wellness comes with time and knowledge as well as trial and error. The potential experience for these individuals is more than the average prescription. Logically and philosophically looking at these problems is key to understanding them. Stigma; it’s a thing like racism that is rampant in every culture today but especially in western culture apparently. A mild example of stigma is using a negative label or misconception such as “split personality” or “psycho”. These are words attached to now folklore, lies and misunderstanding so this ignorance is apparently the first thing to go. In the case of bipolars, it is often amplified social ability versus depression or other emotional states that is confused with complete loss of judgement. Schizophrenics seem to have an even keel in terms of personality in most cases. I know there is no mood disorder but full on hallucinations. This could be due to an unexplained increased constant source of dopamine in their system I suggest gets used to produce complex distractions that could be used to their own advantage, like poetry etc.. (Unproven connection) The biggest problem is the assumption our government and citizens have; that the mentally ill are violent. This ultimately subjects us to being treated like escaped zoo animals by every authority figure you can think of. This is how they legally get us into straps; the word violent. This word can be used in ways it shouldn’t which is often the case. Once declared violent and mentally ill you’re bound for a living hell most likely for quite some time. All the ugly side effects of the system itself leave you psychologically damaged. You get a fate worse than prison by far, especially if you’re rebellious. I have rarely if ever have seen an act of violence towards another from a person that lives in a society that has them already sedated, and threatened by fearful ignorant authority figures with shackles, tasers, injections and cruelty in general at the ready. I’ve mostly seen vigilance or peaceful protest in those in an unwell state, simply because they have the logic to see what they’re up against. We’ve seen this all our lives. Even those who fight back really never had a chance to show that they meant no harm. I say this because our common goal as this type of person is to be understood. While up against a mass of smug sociopath liars who are constantly projecting joyously in groups that we’re mentally incompetent and incapable. This whole thing makes me want to kick an isolation room wall in and pull out the insulation over and over again. That type of treatment on that scale and for that length of time inspires anger in the most emotionally controlled of individuals. This type of passive brutality cannot be easily understood by people who are on a regular level of unchanging dopamine and serotonin. Basically, it is those who are in control and uninformed that are inevitably inflicted with the stigma for mental illness otherwise these are used as tools by the PhDs that as of late have the audacity to wield side effects deceptively like better acting medication (as well as transference upon their staff). Mania is a powerful source of energy. Success of any kind is a possibility with people that have the genetic makeup of the bipolar individual and quite possibly the schizophrenic and schizoaffective system casualties. Most who blindly submit are in a sedated or in a financially constricted reality for most of their lives. However massive bodies of work that gain quality over time with practice are usually seen with all types of mentally ill individuals. Productivity is a given with excess energy and hopefully with excess dopamine. This is something the bipolar individual has at their disposal. (The excess dopamine, like I stated earlier, being the undiscovered advantage for schizophrenic and hybrid diagnosis individuals). If psychological ailment is part of ones developmental makeup, seek help through private practices in your nearest large city center, like psychologist offices, astrological predictions or the cheaper alternative; fortune cookies. ((all systems more trustable than the political money grab being masqueraded by the Canadian government and god knows where)). Hobbies will get lots of attention and skills like writing will be improved for most. Phenomenal ideas and activities must be given attention. It must come from a desire to be appreciated in a world that sees them as useless and treated as such as well as resentment for the genetic advantage and the mitochondrial patterns I will stipulate below. First off I am compelled to write; things like physical agility are improved as well when new energy comes along. Now, the organelle mitochondria in animal cells produces energy for the cell. Like the patterns of the near solar system and probably menstrual cycles and similar monthly patterns recorded to date, all of these cells (differing by their design) work as groups. Most likely shifting by the behavior and the pressures of the environment and or the environments one is involved with as well as (chiefly) the positive verses negative intentions or energy put forth. The positive being more strong and more apt to gaining velocity compared to negative endeavours while the ignorant become subjected to rapid, (fuelled by culture and social upheaval) evolutionary de-emphasis. Tradition will save many who are open minded. It has been theorized that a person who inherits the bipolar gene may have abnormal mitochondrial activity. I reiterate that this would cause fluctuating energy production for the whole body and possibly more so for the brain, ultimately spiking or dropping essential consciousness related chemicals like serotonin and dopamine. Mainly above the baseline of level as far as positive living goes indicating that it’s an innovative evolutionary trait. (These chemicals and the proper medicine are prime factors for the bipolars however independent) the natural chemicals)) These are known simply as chemicals that affect our mood. Or sometimes referred to as (and in everyone’s experience) reward chemicals (endorphins) and oxytocin (the love chemical). The mitochondrial theories as well as more psychological rather than biological theories (i.e. “mono-ideo dynamics”) are unproven. (most called into question more than 100 years ago left unelaborated but proposing a hypothesis unfinished on purpose, ie. Mono-ideo dynamics meaning that an idea can make the body do anything the body is capable of to the peripheries, any part of the body. The “any” part of course cautiously suggesting the brain) The future of mental health I would say is the extensive categorizing of the dosage and drug or treatment in relation to different types of people or circumstances. (i.e. more than 10 conditions, more like a dictionary of conditions to be) Also, once the medical scam plateaus (due to actual research and political attention) psychology as a treatment method will be implemented beyond nurses attempting some form of cognitive behavioral therapy. It is those employed to work with the mentally ill and the graduates of psychology or related studies who must insist on more data collection and way more research into the possibilities the mind itself can offer in medical treatment of all illness. It occurs to me now obviously that psych has been previously placed on the priority list as secondary to the drug trade and religion so to gain funding for an renewable priceless trade like deduction of illogical pursuits and outcomes. (A basic form of psychology that should aid dangerous things like delusion and the laws of attraction). Psychology research mut be put on the forefront so we can get meds chosen, dosages corrected and diagnoses discovered and made faster and more accurately. (And produce more jobs in all levels of the field of medicine) It’s a century old marriage and divorce between medicine, and free will. Psychology should be treated as equally as important as medicine as it is half the battle against corruption of our society, ecosystem and those who inhabit it. Back to the original induction and pragmatic endeavour of self controlling mental chemicals that have their own agenda, or the agenda of the moon and the weather; the social activities of a manic person can be difficult to put up with for others because it’s constant and overbearing at times. This factor most likely is being brought up because of my experience with passive aggressive tendencies. What is interesting is that it can stimulate chemicals in people around the source (more importantly I say between couples). Basic emotional chemicals like endorphins and oxytocin (excitement, survival and `love` related chemicals in any order) can be increased in other people at higher than normal rates and levels (not to mention the freed individual themselves). These chemicals can be a blissful and natural human experience when people are close to one another. This can be achieved through stylized communication between persons. In cases of manic people with other manic people; it’s a vibrant social atmosphere. It’s manifesting the inner emotion or thought into reality or more commonly manifesting it into iteration. In any case one can activate the other pretty easily without consumption of any substance. Any communication and body language is the stimulation factor here when differing types of people get together. This is what psychology is; ‘Behaviour changing chemicals, changing environment’. Boring and seemingly opposing efforts is also a common occurrence because it’s hard to stay positive for most and for those around them because, it’s been a long battle and opposites attract. Phrases like that as well as phrasing like “everybody’s different” is an indication that intellect and work ethic are also independent factors essential to the coexisting of partners in general. The state best to experiment in as far as is hypomania (medium mania) or even just wellness. Ways to activate a slow rise in your serotonin level if you’re not bipolar would be using a mild stimulant like amphetamine (Dexedrine). This is not something to try on your own. I’m suggesting this to be a carefully overseen test involving chemicals that are dangerous to be used in excess and for prolonged periods of time. If you become manic, know that once your manic states have passed and you’re well you still possess the ability to partake in and test different psychological and parapsychological activities (it does stay with you and up to date). One thing to discover while well is that a person can up their brain’s chemicals at will without the use of drugs, rather, behaviour or behavioural exercises. Once you’ve done that and or submitted to the opposing factors of the weaker you are both freed. This has been going on for billions of years in many forms. Dancing, sex, geometry, sensory deprivation (like vision quests or modern culture traditions) gaining knowledge about the earth from the stars, cultural and group oriented endeavours like art or chemical revolution (i.e. drugs rock and roll all stimulate the body chakras as well as the earth’s). Other theories basically thrown around by the wiser of the eastern west in the form of literature or poetry comes to mind, like; “electricity comes from other planets”, in relation to mono-ideo dynamics in relation to bipolars and nature; “The Gift” etc. (The Velvet Underground, 1969). All of these “foggy notions” are there for usually the reason they’re being inspired, meaning put art intentions and science together and you’ve got something good. Unless you succumb to the marketplace. Only drugs inspire chemicals on command without the need for circumstance (this is a modern cultural tradition). The nature of mania is that you become ‘antennae’ of sorts that more easily gathers information. It’s up to you what you do with your energy or your manic that turns the tides in your favour. Your perception may be higher in this state, but there (as always) is; a down side of it as there is duality in all things in nature. Psychosis depression and psychological problems plague the inexperienced young bipolar individual’s lives until an effective treatment plan is accepted or forced on them. Other ways to cushion this (and to avoid too many episodes) is complying with treatment plans to your liking and staying away from recreational drugs for the most part. Or rather, opposing and cheating the laws of the flawed marketplace. The process as a whole is always a learning experience for most. For sure, unbalanced brains are the next step in biological evolution. The union of the mind and body, the relationship between the physical and metaphysical, and how human culture is merged with the ethereal will occur along with the reopening of the practices originating from primitive psychology like the agenda of the heavenly bodies of fire above. Victim Psychology One thing I have realized over the past many years is that there are two kinds of people in the world; the aggressors and the passive. Like the chimps and the bonobos, the psychopaths and the victimized, the sociopath and the weary guardian, the farmer and the farm animal, the nurse and the sickly the dominant prey upon the weak. I have found the sociopath to be friendly and the psychopath to be gentlemanly and wise at times. This does not condone they’re compulsive destructive social and physical abuse that they inflict upon they’re victims. A psychopath is someone who enjoys committing violence upon another. A sociopath is one who has no care for the wellbeing of others. This is rampant in modern Canadian livelihood. One other thing I’ve noticed about aggressors is that they go in and out of remission. (Which is cooperative behavior) A volatile destruction of one’s trust of others and distorting of one’s actions that is prevalent in victims is sexual abuse of the young and old alike. Next to physical assault it’s the most reactive and high profile to this day of violations of another person therefore it falls in the category of psychopathy from what I can see because of its physical and emotional impact. Victims carry on in public, say profoundly erratic and shocking statements, take up malevolence for those who stand by them and seek a vengeance that has no sympathy in any circumstance against theirs and other persons abusers. Their paranoia fuelles the problem of wrongful accusation cases ongoingly across the board. Usually a current abuser is in the background with these cases fuelling the fire while the victim holds out for some kind of mercy or justice. Wife beating and general abuse of children and animals are the most haness and hated by the public and the spectrum of victims in this country. (Canada) Sexual abuse is the most widely discussed and concerning of abusive behaviors towards humanity, (to the point that it’s an ongoing obsession and topic in the daily conversation in a conflictive situation between persons and within groups of all sizes) breeds decay within the psychological health of the groups themselves(like paranoia to a schitsophrenic) and they revel in it, abusers and all. All the power to the victims for their enthusiasm, but to reiterate what I wrote above, these actions are somewhat on occasion either false puppetry put on by the victim’s close and currently occupied as; violator, or by bystanders who just want a show or to gossip. The falsity and sadly sociopathic act of ‘fish netting’ just about every oddball as a possible suspect of these lowly behaviors is very common in today’s society. However, I have realized that their paranoia is justified by the number of women beating and sexual abuse cases showing up as a reality today and that there is a correlation with the amount of homosexuals that are violently “in the closet” who turn up in our courts and also who don’t (mainly due to victims trying to hold their lives together). Can this be explained by ethnicity clashes? Gangs?Terrorism?Languages? Why this correlation? Is it obviously connected to what was formerly seen as perversion, homosexuality, as a factor in these broken homes. Just because by my census in northern Ontario found that heterosexuality was a minority here and that the abuse rate changed for the worse shows that it is possibly a correlation. How long has this been going on? I find that these men need to use women as a shield, a sexual punching bag that’s worth no more than a cheap roast beef. This is a new social disease. Not homosexuality, but the act of taking a mate of the sex you aren’t interested in for personal gain. The action of these men is typical abuse and the women go on destroying their psychological health through these empty relationships. This one (me) who is looking for a healthy relationship feels ripped off however the sociopathic women choose their life like dolls instead. While the jails hold the psychopaths. The police jail and court workers go on with their corrupt behavior in our region. It’s that that continues to choke our young women into a compromise. They are a social disease, we are under siege from sick nations and countries and our men are allowing our women and children to fall by the wayside to make room for more homosexual dominance. It’s time to liberate the inflicted to avoid more people crossing over to psychological toxicity. As these victims start to depreciate into self destructing and outwardly destructive tendencies. Psychologists must prescribe and teach like never before in this age of lies, abuse and corruption. LO-FI Music Explained JAMES MCFARLANE·SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 13, 2016 LO-FI MUSIC EXPLAINED The additional distorted data collected from the peripheries of our senses deliberately recreated and reproduced by means of adverse, outdated and unintentionally altered technology and style. Recorded or preformed ideally in the form of what we know as music and or film. broken record? More like audible snowflake. The geometry of nature get betrayed and expands when recording art under predetermined and active circumstances at the whim of the conditions of the environment and it’s setbacks. LO-FI Music/Media is the effect that the decay of our technology has on the pristine conditions in which we perform and record our visual and audible experience and the deliberate recreation and reproduction of these anomalies. Atonally thrusting forth with a foggy notion that these new audio and visual recordings of patterns that emerge from the more primitive forms of technology over time vaguely and remarkably respond to and compliment the setting of the reality intentionally being recorded on an almost conscious level. The question of how to activate them and where hey come from arises when artists of our own age with a knowledge of the recent technological and cultural past attempt the avantgard. Using predominantly analogue and traditional technology affected by time itself that we can alter ourselves in combined with natural (random) rate, voltage, velocity selection what have you to reproduce art AND what the ultimate effect of the recording process has on these works of avantgard art is the idea behind and the method LO-FI Music/Media. -James McFarlane (Seamus) I blew up Einsteins theory on insanity — James McFarlane (Seumas) JAMES MCFARLANE·SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 13, 2016 Einstein said that the definition of insanity was repeating ones actions over and over again, expecting different results. I say that this behavior is far from insane. It is the fundamental law of how our development, bodies, daily lives, cultural traditions, reproduction, evolution and solar systems function. When looked at closely we see that even the most repetitious behavior is constantly changing at various rates. This is a law in all things in our universe therefore nothing ever really repeats itself. Rotations beautifully exist in nature and follow an imperfect geometry that we mimic in our cultures according the the schedules of the massive bodies above. Rock and roll, like opium or the moon have differing effects on the geometric patterns of our lives and evolution. Some rock an roll music by use of musical instruments (science) has combined the harmony of natures repetitious behavior (the drone) with the ever changing distortion factors like; time, mass, pitch and amplitude that are essential and fundamental to the evolutionary principle of repetitious behavior. Its the repetition that is the foundation we stand on, as long as your standing on it, expect something new to come about. Simply our presence in a scenario changes the physical and metaphysical environment at some rate, its our behavior and descisions that change that rate what manifests as the artwork or reality. — James McFarlane (Seumas) lyrics — James McFarlane (Seamus(Substreet Drones)) JAMES MCFARLANE·SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 13, 2016 NEW — weird song (2016) the reaper, put the beat on hold, bones dug up just like the sunflowers in the snow, now deeper into the river of sight, if you go in that cave dont turn out the light, white light shines bright, no stars tonight, behind the vox stack, their singin heart is black, subwayswhislting over my head, thank god i climbed aboard instead, reap what you sew 4x (coda) Heart is black ive been had (ive been had) ive gone mad (ive gone mad) ths is war, (this is war) i told you all this before i beg you, i want you too, write me back heart is black face the facts, art is black, heart is black face the facts, art is black, oohicant stay, (ooh icant stay) cant go your way, (cant go your way) i felt you sweet smack, Your smoke is black (smoke is black) i beg you, i want you too, write me back heart is black face the facts, art is black, Beautiful face she thinks shes alright, butshes out of sight, swim in for a bite, underneath the white light, thining of fashons, and still looking smashing appealing to fools, out of all kinds of schools, lo frequency base, mixed with the acid taste, no it couldnt compare, to your beautiful face. you left a hole in my chest, a better shot than the rest, do you have five minutes, for a warhol screen test, at dawn i see a star burning not lie the rest, cant help but sit and wonder where its going next 4x cant help but sit and wonder where shes going next 4x Blue Haired BelleBlue Haired Belle, hangs around the gates of hellMorning stars get lost, in the flow of your blue sky locksDon’t despair, you’ve been on a track please take care, Come fly with me, its your blue sky that’s pure dont you see. Its alright You, me , everybody,we, see, only moonbeams,comets not so high,eathquakes in the sky,lalalight n short in hight and , nananight and it’s alright,lalalight n short in hight and , nananight and it’s alright, You light the way, through tunnels, try not the scrape, the gunnels,on the right a cave in sight, it’s alright not this timeon the right a cave in sight, it’s alright not this timelalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala lalalalaooooaaaaooooaaaaaooooooooooaaaaooooaaaaaooooooooooaaaaooooaaaaaooooooooooaaaaooooaaaaaoooooo Main Street When you called me up hereIdidnt feel like walkin, Now your sayin to me,youdidnt feel like talkinwhy are we so clumsy,so clumsy with our breadnow you tell me honey, how you keep your stomach fed, always lending yourself out, to the freaks that dot our lives,honey when you gunna shout, at those drones in out beehive,take a walk uptown, to the bucket where they drown,gunna tell them when they get out,to get theiur handouts downtown MorningAt the dawn of a new age,Sun comes up, smell the burning sage,take a step foreward, turn the pagesay goodbye to all those dark dark days, MAking a brew I stare a the fire,stir the pot, and then connect the wires,turn on the amp, the music inspires,got to free my mind from all the cheats and all the liars. Morningdrone You, you know what I mean, when isay,that nothings gunna happen today,and you, you know what imean,wheni tell you it’s just not my scene, you, yeees you, what the hell are we gunnado?and you, the only one you listen to, is a man, by the name of, Lou. We, yeees us three, could make it at a defferentpace,I, know that, it’s a discrace, Lord, take us to another place, So grab your stuff, your record albums,you take the wine, and ill take the guns, and into the ocean, we will go, cause you know, were headed, for the coast,so raise up your glasses, for a toast,ha, which one of us can drink the most,the father, theson, or the holy ghost,and you say that this car can race,but can it take us to that other place, a different side of mother natures face. take me to another place. Nothing drones honey comes from lots of work, sticky feet moving berserkpatterns form in crude beauty, drones fulfill a pointless duty, honey drips, from the hive, golden jkelly feeds their wife, pretty flowers messy home, nothing drones on like the cone, back and forth, in and out, dancing like we use our mouths,the pay is small and so are you, results of that sweetens my tooth, the task is never ending, constantly descending, dripping in the mouths of those not worth defending. Oppenheimer park Rolling down the open road, to the end of the line,end of the world, end of the illusion of time,I go down to the water, and feel the cool surf,hear music in the air and take it for what it’s worth, cant understand why people, could live on so little,when so much goes through them, and through the needle, so hasty, with the selling of their saved souls,the western downtown is bright, blunt, and bold. Walk up and down throughout the day, out of your mind,think of your home nevermore, till the end of timethe loop drones on and on like a broken clock,don’t need to climb the montain, cause your at the top Hastngs is not coming for you, your coming for it,like hell it bewccons like the incline of a pit,the east side, sits a nd people come from near and far,to sit, and sink, into the grass, in oppenheimer park oracle so your torched,your hanging by a thread,don’t scorch, your pretty little head,wishing through your lips that it worntpass,feels like your turning from a liquid to a gas, take a trip right to the edge of your mind, consciousness poured out and left behind,take a break from all the flats and all the sharpd,ride a cloud of nothing, and numb your broken heart To thew edge of your mind, distortion blurrs the line bettweenwhats out there and whats inside, deep in the cave, breath in the cold air,see shadows on the wall,… stare bring news just like homing pigeon,come down, and start a new religion, leave now, and speak out, littereally or metephorical,the knowledge you posess will make you the oracle. Pipe Dream A science experiment gone totally wronga weather balloon with some kind of evil about it,all the kids at school could see it above the horizon,my friends and i knew we’d be better off without it, king kong, walked along high street, where the freaks and thugs call home,if he could reach this floating disaster on time,he knew he would never have to die alone,hethough about it and realised the people wouldntunderstandhe knew their alien nation would turn this ape into a man, darkened minds turn on a dime, revolve in time along thin white linesyin and yang drip from a wolfs fang, one pulls the trigger the other goes band why can we get to the meaningof this philosophy of feeling, how do we break the silence of the checkerboard of violence. Darkened fool has lots of toolsd, dead at the deep end of the pool, boring times and pouring rhyme, the question, is this really mine? why can we get to the meaningof this philosophy of feeling, how do we break the silence of the checkerboard of violence. Psych em out Psychem out like rabid vermin, make em shout a phony sermon,see right through their simple game,right to their core their thoughts of shame, watchem blow upon the fire, rocks explode right on the liar, social change brings end to war, housewife trembles on the floor,backwardsforewards, up and downvoisc encircle all aorund, observeprecieve hear see know learn mirror be, identify possible flaws, of the menace with no causethe time is now, so try to learn how to bend the rules they use to keep you down. Rabbit hole Salvage you mind while it is illuminated, a fire out of control,a cabbage in ttime, right now it is fumigated, wired and housing a soul,badhabbits in line, schedualed to be terminated, inspire you out of your hole, A rabbit , redefined and underrated but higher than ever before, drink up while the tea is hot and bright blue, the flesh of the gods makes it so,3 caps and some stems is all i can do, to see shooting stars upon the snow, think sweetly of me, with emotions so true as yu stand and look through the window,think of thinkgs to do when im gone for good now, waving at the bus watching it go, Im down in the southland, with deep curving valleys and bridges all rusty and crumbling, with grasses all dying and rivers of green and subways whistling under me. a spot on the corner , a 30 dollar gutar, a case and a cigarette too, is all that i need to get usedd to my home and bring my mind closer to you. The last of this song, is all out of place, but the pace rings true to the rule, of the verses before i shut tight the door on the patterns lost and misconstrewen,becauseits all backwards and forewards like this, its in shambles but its not a ruin,the end of this 4 verse song has arrived, to the point you might not clue in. Sea of lights Rockj and rave, through the night,on speed in a sea of lights,jump spin contort thrust,black white pain lust,spent a week there last might, maybe more,steal yourself a holy death crouching by the door cause we all live in sin but it makes music sound new, go out on a limb, and let the world surround you, we rave through the atonal thrusts and the booms,tonight the flowers of evil are in full bloom, Standing there all in white, she sings in the spotlight, in darkness and style, we strum all the whilestanding all in black behind the vox stack, from behind sunglasses, we inspire the masses, cause we all live in sin but it makes music sound new, go out on a limb, and let the world surround you, we rave through the atonal thrusts and the booms,tonight the flowers of evil are in full bloom, Walk and talk it through the park,whiplashgirlchild in the darkrun run run, take a drag shoot your speed while you brag i’ve been orchestrating behind sunglasses,immitatingprodogy, and writer, man, tomboy and a throusand fans zeppelin spotlights on my brain exploding plastic in my veinhypnotyic tones as the propellers drone,mind bending sounds, resonate undreground, dak circles never weed, new york 1963, Chcmysic, velvet freak desensitize alter tweak, no money car moon or sun, sell your blood for heroin,if she ever comes now now, moe beat on that drum now now,pink perfume, mantra neumes silk screen factory tunes superstar test only the best wine coffee speed heroin rest,darkcircl;es never weep, new yourk 1963,theyve been up for weeks, in the white light the tweak, in 63 Skeleton Here we are again, moneys all been spent, you don’t know where hesbeen,hes trying to fend off things that dwell within, hes a skeleton. at the end of days hes been here before he says, narrow in mannyways,hes a skeleton,andidont know where hesgoin, or why he thinks itssnowin, he can see the wind thatsblowin, hes a skeleton, Spotlight Reap what you sew,snakes and poppys in her hair,sun flowers in the snow,make you look like your not so old,it had been so long i could not recall her face,she came outside to meet me though iwas’t her case,nowi sit and wonder if I’m out of place,the memories i had of her, are in outer space Standing all in white, she sings in the spotlight, in darkness and style, we strum all the while,on the odd days I could talk to her,harmony and dissonence, a modern venus in furs,up and down that hallway, rotating the earth,waiting there for hours and hours, for her the quench my thirst. Sweet grass summertime,see the star shine, and i don’t mind revisiting those times,although my mind is blown, i play the drone,saying goodbye while you’re getting stoned. Vicious lips oooooo what to do,iwanna see you too,i think imgoin mad, ooooim not that sad noooi wonder sometimes where you are,what moon what planet under what star,id like to think your not that far, but we both know that trip was hard your vicious lips, eard on the airwaves, waking the dead, from their graves,your sweet, but your toxic, been three weeks since you dropped itI found it in my pocket, your trains comin I cant stop it You Made Me the reaper, put the beat on hold, turns to dust when they turn to dope,promises, he couldntkeep,to save a life, only three feet deep,you’re my catalyst, myonliness, decemberbaby,im the creep you made me,you’re my catalyst, myonliness, decemberbaby,im the creep you made me,the reaper, put the beat on hold, turns to dust when they turn to dope,promises, he couldntkeep,to save a life, only three feet deep,you’re my catalyst, myonliness, decemberbaby,im the creep you made me, Come Back Around JAMES MCFARLANE·FRIDAY, MAY 13, 201610 Reads The process as a whole is always a learning experience like no other. Ultimately, like the brain has a recognition and physical atribute that corresponds with most chemicals in nature (possibly even synthetic chemicals) the psychological functions that a person can aquire are almostordaned and recieved in a timely fashion by the organ and im assuming the subconscious effortlessly and for evolutionary purpose. So I will assume everyones own, (however existential), growth experience is interesting. Having the atribute of spiking and deminishing of at least two of the brains most important chemicals related to experience, and behavior… and the awareness of the (most obvious to you) potential for not only chemical related occurances and their ripple effect, but the behavioral methods that the acute brain, manic brain, almost has a natural function to excercise and use usually either for a better survival or further expansion into astonishing existential and soon to be investigated parapsychological, social behaviors that tend to stick as long as they serve in a new type evolutionary (ie “Counter intuative”, productive and humanistic beavior that the mind eagerly draws in like an antennae recieving and storing up valueable energy. Setting this agenda and also surviving the early episodes, of bipolar, (which are usually the most drastic) are two hurdles to get over, let alone the crude, almost sickening archetectural features in our community hospitals, thats purpose cannot be desguised as heathcare to the human eye. A grossly overused assortment of bondage equipment and isolation chambers (not to mention your absence of any dignifying articles of clothing( also to be moved and set in place on occasion) nowadays plate glass walls, a whole dungeon setup designed by those people involved no less, who really probably care wheather the colour they chose or how their design would function better than the decaying sweat soaked ultimately in our home towns case, my favorite case, dried blood stained, apparenty approved for use by some dr, a single hallway, to alk up and down seemingly endlessly, untill not suprisedby the inevitable dread code white, that is the delight for the predominantly, …listen t me… dominated, by your average practicing as ferociously as they can with as little effort as possible, sociopath and more importantly to re ognise, violent violators psychopaths, who pretymch have the real pl working there stressin over what could possibly be these ppls capabilities, and are alienated inside by this evil thay cannot risk their ,,, virtully anything valuable, like a job or who knows, omg… thats why she left,,,,, so, yaa, these ppl rise like cream, annnnnd they have a really good time eeeehm, .. now nurse practitioners or legends, thir former dominator look like theyve aged, well lets say i was convinced they had beeen using prolongued use on heavy stimulents, like crack. iloldrewaout a blueprint with symboldsfr the patient advocate, neaysi mostly wantd to write and its alot of shit thats gone no doubt as home with ,,,lets say u know like fat cat. what, i was 15, and he was fat then, now hes the last one standing up there that i know of. oh yea… so i would say if u want out, and as of late i thing the design is perfect for the right ppl, socios included, fuckers, but, the dr, they are jst as careless as the security guards who cant hide haw stupid the really are and the odd couple who are revealing that their ok, still, idicovered, ,, maybe not in north bay, but in a proper community, like the city, ………..lost my train,,,, i think that i was getting at how just to be fair and …eyea 50 percent of the staff endowd with the ability to weildstrapps, and are encouraged by their no doubt under educated superiors, to always have the wrist ready to be broken if, now this brings me back,,,, they chokeyou, than comes the bondage that betty page would think is very unatractive, idk,,, the thing is,,, ya the drs, oh waut,, ok…. 1/3 of all of them are,,,, exculding the drs, and the janitors, who if ihaventdiscosedya are always there to pile up on a code white, and i know,, listen to me, no janitor ive met would grab my ass so hard on such a numerous a pile up, i have eyes in theback f my head,,,,,,, italalot,,,,,,, ppl that work so hard tp climb so not that far up the ladder in society, yes, sum of them are costume rocking witchcrftprodiges, who, will, 1 take the whole bunch of guys .. it may have been the forensic unit,,, this little thing is known by ,ppl, ive talked to about the psych who are inderectyl told by their others who work it, and ave stories about the oddity of us. iduno,, alot went down, but,, boring s yea she walks me throught e bysantine conduit iup to the floor, and the police have to walk somewhere behind to uncuff me and ta da, , y o iwanna bring up corporeal action when the best times,,, due to the conditios of bondage uuuuuuuuuuh were strictly through plate glass,,,,, ie. rare appearenced that are pretty much the only way. i really was bloody fucking thirsty 8percent and i mea ya,, when i was younngti chewed up braaaaan and drank my watttaaeer, and drew peace sighnsandd 7 days laterrrrr, after she sumhow managed to get an earbud into my head screaming for any colour you like by pink floyd, and playd the fungsonhggg, badassss. straight jacket. prolly day 4,,,,, i still think cough syrop is good for teenagerswhatver,,m took me to the top. ok… to get offf, the ward do as such; by Ultimately drawin on to no apparent end in crayons complete with nicotine gum (smokes,, the only freedom, not yet a right, that is so hard to get,,,,, and i learned to smoke in side the scarborough general hospitol,,, that room soon became the chamber, i would be locked in, for manny weeks, at different times,, thats where alot also hapened, is where the nude bondage asianfemaldr, ..whati mean i s theatwwhatwuldlou reed say… they never forgave us for nagasaki.,,, newaysive never spent more time in a i also a what appears to be and have bben told by assdocter of the north bay pstychwhi took to court at the hospitol and he got yelled at by a panel while my dad defended him and i ate cookies cus ii was really manic,,,, i also was 15 1/2… he later let me try and commit suicide,, thats a story of a different colour,, sounds like sprockets, idk,, idontwafe war with very real religiossympomatic shat, iuuuuuhm , so,,,, hereswahat krb8tujvcklwelbutrin.,,, ya, it istaken orally it shoul get right to work in three ad a half weeks, if suicidal,,,,, pray, oooir if u cant get dxedrine,, or sum speed beane drink a bottle of childrensgeapecoughsyrup once a day,,,, this acts as a seritonin reuptake inhibitor of a differrentcolour. 2 to 4 hours,,,iu get the mental stimulation,, it reall is a mellow buzz butttttyupppidecare fuck cough syrop…… dexedrineisnt out there and i know it couould really bbe used and they aslso do,, ie. jfk, addisons disease, dexedrine/anphetamine. so,, it will make y0ur 90 year old great aunt we all frogot about over in blind river get up from the abyss of alzheimers and dementia and sing thins is the day that the lord hath made,, ,but with real and concious interaction,,, without memory of course. however,,, she does that,,, did that anyway , but,,, im sure every month not every day,, at least one trial of … iuffingadhd adults can take it,,, why cant she. smeared into the grate of every window and the classy bubble rooom which actually was made with enough pride according to the regionnsid say, to have an even more, almost funny, and certainly battered scratched and spat on bubble for the head psychiatrist t poke his head into every few days. Lets not froget how that scene ended. like my father and grandfather before me who conditioned and alterred the correctiona institutions for fifty fife years now a conmfortablevacatin for psychopaths and whoever, not even the hole could stand up to point blank restraints naked, with your flimsy gown around your chest. at least in the bubble room there was lots of privacy, u know, to each institution their own, glass , bubble blood stained, probably 60 years of ppl that somehow said something that attracted the attention of their nurse, who no doubt vollynteered after printing your file which is most likely epic thick, there is no room for any of their creative stylings in that no, i did just smash the wall into pieces and ya all the insulatin is everywhere, high five and respect from my cute transference mistress, (and a couple others.) Perverts Dictionary (O_o))))))))))))) Trilateral — jinx No doubt — yes, super Doble- adorable, dobles, adobles Straight up — forthrightly, correct, right, or goof Throwing babies makes them gay Avant garde — protect the old (art) stay the same Downtown, — quiet not ratting Technology — rewind/splice mp3 interchangable Right up — shooting up Not up — free (not in trouble) Word — “my promise” new word, yes Naw — ya goof / no Buzz out — use vibrator / get high Drone- parapsychological anomalie Phe — speed (methanphetamenes) Stellar — awsum / the sun / single thing Figure — shape (claivoiance) One — god / goof Out-gay or leaving No doubt — ur gay / im gay. (For sure (im a whore)) straight up In — a goof out “my thing ‘ — claivoiant animation (repeated) Pentagon/circuit — terrific Duality — love or contrast in nature Straight — not gay or no drugs Up-in torouble/retarded/fucked Goof — crazy p/pedophile / molester/rapist/asshole Pervert-whore/hooker Asshole-incessant talker(mean) Solid-honest reliable Ethereal — heavely, sticky, Bird- girl pervert , moron Badass-pervert/violent, missile Idiot –saying nething Toad- smaker (heavy) old vagina A hard — a stiffy Eh eh- turning vol down and then up to trick parents in the 70s in quebec Bonhome — dildo, goof, good man Ein — get in /out (here) goof (French) ass hole/vagina Institution/church shouting= good Tabernacle-chest Coalis-chalise Zeut-fuck Fuck- rape/damnet or sex Stomping — raping Bang out- beat on Beat up — gay kids trying to get their frieing off violently Rank out — make someone stink by working them or hurting them / cast someone out canadian military style (gay) , gang up on someone till they freak out (psychopaths do it all over Canada)’ Trast- drunk /party/water Dai-morning, cool, fun, ausum, hello! Good-goof Story along-paranormal happening involving ancestral memory Psychic-all in one, prophet telepath Telepathic — mind to mind talker, thinker Telekinetic- moving things/ ppl Claivoiance- seeing colour from other ppls minds Rod-skyfish/fast moving anomaly animal Vaj-old or young vagina Oss — dog or baby vagina Grandma- bag in tree Candy — transsexual My honey — sexy (on the wind(throwing laughter(female))) Beating off — complex Wacking off-pervert Jerking off — solid (female) Move-walk / go Mullet-militia Freak –goof (black word) Ca — crap — crow call Germ freak-someone who forces germs on ppl Quay-(beautiful woman (cunt) — woman) latin Mead-morphene Rin — heroin (dust / cookie crumble) Beans — speed pills Rids — Ritalin No shit- of course Jib-meth Hellfire — run off meth (bad) Food — crack Molly-mdma /e Bombs — ecstacy cid — Acid (lsd) shrooms-magic mushrooms sterl — brother (little) afgan weed — brown pot kife — bad weed (shake) leaves) shibby — cool/goof cool-gay/awsum fade white — see white on od (heroin/mescelin(go to heaven/hell)) road — freedom — out of institution the suck — mescalin myth ast — perversion telekinetic- asty sortof meta/physical movement from the brain outwardly god — goof — one or christ lady stink — female deodorant leave it — shirt on chest (gay /bi) stop it hiboit gland — make you fat cured with amricain medicine merican — goof citizen of America Canadian- a sovereign citizen of Canada (incestewous clown) Were done — end releationship British — gay mongerers Nono –nig mistake Famished — thirsty / starved Sent — innocent Pervert — to change something and make it last nothing — absence, bipolar universai — multiple universes psykinetics — telepathy / telekinetics/claivoiance geniupsy — psykinetic offspring genius — generating new thought (brilliant) bipolar- up and down serotonin and dopamine, psychopath — violent person sociopath — not caring about neone oppositional defiant — opposing help borderline personality — victim misbehaving schitzophrenic — high fixed dopamine, fixed seretonin (normal)\ drone — unpiloted airplane, good worker, artist , schitzophrenic dick — enlarged clitoris get out of here — come here little child aced — gay men trying to get pregnant, daughter , sqaired away k — ketamine ass — dad/grandfather hun — little stut( skank) brecky — greek (breakfast) supper — jewish (Dinner) brecko — Italian (breakfast) avatar — ethereal image of oneself asshole — girl or boy or rapist (north bay / Chicago)\ goof — sad or sexy ethereal image from shame can be cured with desensitization (knumbaning) (telepathic) ya — pedophile dude — black pedophile Italian cowboy, fake doctor (candadian) huffin — pretending to be someone else while using telekinteicks in a sexual fashion. sadomasochist — paingiver/enjoyer earphoning — hearing ppl in ypur speaker — hold speaker up to ear and hand over other ear, psychopaths recommendation pur — rapist/pervert uggz — ug;y phile — pedophile ace — gays — rape — sister — grandma-brother path — telepath or a psychopath/sociopath, can — male whore cop- fake police (pedophile) musac — music laid — losing virginity glowie — acid victims (creep) ente old stupid goof dex — cough syrup bed down — tie to bed (north bay) fuck right off — screw my girlfriend\ fuck off — go cop the u- universe no shit — definitely mangina — friend spect-respect right up — repect straight up — disguise Italian — scot Adisguzi — disgusting excuse me No shit- really? Love — goodbyek“love”  and the knowledge that one can be loved and in my case always, I only philosophise with the partial use of solid evidence that I have been loved by the one I love therefore at and for that moment(pretty much after the moment my phone died, after 30 seconds of reading trainpotting aloud, there was a subconscious subjective foggy notion that was there to be discovered by the psyche,  at this moment I can prove using circumstancial evidence and truth know by both partied involved, the dependant factor being me loving her forever, and the independent factor her being a single indesisive woman looking for a man who will love her forever combining to make a positive chemical and psysical reaction, that is the fundamental tradition that is the goal of all living thngs on this plant and its most evolutionary form of it is when it’s “Love based” one giving the other what its most in need of and deprived of, the others love, not the love of a friend, but physical experiments that are love based, expressing love on not neccesarily a physical level (like if ur on the phone or sumthing)but specifically a sexual level. The compounding factors that result in reactions happenings cresendoes babies,, are when the energy isnt circular but moves in one direction, when the one party is starved, an the other has a wealth, and the act of giving not just what the yearning needs, but what  he wants, when the desired with all her wealth, emparts her secret harboured denied expression love though tradional reproduction based activities, that friendship goes from “limbo” into action, even for a moment, through technology that alerts the senses, in this case hearing, wheather the deprived is even present or physically participating, isn’t the point the point is that the foggy notion of true love was expressed transmitted in a traditional and pivitol form, even though I picked up the transmission through one sense,  my ability to hear, the value of those vibrations, though lo-fi and misenterperted until the last few seconds before the line went dead (FUCK), were interperated and acknowledged and the whole venus in furs philosophy of the one party giving the other what it wants so bad, but has been denied, and doing it with love, or what they BOTH KNOW is the kind of love that’s needed and given over finally with effortless,  voluntary participation from the dominant, resuling in satisfaction in bohe parties (in my case the girl and I were more harmonized cause it was love based. Sex based, and send in the sacred medium of sound, and the talisman, the artifact, the memory the high velocity evidence that the message was of high fidelity, was that she didn’t use descriptive words (language) I was unfortunately (my medium at the time) it was her specific instrumental natural sirens alerting me to the intentions that truly lied behind her actions towards me  even if it was for that day only, this medium I collected from the field is highly obvious and irreplaceable piece of art that is regarded by the mind of the homosapien on a natural level as evidence that it not just social interacton, its a higher form of interaction, sexual yes, the highest form, occurs only when the truly loving is truly loved, on a sexual level, which indicates physical involvement,  and it did, only on one side, the side of the desired, the starvd had revieved the intention, and it was love, something metaphysical that can only be cofimed as occurring for ne length of time is undeniable corporeal action, even if its just her, givin er to you reading literature over the phone, the gift of reassurance that you are loved in this memorable case was not through words, but audible expressions from the depths of physical and mental activity from her diaphragm through her vocal chords and into my eardrum, was evidence enough that our seemingly healthy and thriving friendship was being held in limbo while I struggled with life and suffered over the denial of the true real deal love you were harbouring and saving in yourself for the future, didn’t dim and go out like a candle that burned up all the wax. Without official acknowledgement celebration and because I was still fucked up, without the long lasting  relationship that we wished wold follow and planned for, the sound of her primal sirens, sent mono ideo-dnamically from her entire physical being emitting frequencies that resonate with the earth around her and correspond with the stimuli, me, the correspondence being the brief experience of hearing the broadcast of it, acknowledging the fact that no matter how flawed or un aware I was prior to precieving what was transpiring an how classicly themed to fit my experience it was, that the fucking phone died before I heard the end of it, I clued in to what was going on, (id been informed of this “drone”she makes by her ex boyfriend (the other guy) right before he drove his helpful and convenient car out of her life)  Even if it was “her being noisy” it was fundamental sensual body chemistry, stimulated physically by the best means she knew how mentally by the imperative consciousness of the presence of the instinctualy, reproductivly essential of (in her case) a genuine male emitting stimuli, in both of our cases the stimuli was audio. The rare and most modern evolutionary trait is the simultaneous(I say this empathetically because were using language the figure this out not a live experiment going on right now or some shit) Emotional involvemint by both parties “while during coitus” bein, to into words, (I know that you’ve been loveing me so im gunna love you back) tho words are sweet but it doesn’t compare to the same message sent in the biologically, exceptional quality thats essential to the balance of the bodies involved and there connection to one another, the planet and the unverse, sound and where it comes from and the intention or involuntary reason for its presence and amplitude, dissonant or harmonious, perhaps my reading, my being on the line was the drone, and the harmony was her dissonant siren song. Its our new found puprose as humans to when ready reproduce.  Love is highly evolved, and requires corporeal and linguistic and energetic action on both parties to be confirmed as true love. It works like a battery(the casing of the battery is the relationship here), one end needs what the other end has access to; the positive end has its own energy attached to it(the juice in the battery, posetve energy),(in this case this is our one, the girl)attractive body(+end)and a mind (the positive ends underside that’s harboring all the energy in the friendship/relationship (battery casing)the negative port on the other end of the battery on its outside (my mind in this case)is permanently attached through the casing of the battery to the mind of the desired, this girls memories thoughts etc. (the underside of the positive end) and not her body. Why because the casing is plastic,( the friendship) isnt enough to join the two to create a circuit, but the love(the battery juice made up of strange elemets) attracted by her negative mind(the underside of the positive end) and makes her body(the tip) fertile and ready to create electricity(communication) only the casing of battery acid(loving friendship)charged by my positive actions(the acid is positively charged by the underside of my mind(the negative ends underside) which represents my body, which behaves like the warm intentions of my actions, which positively go nowhere unless her mind (negative underside of the top of the battery)gets inspired by the love in the friendship (which is positively charged yearning, my positive actions played lovingly into her open mind(negative underside of the top) inspiring her to do something with her body(top of the battery positive) in response to my positive charge on her mind and all the love it can unleash,  for the sake of warm intentions she turns on a cell phone,, her phone(or wire casing) the copper thread in the wire(the signal) the positive charge in the wire, (her calling me) and her hooking up the wire touching it to the negative end of the battery(her bodies actions and warm intentions inspired by a recognisable charge I embody that she identifies with(my body and life being negatively charged with aa positive mind and her beautiful face and attractive personality.)  my phone rings and I see its her, the one, I immediately am inspired that its her charge the one im missing positively lovely, what is she up to? and i pick it up, A simple circuit at this point, is her using a tool or wire to send all her positive energy through to her body by using her minds attraction to positive energy, by simply attaching the wire it sends the positive energy not just through her mind and body but back down on her body, when the extension (the wire) is put on my mind(the negative end of the battery in this case, my mind),deliberately by her, sending the energized current of the love in our friendship (juice in the battery) into my mind(the end of the battery with a bump) by way of the wire (cell phone signals connecting our phones and her voice and energy being the current) all the positive energy meets the negative charge of my mind and then that foreign female tone (positive electrical current) the positive energy stemming from the juice, the love, that’s made up of elements like lithium(in the case of the battery and in my case as well) this element and other alloys, the whole chemistry of the battery acid, holds the charge positive because energy flows, and love or acid can be charged by the bi polarity of conducters meaning they are opposing one anothers charge on the outside leaving potential for power over nature,  while on the inside, inside the battery the compounding nature of the universe is seen between you and me, me and the chemicals and elements the acid the love that is positively charged by me and only me, in this battery regardless of proximity my charge is still the key, litteraly loving you moved energy directly making me alternately free but obviously reflects its imperfections symetricaly and quite similarly to your perfect face and body  only introspectively and this thing I call negativity you existentially use to control and manipulate me by means of electrical currents like a shark in the sea, but the ocean currents in our world somehow moved me so far we couldn’t be but as the drone turns up the heat as chemists cure insanity, inevitably the duality of the friendship followed the trail right back to me,  from the beach into the city,  while metaphysical acid rain fell on her black umbrella,  drops of synthetic nightshade provided a ground and a side effect equaled a perfectly balanced sound resembling a circuit around my neck and down to the nervous wreck, I stand and smoke out on the deck, and remember that was how we met I  stop, wait my energys charge self provides, enough energy to survive, with my new social activity the acid, charge, size, speed and proximity and  the voltage of the current and relativity. My positively charged ablilitys that betray the moon like your fertility, a simple circuit cant explain the lovesick emotional pain still forming drops of acid rain only strengthening my brain, its time I have to get reactive, send this to her radically brilliant highly attractive yet negatively charged mind where chemicals of another kind will get inspired as she reads about batteries and his energy (that she secretly lovingly keeps rightfully under her locks and key with her sharp mind and memory should recall the flattery,  the almost dead battery, poetic licence and mad hattery finally gets me through the matter we, lost all sense of pattern, see, the point was electricity, and keyboards I would never see, played like a former prodigy, with drones that resonate with me just barely metaphysically, through my sleep deprived behavior induced heightened state, Ive always been able to wait, epiphanies sometimes come too late, but revelations give me faith that your negative mind and my positive state, memories of how u altered fate, I know theres more to come but wait, don’t get offended by my state , my batteries dead so save the date, remember wiser things I’ve depictions finished in your head, an electrician would have briefly said, what took me hours,  in ten minutes u will have read, I must finish without my meds, theyd knock me out, blow to the head, ill miss away you time instead,  that lilliad inside your mind

#poetry #writers #blog

[cakesunflower]

Liability [Peaky Blinders!Calum AU] Part 1

Liability—A person or thing whose presence or behavior is likely to put one at a disadvantage.

Summary: Being the daughter of the Police Captain meant Karina Garner should’ve kept her distance from Calum Hood, the notorious leader of the Peaky Blinders. It certainly didn’t mean she should agree to work for him, especially when Calum had underlying motives up his sleeves.

A/N: this is part 1 of my Calum AU that’s based around the tv show Peaky Blinders! if you haven’t watched it, it’s basically a show about a gang in 1920′s Birmingham led by the ever-so-fearsome Tommy Shelby--who, in this fic, is replaced by Calum, obviously. 

it’s important for y’all to remember this fic is based in the early to mid 1920′s, so some dialogue or exposition or plot points might seem a bit strange or different than what you’re used to reading from me but remember--this is a different time period! keep that in mind, and happy reading!!

Liability—A person or thing whose presence or behavior is likely to put one at a disadvantage. 

Part 1

Waking up in her childhood bedroom had been disorienting, not entirely remembering what she was doing there. But then the exhaustion she’d fallen asleep in caught up and Karina remembered her long journey back to Birmingham. She recalled the reason why she moved back and let out a tired, defeated sigh. Her return to her hometown wasn’t under the happiest of circumstances, but she wasn’t as heartbroken as one would expect. She was a grieving friend, maybe, but nowhere near a grieving widow. Never had Karina wanted to become someone who married just for the sake of being married, but that’s how life turned out, that’s what was expected from them. Archie, a wealthy investment banker from New York, had taken an interest in her; her family had approved, and that was that. Honestly if Karina truly hadn’t wanted to marry him, she could’ve protested and her parents would’ve listened. But Archie had been nice enough, handsome and rich and a way out of Birmingham.

Until none of that was worth it. Until he was gone.

Too many mistresses and refusing to let her work were suffered through for two years too long. When she didn’t want to give him a child when he was ready, things had taken a turn for the worse for their already deteriorating marriage, a mismatch made in hell with a constantly fueled fire. Then Archie fell sick, like he was dying from the inside, until he took his last breath, giving Karina a way out of an unhappy marriage and the money he left behind for her.

A bit tactless for her to think, and even a bit cruel, but he’d spent nearly their entire marriage treating her less than she—or anyone—deserved and Karina was not about to spend her time grieving over a man who viewed her as property to be invested in.  

“Morning, love,” her mother greeted as she entered the kitchen, robe tied around her as she joined her dad and brother at the table. “Egg and toast?”

Karina sleepily hummed her agreement before pouring herself some tea. “How did you sleep?” her father asked, already dressed in his captain’s uniform, finishing off toast lathered in jam.

“Brilliant,” Karina answered truthfully, recalling how her eyes shut the second her head hit the pillow. Looking at Sean, she asked, “Don’t you have work?”

Her twenty-one year old brother scrunched his face in annoyance. “I’ll go when I’m bloody done eatin’,” he spoke through a mouthful of eggs, prompting Karina to twist her own expression in disgust. Once he swallowed the bite, he said, “Everyone wants to go out for drinks tonight to welcome you back.”

Karina lowered the cup after swallowing her of tea, a wry smile on her lips. “You mean to drown me in alcohol so I’m not too heartbroken over Archie’s death and the fact that I’m a widow.”

Her mum clicked her tongue, placing Karina’s breakfast in front of her. “His passing is sad—you can pretend to be grieving. Plus, you’re twenty-four, love. You’ll find someone who truly deserves you. He’s out there, by God’s grace,” she added, her slight rough Irish accent something Karina missed.

But she shrugged, almost sadly at the loss of Archie and the thought of her marriage coming apart so quickly before his death, despite being glad not being stuck in something that didn’t make her happy. She wasn’t heartless; she spent two years of her life with that man, and while most of them weren’t happy moments, he’d still been a constant in her life. For all his faults, he didn’t deserve to die, but Karina wasn’t going to pretend she’d lost the love of her life, when she definitely had not. Still—no doubt her mum’s friends would talk, and while Karina liked to think she didn’t care what people said about her, she could only pretend so much.

Her dad cleared his throat before pointing at her. “Listen to your mum. We’ll shift your things to the flat tomorrow. I best be off.”

Karina looked at him with jade colored eyes, raising her eyebrows. She was staying at her family home just upon her arrival, but Karina had a flat that was a fifteen minute walk from the home that she was ready to move into. She’d lived in it for a year before her marriage, almost as a way of preparing herself for independence despite her family being so close. It was unfortunate she barely got a taste of it when she moved to America and was told to only adhere to Archie’s demands. “You’re leaving already?”

The police captain scoffed, picking up his hat. “Crime never rests—especially if it’s the Peaky Blinders.”

He left a few moments later, the front door slamming sounding his exit, and Karina looked at her mum and Sean and frowned. “The Blinders still give him trouble?”

Mrs. Garner sat to Karina’s right, letting out a breath as she prepared her tea. “Honestly, I think it’s the other bloody way around most of the time.” A disapproving expression matched her tone. “Likes to press on them when they’re not even outwardly doin’ anything.”

Sean scoffed as Karina listened with interest. “He’s lucky Calum Hood doesn’t condone killin’ coppers or else Dad would be dead ten times over by now. The Blinders are dangerous as ever and fucking terrifying but they protect us just as much as the coppers. Dad just doesn’t like sharing the glory.”

Their mum clicked her tongue. “Sean.”

Karina let out a breath, raising her eyebrows at her little brother. “You sound like a fan,” she pointed out, to which he only shrugged, and Karina found her thoughts suddenly consisting of the Peaky Blinders.

More importantly, Calum Hood—a name she knew and a face she hadn’t seen in a few years. He was the leader of the Peaky Blinders, founding the gang after returning from the war, and expanding their business and notoriety within a matter of months. A household name, not one to ever be fucked with unless someone wanted their eyes or tongues cut. They weren’t quiet about their dealings, were proud of their work, and had the entire town’s fear and respect in the palms of their hands—especially Calum. Always walked around as people moved out of his way, with the razor blade glinting in his cap, cigarette between his lips, and ring clad fingers ready to throw punches if need be.

The town also had the Blinders’ promised protection, which made work for the coppers harder, since no one would dare go against the Calum Hood and the Blinders. No one wanted to bite the hand that was feeding them.

Karina knew of Calum; had gone to school with him when they were children until he dropped out later in the years to help his family, and then she’d only see him around town. Then he had left for the war, and just a little while after his return as a war hero, Karina left for America. She knew the Peaky Blinders started around the time she had left, but her family never mentioned him in any of their letters—why would they?—and Karina never really thought about the dark haired man who was, more or less, making her father’s life a hell.  

She wasn’t going to lie; she’d definitely felt a shiver creep down her back when her brother so airily mentioned her father escaping death just because Calum Hood said so. It made her wonder just how powerful her old school mate had gotten over the years. How the mere mention of his name made most men she knew quiver in their shoes and run the other way. How the quiet boy with the full cheeks she used to see in the classroom had grown to be an illegal activities dealing, killer gangster. It all sounded almost surreal, but Karina guessed there was a fine line between delirium and reality.

After breakfast and drawing a bath, she changed into a simple outfit of a white button down blouse tucked into a long maroon skirt before spending the day with her mother. They had lunch, ran some errands, and then Karina joined her mum and her friends for some late afternoon tea.

“So, you poor thing, what are you going to do now?”

Karina pursed her lips as she swallowed her sip of tea, forcing the smile to remain on her face. She may love her mum, but Karina should learn to say no to tea with her friends. The old birds always had something to say, and now that Karina was back after losing a husband, she wasn’t surprised they wanted to gossip about her, clearly having no respect for the loss of a life.

“You don’t have to poor thing me,” Karina assured with a sweet smile, light brown hair framing her pretty face. “I’m perfectly alright. Might find me-self a job.”

“Karina’s very fast with numbers,” her mum piped in with a proud smile. “She can land a job at one of the banks.”

Karina smiled, grateful for her mum’s support. She knew her mum felt guilty for what happened, for even letting her daughter marry a man who made her live a life less happy than what she deserved, even though Karina had agreed to the marriage in the first place. She didn’t blame her parents; it was life. Sometimes it was shit, and though her husband might be dead and she mourned the loss of a life, she didn’t mourn the loss of a husband—no matter how much of a bitch that may make her sound.

“A job?” one of the women, Mrs. Nelson, guffawed. “You should find another husband, not a job.” She laughed, looking to the other laugh women. “The only work a woman should be doin’ is housework and raisin’ kids.”

The other women chuckled and murmured in agreement and Karina exchanged a flat, unimpressed look at her mother. She wasn’t all too surprised at the women’s way of thinking; they were all housewives, did nothing but cook and clean and raise their children. Not that there was anything wrong with that—Karina just didn’t want only that to be all she did in life. She wanted a little more, something less mundane. Something that gave her a purpose.

Honestly, Karina wasn’t sure how she survived the day with her mum’s friends, the women doing nothing but boasting about their children and grandchildren. The amount of cigarette breaks Karina took weren’t enough to keep her sane.

But then the night fell and it was time to head out for drinks with her friends. Karina put on one of her finer dresses, ruby in color and flattering, and she was looking forward to seeing everyone. It wasn’t until they were approaching the familiar pub that Karina shot her brother a look. “Should we even be here?” she questioned suspiciously. “If we don’t die in there then dad will surely kill us.”

Sean snickered, tossing the cigarette butt as the gravel crunched beneath their feet, the iron and coal scent of the factories around them digging into Karina’s nose as they approached the Garrison. “Sheffer’s is closed for renovation—Garrison’s the nearest pub, Karina. Besides, nothin’s gonna happen to us. Been here loads of times,” Sean reassured, holding the door open for Karina as she almost reluctantly walked in, following the few friends they were with, eyes flickering about to take in her surroundings almost cautiously.

Karina was hesitant upon entering the bar, knowing that it was the one owned by the Peaky Blinders themselves, buying it out after the gang gained their rightful notoriety. It’s where their men spent their time when they weren’t working, along with the factory laborers, and Karina knew from her brother that this was where Calum Hood often was as well, if he wasn’t out conducting Blinder business. Karina couldn’t help but think it was a risk coming here, being the daughter of the police captain, but she trusted her brother. If he said they’d be fine, she would believe it until they weren’t.

It looked newer than she remembered; a shining gold theme lining the walls and bar tops, circular tables in the middle with high red cushioned stools while booths lined up the walls as well, matching cushioned seats for those as well. The warmth in the pub was a pleasant welcome in exchange of the cold night of Birmingham outside, the air heavy with the familiar and ever present scent of tobacco, a deep breath escaping Karina at the loudness she was suddenly surrounded by. Men and women busied up the pub, and the live band playing upbeat music on a higher up platform on the back left of the room was a nice surprise to Karina. Last time she remembered, the Garrison wasn’t nearly as done up as it was now. The Blinders—Calum—had truly put in the work for a makeover.

The Garrison had never been much to look at, but things had obviously changed upon the Blinders’ acquiring of it.  

Karina admired her surroundings, briefly oblivious to the few stares she—not the people she was with—was receiving upon her arrival. One of the first things she noticed was how the pub consisted of both men and women, when at a time, it was only the men who worked in the factories that would drop a few pounds at the Garrison. Though now, the patrons look almost as classy as the pub. But as her gaze happened to wash over a few of the customers, Karina noticed the stares. Noticed the few double takes and curious looks that were suddenly accompanied by whispered conversations, menacing over the music playing. No doubt they were all privy to the reason of her return to Small Heath, maybe they were even questioning why the daughter of the police captain was in a known Peaky Blinders establishment, even if she was with her brother who apparently frequented this place.

Though, he was a man. Double standards often ran high in a town as small as the name it was given.

Neck tensing, Karina tried to ignore the looks, instead following her company to an open table while Sean and Joseph went to the bar to get drinks. Karina hopped on a stool, the soft material of her dress flowing against her legs as she pulled out her pack of cigarettes and a lighter. The first inhale managed to relax her, hoping those staring would realize there wasn’t much to look at and go back to minding their own business. Honestly, Karina didn’t care much if they talked—that’s all what people liked to do—but it was the staring. It prickled at her skin, as if their gazes drove needles into her nerves and paralyzed her, forced her to notice every single look she was receiving.

“Pay no attention to them.” Karina blew out a delicate puff of smoke at her best friend Joyce’s words. The brunette shook a curly lock of hair from her face, fingers gripping her own cigarette as she kept her gaze on Karina. “Just focus on enjoying the night, hmm?”

Karina raised an eyebrow, chuckling wryly under the sound of her friends chattering, noticing Sean and Joseph returning with the drinks. “You mean enjoy the night commemorating the loss of my husband?”

It was awful and heartless, Karina knew, to be doing this. She only justified it by claiming that she wasn’t celebrating Archie’s death. She was just grateful to be out of a relationship that lacked any ounce of love and respect. No harm in celebrating that, was there?

Joyce rolled her eyes, tapping the cigarette over the ashtray on the center of the table. There was a hint of a red circle lining her cigarette where her lipstick touched, Karina’s cigarette the same. “I mean enjoy the night commemorating your escape from an unfit marriage,” Joyce corrected, practically reading Karina’s thoughts.

The shot glasses were filled to the brim, and the smile on Karina’s face was genuine and easy as she and her friends lifted their glasses, clinked them together to cheers and even spilled some onto the table, before drinking their glasses dry. The vodka burned Karina’s throat gloriously, lips upturned and eyes screwing shut briefly as the drink sizzled down and settled in the pit of her stomach.

She enjoyed the company of her friends—friends she hadn’t seen in too long and had been left to only writing to them—with their two tables being littered with glasses and ashtrays filling up with the cigarettes being smoked. For the first time in a while, Karina genuinely enjoyed the people she was with, never having gotten used to being around Archie’s American friends who swam in money and childishly poked fun at her accent when they’d had too many illegal drinks in the safety of their homes. Her life in America, though one with money, had been unfulfilling. Archie’s death, though it was sad, offered Karina the opportunity to go back to her old life in Birmingham with the people she knew—and with Archie’s money as his widow.

Still, Karina recalled her conversation with her mother and her friends earlier that day; she may have Archie’s money, but she also wanted a purpose. Sitting around at home with nothing to do sounded just as mind-numbing as attending one of Archie’s friends’ dinners. Some kind of excitement in her life may do Karina some good—though finding it in Small Heath, that seemed like asking for a favor too big for the small town to deliver.

Eventually, Karina excused herself from her friends and wandered towards the bar, ignoring the few eyes that still lingered on her as she went. She paid for her drink, pausing at the bar to take a sip before she made a move to go back to her friends. She sipped, eyeing the various bottles sat on the shelves, remembering how the only way she’d been able to have a taste of alcohol in America was through private events where Archie and his friends somehow got their hands on alcohol that was banned across the country, the Prohibition Act that weighed upon the citizens having a tight grip on all alcohol.

So Karina savored her drink, allowing herself to lean her hip against the bar as she enjoyed it, only to regret the decision when a man taller and older than her, probably mid-thirties, came to stand to her right at the bar. He faced her, and Karina hated that she could actually feel his eyes drink in the sight of her, his stare unwarranted and unwelcome. Whatever was about to happen in the next few minutes, she was sure to not like.

“A lovely lady like yourself shouldn’t be drinking alone. Especially here, being the Police Captain’s daughter and all.” Karina tried not to roll her eyes at the man’s words, though she failed to ignore the way her skin crawled under his prickling gaze. Honestly, one would think being the captain’s only daughter would keep unwanted eyes away from her, and most of the time it worked. However, there were always the few courageous lads that tried their hand in hoping to impress her, especially at pubs, especially when they were older than her. They failed more often than not.

Karina put down her glass, the whiskey running smoothly down her throat as she raised an unimpressed eyebrow at the nameless stranger. If he knew who her father was, then he surely had to know of her only recent single status; did he truly believe Karina was wholly willing to entertain some random man at a pub after the death of her husband? Not that she was a grieving widow or anything—no more so than she pretended she had to be so she didn’t appear completely heartless. A tricky slope to live on, but Karina had never entirely been one to care much for what others thought, even in her compact community of Small Heath.

“But I’m not alone,” she responded innocently, offering a close mouthed smile as she rested her hip against the bar, raising an eyebrow at the man. “My friends and brother are right there. So your charming company isn’t required.”

The mocking sarcasm in her tone was quite heavy and Karina watched as irritation flashed across the man’s gray colored eyes, apparently not appreciative of her mild dig at him. He straightened to his full height, not the tallest man she’d seen but easily towering over her, as his expression tightened. Karina wasn’t entirely intimidated, not with her friends just a few tables away. Still, she didn’t appreciate trying to be scared into some type of submission. It was exhausting being a woman having to live in a man’s world.

“You’ve got quite a mouth on you, haven’t ya?” he sneered, eyes narrowing down at her, body shifting as a way of trying to step into her personal space. Karina’s teeth clenched. “Just ’cause your dad’s the captain doesn’t mean shit around here, sweetheart.”

For a betraying moment, Karina wondered if her father’s position in the police force meant anything at all.

Just as that thought fluttered across her mind, Karina heard the soft thudding sound of the pub doors opening over the music playing and people chattering, and instantly any sign of irritation wiped from her face at the sight of the man entering the Garrison. The man in front of her held no importance anymore—not that he ever did in the first place—as a familiar face entered the bar with all of the casual confidence in the world, instantly drawing the attention of everyone inside upon the opening of the doors.

Calum Hood walked in, his three piece dark grey suit pristine and crisp with a silver vest chain glinting in the light, a cigarette hanging from his plump lips while a cap that matched his suit rested atop dark curls. Ring clad fingers reached up to grasp the cigarette, dark eyes intuitively scanning the faces crowding his pub as a cloud of smoke curled out of his mouth, and Karina had to force herself to look away, not wanting to be caught staring for too long, and refocus her attention on finishing her drink as he walked further into the bar.

She downed the rest of her alcohol, setting the glass down as she vaguely heard the patrons going out of their way to greet Calum—an overenthusiastic “Evenin’, Mr. Hood!” here and a nervous “How are you, Mr. Hood?” there—not wanting to at all appear as if they were ignoring him, which was only a small hint to display the power he held. As Karina shifted to go back to her table, she quite honestly hadn’t realized she had completely forgotten about the man that had been attempting to chat her up until she began to turn away and was stopped by his hand grasping her wrist.

Karina stopped, blinking her widened eyes before following the hand up the length of the arm until she looked at the man holding her with an incredulous and slightly annoyed expression. “Didn’t your copper father tell you it’s rude to walk away from someone tryin’ to have a conversation with ya?”

Her jaw tightened, teeth grinding together as she stared at this man, older than her and relentless. Sometimes she truly wondered if the male species was even born with basic manners etiquette. Damn neanderthals. “He taught me how to deliver a punch if need be,” Karina responded, hoping to keep her voice calm despite the warning tilt that crept in as she spoke through gritted teeth.

The man laughed, as if what she had said was comical, only serving to quickly irritate Karina as her jaw tightened even more. He looked down at her, the jeering evident in his eyes as he raised doubtful eyebrows, the amused grin wide on his face, clearly taking her and her threat as joke as he taunted, “Oh, you’re gonna punch me, are ya?”

“There’ll be nothin’ of the sort.”

The sound of the new voice, raspy and deep with a lazy, almost uncaring drawl, had the man’s face blanching, Karina couldn’t help but notice. The color drained from his face as he straightened immediately, hand releasing Karina’s wrist, which she instantly pulled towards herself before looking to her right. It was then did she realize why the guy in front of her seemed to appear as though he’d been visited by a ghost.

“Mr. Hood, h—good evening.” Karina would’ve found it comical, how the stranger suddenly transformed into a bumbling idiot in front of a man who was obviously younger than him, if she wasn’t too busy staring at the newcomer in her own haze of wonder. She hadn’t seen him in years, but even with Calum Hood merely standing next to her, Karina could see why every soul in their town and beyond was absolutely terrified of him.

She couldn’t quite understand it, how someone had the power to appear so intimidating when they were doing nothing but standing there. Calum stood with the cigarette hanging between his lips, a thin stream of smoke curling from the end of it, with hands buried in the pockets of his expensive coat. The expression on his face, with dark eyes glued to the man, just appeared as though Calum had much better things to do then interfere in this conversation, and Karina knew that he most likely did—but stepping in had been done out of his own volition. And it confused her, making her unable to look away from him and put an end to her surprised yet puzzled expression she watched him with. Briefly, she wondered if everyone else in the pub was looking at them, or if the heat in her body was due to her previous irritation or with the newfound company she was in the presence of.

Calum Hood didn’t spare her a look yet, tilting his head up ever so slightly to look at the man from under the tip of his tweed flat cap. “It will be, once you walk away from Miss Garner,” he returned, the cigarette perfectly held between his lips as he spoke. His tone held no sort of emotion, though the command was somehow still clear as day in his calm voice. It was enough to have Karina’s heart jumping—along with his mention of her. He remembered her. She tracked the way his left hand pulled out of the pocket, fingers grasping the cigarette as the rings he wore glinted against the lights, using it to gesture towards the doorway as he added in finality, “Out, Stuart.”

The man—Stuart—didn’t even pause to argue. Karina watched in skeptic surprise as he gave a nod to Calum, not wanting to spare a moment that could ever possibly look like he was disobeying Calum’s order, barely looking her way as he picked up his hat and shuffled out of the bar, the doors swinging shut behind him. Karina’s gaze had been on him, watching him go, her view obstructed only briefly when Calum moved in front of her to take Stuart’s place.

She barely had a moment to comprehend what had happened when Calum spoke up again. “Leave it to Captain Garner’s daughter to try’n’pick a fight in my pub.” Karina straightened, throat working as Calum leaned his elbow against the bar top, body facing her as she watched him take off his cap. His curls sat perfectly atop his head but that didn’t stop Calum from running his fingers through them once he dropped his cap, the razors sewn into the peak clattering lightly. Stubbing out his cigarette in the glass ashtray on the bar, Calum quirked a lazy eyebrow at Karina. “Does your father know you’re here?”

His dark eyes were hypnotizing as he gazed at her, familiar but not, and Karina had to swiftly snap herself out of whatever trance she had found herself in to answer in a voice she hoped remained indifferent, “My father doesn’t dictate where I go, Mr. Hood. I am my own woman.”

He watched her intently, his gaze far too penetrating for her liking, her stomach turning under his stare along with the pointed Mr. Hood that had slipped from her tongue. Karina tried not to bristle, completely at a loss for what he may be thinking, his expression never giving anything away. She remembered, vaguely, how much of a smiling child he had been; how the fullness of his cheeks rosied whenever he grinned, and while some of that same roundness was still present, it was now accompanied by a stubbly jawline sharp and strong. A small inkling to how much he’d grown.

“A woman who’s apparently grieving,” Calum responded. He spoke in such a lazy, unrushed drawl, like he had all the time in the world and whoever he was speaking to had no choice but to wait for him to finish. Something told Karina that’s exactly how the world in their corner of Small Heath worked; it belonged to Calum Hood, and everyone else was just living in it. He lifted his chin, eyes still on hers, expression void of emotion even as he stated, “Sorry for your loss.”

Karina held back the snort. She doubted he was, doubted there was even a cell in his body that cared. Karina knew she should stop the conversation from flowing right there, should probably excuse herself politely and go back to her table with her friends and brother instead of lingering by the most dangerous man in Birmingham. Standing next to him alone was enough to rattle her bones. Still, her lips pressed together as they quirked up, nail tapping against the rim of her empty glass as she said, “Nothing a good drink can’t help with.”

She saw the subtle quirk of the corner of his lips, so brief that she would’ve missed it had it not been for the fact that she was looking at him, as Calum dragged his eyes towards the bartender and said, “Two whiskeys, Lewis.”

“Scotch or Irish, Mr. Hood?” the bartender asked promptly as Karina eyed him. He looked ready to answer to Calum’s every beck and call.

“Irish,” Calum told him, not bothering to consult with Karina as Lewis instantly went to pour out the drink. His dark eyes met her green ones as he mused, “Should be good enough to mend your broken heart.”

Karina bit the inside of her cheek, giving a tilt of her chin in the form of a subtle head shake as she gathered enough confidence to return smoothly, “Can’t heal what’s not broken.”

Her response, she could tell, intrigued the leader of the Blinders, one eyebrow quirking ever so slightly. Lewis placed their glasses down, but Calum’s eyes remained on Karina as he spoke in his drawling tone, carried over the music still playing throughout the pub, “Marriage didn’t agree with you?”

Was she seriously standing in the middle of the Garrison discussing her marriage with Calum Hood? Karina really would be needing that glass of Irish whiskey to get herself through this. She wondered, briefly, if her brother and friends had noticed just who exactly was in her company; wondered if they were purposefully staying away because it was Calum Hood or because they genuinely had no idea. Either way, Karina couldn’t bring herself to even look away from Calum, despite wanting to. Just gazing at him seemed like a bad idea; like he would suck her into his world and leave her to drown in it.

“My husband didn’t,” she corrected Calum, fingers itching to reach for her glass. He hadn’t reached for his. Karina took a breath, hoping the music would cover up the shuddering sound. “But I’m not one to speak ill of the dead.”

That, she saw, invited an amused smirk to tilt at Calum’s lips, the first true sign of some kind of emotion. Karina tracked the way his lips curled, a boyish expression that was coated with a kind of wickedness that had a shiver running down the length of her spine. It was then that Calum reached for both glasses, rings clinking against the glasses as he handed her one of them, which Karina hesitantly took. Couldn’t exactly turn a drink from Calum Hood away—Karina quickly and almost horrifically realized, in that moment, that she didn’t want to anyway. Just like she didn’t care for the few stares she knew were lingering on the two of them.

“So if the man was the problem and not the concept of marriage itself, I suppose you’re lookin’ for prospective suitors?” Calum hummed, turning his body so his back was against the bar, elbows rested on top as his hand held the glass after he took a sip. His body faced the expanse of his pub, filled with guests, but his head was turned towards Karina.

She felt her heart unnecessarily jump at his question, mind running with asinine possibilities as to why he would ask that of her. Honestly, Karina was still trying to accept the fact that she was having a conversation about marriage—her marriage—with Calum. Surely the leader of the most notorious gang had better things to do than to stand around conversing with a girl he once knew from his childhood about her marital status.

Karina’s throat was dry, both of her hands wrapped around the glass, hip against the bar as she gave a shake of her head. “I’m afraid you’d be wrong.” She noted the quirk of his eyebrow at her as he took a sip of her drink, silently prodding her to explain herself, and Karina pressed her teeth together at the condescending gesture. Was she some kind of pet who would know exactly what to do at the silent command of her owner? It heated her, but Karina wasn’t in the mood for pissing off Calum tonight. So she took a breath and found herself explaining, “I’ve come to understand that I would rather be working then getting married again. For now, at least.”

She waited for him to laugh, throat tight, just like her mother’s friends had when she told them the same thing—though Karina knew if she heard Calum Hood laugh, it would be so shocking that it’d feel like a slap in the face. But instead Calum was silent for a few agonizing seconds, the quiet only filled by the music and other patrons enjoying themselves, until Calum narrowed his dark eyes ever so slightly and pursed his lips before asking, “Are you a whore, Miss Garner?”

It was a good thing Karina hadn’t been sipping at her drink, because Calum’s question would’ve had her choking on it as she gaped at him in indignant surprise. He inquired about it so casually, as if it wasn’t an insult to her to suggest that the only work she was capable of doing was to service men through the likes of her body. If that’s the path some women chose to take, then more power to them, but Karina didn’t see that in her future any time soon.

It unnerved her, how she didn’t see any contempt or taunting in Calum’s eyes when he asked that of her, just curiosity as he stared at her expectantly. Karina wasn’t sure if the question itself was insulting, or the fact that Calum likely genuinely thought that the kind of work Karina was interested in doing was selling her body to whoever paid for it.

Her skin flushed, the tendons in her neck tensing briefly, forcing herself not to let the edge slip into her tone when she spoke up, already growing tired of having to control herself from slipping up in front of Calum at the risk of getting cut. “I’d rather get paid for my efficiency in typing and dealing with numbers than my body, Mr. Hood,” she told him, the hint of disdain at his insinuation involuntarily creeping into her voice. She couldn’t help it, she felt insulted.

At that, something flickered in the dark of Calum’s eyes, watching her intently in thoughtful silence as the pub buzzed around them. Karina was quickly realizing she was beginning to hate being unable to tell what Calum was thinking, particularly when he was watching her in such a way that had her nerves standing up on their ends and heart feeling as though something was forcing it to sink. He looked like he was thinking over something, maybe, and Karina was forced to stand in his silence, busying herself with her drink and wondering what exactly was running through Calum Hood’s wicked mind.

He surprised her by asking, “Your father’s alright with his only daughter stepping into the working world?”

Karina let out a soft yet exasperated breath through her nose, already growing tired of this. It was almost disappointing, how whatever fraction of an interest Calum seemed to have in her to spark conversation derived from the twisted relationship he had with her father. The leader of the Peaky Blinders being the number one target for her Police Captain father wasn’t quiet news; Karina was aware of how tough it was for her dad to ever get a solid hold on Calum Hood. The notorious gangster had more people in his pocket than anyone could count. Hell, Karina was pretty sure there were a few coppers on her dad’s police force that, while they weren’t entirely on Calum’s side, they also didn’t do much to go against him.

Karina felt like a traitor to her father, standing in the Garrison and chatting up Calum Hood, even if the conversation was seemingly innocent. Knowing all her dad wanted to do was put an end to Calum Hood’s reign should’ve been enough of a reason for Karina to never even step foot into this pub. Why didn’t she just walk away?

She took a breath. “Like I said—he doesn’t control what I do.” Karina found herself pushing away from the bar, skin tingling at the way Calum’s eyes tracked her movements. Always watching, always calculating. Somehow, she managed to gather the courage to tell him smoothly, “I didn’t come here to chat about my father, I’m here to enjoy the night with my friends.” Karina took a step away, praying that she wasn’t insulting Calum by walking away from him—she had an inkling that not many people did—but standing around talking to him was making her skin feel as though it was on fire and even though she was ready to walk away, Karina hated the fact that there was a part of her that wanted to stay put. So she raised her glass, the gold liquid dancing within, and she offered the smallest of smiles in the face of being polite. “Thank you for the drink.” As an afterthought, she added, “Mr. Hood.”

God, he never looked away. Karina kind of understood, now, why people moved out of his way the second they realized he was coming their way. A look alone was enough to send their hearts jumping into their throat where he was concerned. Calum tilted his chin up a bit, the corners of his lips lifting into a smirk as he raised his own glass. She saw the glint in his eyes reflecting off the lights of the pub, unsure if it was something she should worry about, as his smooth voice sounded, “Enjoy the Garrison, Miss Garner.”

Karina pressed the tip of her tongue to the back of her lower teeth, the smile still tilting slightly at her lips as she finally found herself turning around to walk away, never faltering despite feeling Calum’s gaze burning her back through the material of her dress. She didn’t dare turn to look at him, not when she knew he was still watching her, his stare enough to have goosebumps rising on her skin as she went.

Her entire body felt tense as she approached her friends, noticed the way a few of them, including Joyce and Sean, were looking at her with various degrees of alarmed expressions painted across their faces. Karina took a breath, knowing the inevitable round of questions about to be fired at her.

“Were you just talking to Calum Hood?” Sean questioned, eyes wide and eyebrows raised as he spoke in a conspiratorial, rushed whisper. He sat opposite of her, arms folded on top of the table as he leaned towards her. Karina wasn’t entirely sure if her brother was pissed or just plainly surprised. He was the one who suggested coming to the Blinders’ bar and Karina knew he didn’t entirely think ill of them, so she wasn’t sure of what her brother’s reaction would be. She wasn’t even sure what her own thoughts were regarding the unexpected and short interaction with Calum.

Before she could answer, Joyce jumped in with an excited whisper of her own, “Did Calum Hood just buy you a drink?”

Karina pursed her lips, not wanting to answer just yet as she raised the glass and took a long sip of her drink. She ignored the stares she was receiving from the two of them, her gaze wandering over to where Calum was standing, noticing how some men were now by his side as they chatted away. The band continued to play music that rang in Karina’s ears, but all of it seemed to drown out when Calum’s gaze met hers, freezing Karina in place and rendering her unable to look away despite her best efforts.

She remained still where she sat, hand tightly gripping her glass as her dark hazel-green eyes remained locked on Calum’s brown despite the distance between them and the few people that passed by that obstructed her view of him for seconds at a time. But he never looked away, absently listening to whatever the man to his right was saying to the group, and Karina felt her heart beginning to thunder within her chest as he watched her watch him. How could a single stare from someone affect her so boldly? And why did she have to be the latest target of Calum Hood’s intense, frighteningly promising gaze?

The weight of his observant stare had Karina’s stomach churning uneasily, only to be accompanied by the anxious, thrilling feeling that this wasn’t the end of what, without her permission or knowledge, had started.

--

tags: @irwinkitten @glitterprincelu @sweetcherrymike @meetashthere @valentinelrh @softforcal @astroashtonio @hereforlukescruff @novacanecalum @captain-what-is-going-on @angelbbycal @singt0mecalum @hopelessxcynic @lfwallscouldtalk @bodhi-black @findingliam-o @softlrh @calntynes @calumsmermaid @dammitbands @erikamarie41 @quintodosuniversos @longlastingdaydream @babylon-corgis @lukehemmingsunflower @spideyseavey @imfuckin10plybud @pastelpapermoons @conquerwhatliesahead92 @rotten-kandy @metangi @neigcthood @old-zeppelin-shirt @5sos-and-hessa @trustmeimawhalebiologist @vxlentinecal @pettybassists @vaporshawn @lu-my-golden-boi @heartbreak-5sos @visualm3nte @isabella-mae13 @dontjinx-it @lifeakaharry @neonweeknds @antisocialbandmate @ixcantxdecidexwhosxmyxfave @calpalbby @grreatgooglymoogly @gorgeouslygrace @sunnysideblogs @cocktail-calum @miahelizaaabeth @madelynerin @dramallamawithsparkles @aulxna @theagenderwhocriedwolf @kaytiebug14 @hoodskillerqueen @bitchinbabylon @empathycth @xhaileyreneex @inlovehoodx @calistheloml @aestheticrelated @bloodlinecal @sublimehood @madbomb @raabiac @britnicole11 @outofmylimitcal 

#calum hood #calum hood one shot #calum hood blurb #calum hood blurbs #calum hood imagine #calum hood imagines #calum hood one fanfic #calum hood fic #calum fic #5sos #5 seconds of summer #ashton irwin #michael clifford #luke hemmings #5sos one shot #5sos fanfic #5sos imagine #5sos imagines #5sos blurb #5sos blurbs #5sos fic #ashton irwin imagine #luke hemmings imagine #michael clifford imagine #ashton irwin one shot #luke hemmings one shot #michael clifford one shot #ashton irwin blurb #luke hemmings blurb #michael clifford blurb

[badlydrawnmanic]

time for episode 5 because i’m bored as heck

• just thoughts during the theme song but i wish we got to see more of aleena • the extras in this opening scene look passable for mobians which is a surprise • sleet explains something to dingo while looking directly into the camera

• WHAT IS THIS CATERPILLAR DOG THING UGH • it’s a legal requirement for thief children to have wack hair • kjsdgsd max snapped • i think i remember some people shipping manic with this kid • what animal are any of these characters supposed to be • that bungee jump thing makes no sense at all which is terrible • who gave sonic a drivers liscence • sonic your whole thing is to help people and then some poor kid comes in your van like “help me” and you’re like “why should i” what is the truth • shit dude that van turns on a dime • nobody in this show knows how to drive do they • this little goblin dude juggling is kinda cute, his design ain’t bad. weird colors but that’s a given • what sleet turns dingo into reminds me of the koopalings right down to the voice • is manic older than max or does he just say “little bro” because max looks even shorter than manic does • manic: stealing’s wrong   max:

• max brings up a good point about like... how are they gonna survive without money from the shit they stole • i think i redesigned max at one point? i think i made him a xoloitzcuintli (those weird mexican hairless dogs)

• OH I DID, this was back when i mainly did lineless art (it was easier doing art like this rather than lined art with a mouse, i haven’t tried this style with my drawing tablet yet), i really like what i did here skjdgs small boy • there’s two background characters with names, there’s a girl named allegra with a huge nose and some pig looking gremlin critter named clifton, i think that’s interesting • is it like a cultural thing for all the thieves to have earrings or did the character designers just go “yeah only punks have piercings” • sonia’s being really mean about their music for no reason when it doesn’t sound awful, just let these kids play their accordions and violins in peace dude • manic is a gross boy and spits all over this girl to show off one of his little tricks, disgusting • the headcanons about dingo involved something about this episode i think, i’d have to go digging through dms to remember tho • there’s this bird character between allegra and clifton who looks depressed as shit • sleet looks ugly enough to be a passable spore creature and i might just try that if i have to look at his nasty face any longer • i understand what manic means when he’s like “haha this whole thing reminds me of when i was little and stole shit all the time” because i was a little kleptomaniac when i was a kid and like... getting away with it is fun as shit. of course i feel bad now but like... hey i get it • for once the siblings yelling out of surprise has some energy to it, though i wish it was less like “oh aah” and more like... y’know, actual startled sounds, it’s not super convincing • sleet is standing there with his gaping maw wide open pointing in one direction with no animation like a statue and it’s weird • swatbots are on the same level of aiming as storm troopers • what even are these lasers? are they lethal?? do they hurt??? i don’t think anyone’s gotten hit from what i remember so like what’s the danger • sonic just fucking... vaccums up all these children with wind from running, he’s gonna hurt someone, he’s so damn reckless • WHERE’D THEY GO • the little animation where manic takes out his drums doesn’t look half bad! it’s a pleasant surprise when bits of animation are higher quality than normal

• after saying that i realized his gloves disappeared in the shot i was just praising sndkgjds • how was the production of this show? did they color digitally or was this still in the time of hand-drawn animation cells? i wonder how rushed production was • is “amigas” proper spanish?   [googling]   yes it is nevermind   spanish class as a required class was pointless apparently because i don’t remember jack shit from it • dingo you aren’t allowed to steal the “main man” title from manic (my nickname in our discord server was “my main man, manic” for the longest time sjkdgbs)

• it’s kinda neat seeing where all these pics my boyfriend gave me when i was looking for refs came from • i’ve thought that a song was gonna play tiwce now so now i’m wondering when it’ll come in and if it’ll be plot relevant • bummer majores • i get the point of “aw man i can’t believe you have to give all this money to robotnik because he’s evil and demands taxes” but hey either tax the rich or eat them dude • this old man’s outfit is horrendous • sonic and sonia just hid behind behind a thing hanging on the wall and that just wouldn’t work • manic and max both like drums... ;v; • why are manic and dingo just throwing glass bottles and shit back and forth at each other, is this a game • DINGO YOU HURT THE BOY • god what are these masks • SONG TIME • again, manic’s just talking in the middle of the song, and i get it’s for plot but the visuals are, again, sickeningly distracting, i can’t tell what’s happening • how does nobody notice the drummers changing place in the middle of the performance? how is there not a gap in the drum/cymbal beats? • these poor children, wow dingo • it’s really sweet that this old man helped the thief kids find parents and homes to go back to, that’s very nice • manic has one (1) coin and everyone takes that as evidence that he robbed the old man of all his money when that also doesn’t make sense, yes he took it from the vault thing but he didn’t take the whole thing? • why does manic just let the robot handcuff him, i know he feels guilty but like he isn’t an idiot, he knows what’ll happen if he does that so why does he??? • why do sonic and sonia immediately believe what sleet says about manic, shouldn’t they be on guard whenever this fuck’s around and have some suspension of belief here • this man went from 0 to 100 real quick huh • SONG TIME??? • i forgot that the song already happened because of my confusion during the sequence and now i feel like an idiot • anyway the song was like a 5.5/10, it has the energy i think they were going for and it doesn’t sound awful, it’s a little better than alright, though i wish the scene was more coherent and easy to follow • sonia’s classist as hell damn • sonic’s faith in manic being honest is nice to see • the thief children didn’t get their homes after this?? i’m upset • two bros laughing manically in the sewer in front of a very small crowd of children, as you do • manic talking to himself in jail kinda reminds me of movie!sonic but like... slower and less interesting, also why do they just throw him in jail? doesn’t robotnik roboticize everyone? • that one kid dares to look in max’s direction and he’s like ShShHhH like your hushing is gonna get you caught dude not that kid • MAX IS THROWING METAL THINGS IN THE BACKGROUND WHY??? YOU WERE SHUSHING THAT KID FOR SAYING NOTHING • max should be like... directly in sleet’s line of sight rn • of course they gotta very clearly explain the plot directly to the audience • everyone’s so shitty to these poor kids, damn • you’d think that huge laser blast would have injured manic in the process of blowing a hole in the wall • why’s sonia so concerned about the police chasing them? aren’t the police chasing them all the time? • manic nyooms again when he gets out of the van • these robots aren’t observant at all are they • for once, reusing animation makes sense • yay the poor kids get homes now • as nice as this ending is, it isn’t easy to kick bad habits like thievery, especially when it’s like... part of your nature at that point? it’s odd

• god the perspective • also, this is exactly why i give everyone on this blog extended muzzles and more clear divides between their eyes when they’re looking to the side, otherwise they look cursed • IT’S TIME TO JUICE AND JAM

#sonic underground #not an ask #ooc #sonic underground rewatch!

[victoodles]

The Look

I had a lot of fun writing this and now I’m addicted to writing for Chief Hopper. I also really like music from the 80′s and while that isn’t a focal point, it still was cute to imagine a scenario jamming out to Roxette with my main man. Just some fun nonsense, enjoy!

“I’m an officer in training, though I guess that’s just a fancy way of sayin’ I’m your new assistant for the time being. Regardless, it’s a pleasure to meetcha’!”

Jim Hopper is momentarily taken aback by your overly sunny disposition, finding it too bright and warm for the given situation. It’s Monday, approximately eight in the morning - no one should be that…cheerful on a fucking Monday.

But there you are, standing in the door of his office beaming like you won the goddamn lottery.

For some indescribable reason, it’s grating and makes his heart rate increase. He chalks it up to irritation...for now.

“I’m sorry, run that by me again?” Hopper asks incredulously as he runs a hand through his hair; it’s too early for this crap, even if it comes in the form of a cute, sweet, lovely-

Wait, focus Hopper!

You’re still looking pleased as punch, not bothered none by his grousing. “I’m aiming to join the force! Yours specifically but it’s still a work in progress, so I was assigned to shadow you for the time being. But like I said-“

“Yeah, yeah assistant or whatever. I got that much. But I don’t really have the time or patience to be some newbie’s babysitter.” The words come out harsher than he meant for them to but you’re still not deterred. You just continue to smile that same breathtaking enthusiastic smile his way and his heart insists on beating faster than should be normal. All that smoking might finally be catching up with him.

“I’m here for whatever you need, Chief!” You chirp, giving him a mock salute in an attempt to alleviate the tension. While being a glorified secretary wasn’t an ideal position, hopefully your tenacity would shine through to the Hawkin’s chief of police.

Hopper cocks an eyebrow at you, bemused, and then sighs heavily in defeat. He could already tell you were the type that wouldn’t take no for an answer and clearly you wouldn’t back down from this.

Great, just what I needed.

“Fine whatever,” he grumbles, pulling a full folder of reports from a drawer. He drops them to his desk with a gentle thud and you eye the papers curiously, awaiting further orders whatever they may be.

“I need you to go through these case files. All of them.” Hopper instructs with the same sternness of a scolding father. What was that saying about old habits?

“Cross the t’s and dot the i’s. Make sure everything is in order, got that?”

You’re positively radiating with an energy that Hopper simply cannot comprehend considering the gravity of the task he’s assigned.  

She’s a strange duck.

Of that much he is sure of at least.

Eagerly you take the file, fingertips brushing against his own briefly and Hopper feels a heat rushing to his cheeks like some lovelorn school boy. You don’t seem to be phased (of course not it’s just a simple interaction with a pretty girl Hop) and he mentally reprimands himself for acting so needlessly foolish.

“Rodger dodger Captain! Er, I mean Chief!” You laugh melodically at your own witticism that not only catches his attention but that of the entire office as well. Hopper is sure he’s dying when the erratic thumping in his chest rears its ugly head again.

Quickly he decides to dismiss you with a wave of his hand, the other attempting to cover the red now dusting his cheeks that you (thankfully) don’t notice. He doesn’t need his first impression to be more humiliating than he thinks it already is. You take your leave with another playful salute before turning on your heels to saunter to your new desk.

Hopper deduces that your eccentricity will soon run him into an early grave. And now he had to have a sit down with Flo about not letting just anybody waltz into his office at any given time unannounced. Especially someone as peculiar as you.

This new girl is gonna be a problem.

And yet...

Does Hopper take a quick peek at the way your pencil skirt hugs your ass while you walk?

Yes, yes he does.

Does it amplify his enthusiasm about working with you?

Only a little bit.

***

Summer has transitioned into Winter, leaving behind bathing suits and sunshine in exchange for sweaters and snow. The station has followed suit and is aptly decorated to show even the Hawkins Police Department has the holiday spirit in them.

It’s mostly your doing, personally going out of your way to cut and hang handmade paper snowflakes around the office. That along with colorful strings of Christmas lights. 

Hopper still twitches whenever he sees them after Joyce’s crazed epiphany that lights could somehow help her communicate with Will from the Upsidedown way back when. But he doesn’t have the heart (or the mental capacity) to tell explain that to you.

Instead he revels in your holiday giddiness, masked behind a scowl because the poor fool is still in denial that he even likes you.

You like like her, as El had so fondly put it over dinner one night. Thankfully he can successfully hush her up with a tickle bout.

The same solution sadly doesn’t apply for his nosy secretary. Hopper contemplates firing Flo after she teased him for blushing when you placed a Santa hat snugly on his head, insisting he stop being “such a Grinch”. He quickly realizes that would be “unwarranted” and the idea is soon discarded.  

It’s the middle of the afternoon, and Hopper has a slew of frantic calls to deal with much to his chagrin. In order to do that and achieve some semblance of success with it all, Hopper needs papers.

Your papers specifically.

Hours ago, he had assigned you to organize citizen report forms for him so he could properly assess and assist each member of lovely Hawkins Indiana. Missing cats, rambunctious teenage hooligans, all mundane things really. And as usual, you took your work with a grin and excited nod.

Hopper began to enjoy the warmth that you exuded. And the curve of your lips when you smiled. And-

Enough, Hop! You creep…

Now he was ready to welcome the distraction from another onslaught of racing thoughts. About you, no less! But he couldn’t do that without that work, that you usually would have immaculately finished within the hour.

Sometimes you would sign them with a pink heart.

Not relevant!

Today, however, it was almost half past one and still no papers. No bubbly entrance, no perfectly alphabetized folders paired the same cup of black coffee for him. Not so much as a peep from your direction.

Weird, Hopper thinks as he pushes himself up from his desk with a grunt. He might as well investigate, otherwise he would have nothing else to do today. Otherwise he would’ve loved to procrastinate this for as long as humanly possible. Who would’ve thought Wednesday afternoons would be slow.

Hopper steps out of his office and scans the bullpen, neglecting to return Flo’s usual greeting. Almost immediately he spots you hunched over at your desk, head nestled too comfortably on a stack of papers. 

His feet are carrying him with a stomp before he can parse what he’s really seeing.

“Go easy on her, Chief,” Flo urges in a hushed voice. The request is again ignored.

Is she...sleeping?

It would appear so.

A cup of now cold coffee sits abandoned as you continue to snore with an adorable dopey smile on your face. You look carefree, relaxed.

Cute.

Hopper shoos that last thought away before he bends down to your level. He would not have any of his staff lazily snooze the day away, on his watch no less!

“Hey! Sleeping Beauty,” he nearly booms in your ear, instantly causing you to jolt up in your seat. Your usual pristine appearance is now disheveled: a messy bun now atop your head, blazer discarded, and the top few buttons of your blouse precariously unbuttoned.

Don’t look, don’t look, don’t l-

He looked.

God dammit.

You look up at him drowsily, still not awake enough to realise the consequences of your stupidity.

“Huh,” is all you have to offer in your defense. It doesn’t seem to placate him.  

When you notice his annoyance (finally), you rush to break through your sleep addled fog. Quickly, you sit up straight and smooth away loose hair before meeting his glare.

“M-morning chief,” you say sheepishly, daring to wave hello to him. The stink eye treatment continues.

“It’s 1:30 p.m,” he responds back cooly, unamused by your jests.

You genuinely look surprised, and turn to the clock ticking idly on the wall above. “Afternoon?!” A few sniggers can be heard around the office.

“Oh my gosh I’m so sorry Chief,” you apologize sincerely. Hopper doesn’t even think he’s seen you frown before and now you’re saying sorry for mistakes you never make. He’s taken aback for a moment and you continue to express your regret.

“I came in early to decorate for the holidays. Like, super early,” the emphasis is accurately dramatized with a yawn. Hopper’s rigidness softens. He knew you were responsible for their newfound winter wonderland, but he didn’t realize how much work you actually put into it.

Aw Christ.

Hopper clears his throat. “Y-you did all of this,” he asks incredulously. He’s seen some freaky shit in his career but right now he is truly shocked by your dedication. For something that he previously found tedious and unnecessary.

“Yeah,” you admit shyly, a tinge of pink adorning your cheeks. Hopper notices, and pretends he doesn’t think it’s the most adorable thing he’s ever seen. “I just thought it would be cute.”

Cute?

Was it really that simple? You just wanted to spread some Christmas cheer and it tuckered you out in the process?

Hopper brings a hand to his lips to hide the smile that’s starting to form there.

As soon as it comes, it leaves and he composes himself. He doesn’t know what comes over him (is it love?) and he places his hand on your shoulder, patting it with a huff.

The entire department watches wide-eyed at the interaction.

They’ve been placing bets (secretly) on when and where Hopper finally decides to ask you out. It doesn’t seem like today’s going to be that day, but it’s a step in the right direction. Powell curses under his breath and pulls out a dollar and hands it to Callahan. Flo smiles to herself.

“Just-“ Hopper takes a deep breath in. It’s hard to focus when you’re looking at him with those doe eyes. “Don’t worry about it. Just make sure I get it before the end of the day.”

Your apprehension melts away and it seems Hopper has succeeded in bringing your smile back.

Merry Christmas to me.

“Rodger dodger, Chief,” you chirp before turning your attention back to your own desk, already hyper focused on your work.

You don’t see the small smile he sends your way as he returns back to his office.

Fifty nine minutes later, on the dot (a new record for you!) you bring the fruits of your labor back to Hopper’s office. It seems you just missed him unfortunately, leaving the folder on an empty desk. You quite enjoy the small interactions shared between the two during the lulls of the work day, progressively getting longer and more friendly in nature.

You cross paths with him on the way out however, exchanging smiles and hellos as you both return to your designated posts.

On your desk, you find a fresh cup of coffee made just the way you like it: cream and two sugars.

It’s signed with a heart.

***

Indiana snow storms have devolved into gentle flurries, snowflakes idly cascading down a thin veil of snow covers the nearly empty streets.

Nearly empty.

Where else would Hopper find himself late on a Thursday evening then on his way to a local watering hole. El found herself at Max’s house for the evening, and Hopper’s restless boredom soon gets the better of him. Nothing a cold glass of beer can’t fix.

He, in turn, finds himself in town, meandering his way to a dive-bar at the end of the block. Neon lights flicker dully in the dusty window, barely illuminating the bartender and lone figure inside.

Seems someone else had a similar idea, sneaking out into the night for a pint and handfuls of shitty peanuts.  

The door opens with a soft jingle and through the haze of lingering cigarette smoke and dim lights, Hopper spots you at the bar. You’re as perky as ever, chatting the bartender’s poor ear off about this and that. Hopper, childishly, is jealous.

In your hand is a can of cheap beer - Schlitz to be exact. 

Hopper’s favorite.

Be still my beating heart.

You notice him shortly after, and your smile practically lights up the room.

“Chief!” You call out with a raise of your drink. The bartender, (Chris - or something, Hopper can’t bother to remember) breathes a sigh of relief at the sight of a normal customer. It seems no grouch can ruin your good time.

“Chief,” Chris greets (with considerably less enthusiasm) and slides him a coaster. Hopper pays his greeting no mind and devotes his attention solely to you.

You look significantly more casual, blouse and skirt replaced with jeans and a flannel, hair loose and falling to your shoulder in gentle curls. Despite the shift in appearance, you still hold yourself the same way as you do at work - poised.

Hopper admires that about you.

Among other things.

“Hey,” he greets. Before he can get another word in, make some lame comment about the weather or what the cat dragged in, you’re already patting the stool next to your eagerly.

“Sit with me!”

“W-what?” Hopper responds (stupidly).

You’re already ordering him a beer, disregarding his confusion. “You heard me. Unless you just came out in the snow to say ‘hey’ and scram?” Your voice has a teasing lilt to it that enchants Hopper. He wants to hear more of it

“Just doing my nightly rounds,” he jokes back, “but since I’m here I might as well hang around. Make sure you’re not getting into any trouble.” It’s rare for Hopper’s bark to have no bite, just playful nips. He appreciates the relaxed atmosphere your presence envelops him in.

“Unfortunately for you then, you’ll have to stick around for a bit. I have a grand scheme in the works that involves drinking with the chief of police,” you say with a mischievous smirk. “Gotta keep me from ‘getting into trouble’.” Hopper can’t help but guffaw at your attempt to impersonate him. It’s comical and endearing all the same.

“Sounds mighty serious,” apprehension dissolves as he sits down next to you, the old chair creaking as he turns toward you. Your knees practically touch and neither of you seem to notice or care.

Handing him his respective can of beer, you knock yours against his with a harmonious clink.

You do that for the first.

And then the second.

And the third.

With each drink comes a new story shared between you.

You tell him about your time at the police academy. He tells you about his continuing struggles with El and her pesky boyfriend, Mike.

You like hard rock and your old Suburban.

He loves hound dogs but is too busy to actually get one.

Drinks keep on pouring.

Time passes effortlessly, bleeding into midnight and your laughter echoes throughout the emptiness of the bar.

“Oh Chris isn’t always this bad. You know sometimes, he’ll let me order a mimosa at 8 p.m and he won’t give me a hard time” you titter, earning an eye roll from the aforementioned bartender. Hopper fights to contain his chortling.

“You’re the only one who orders it and you’re the only reason I have to keep stocking champagne.” Chris grumbles, cleaning a glass a bit more aggressively than necessary.

“Well you should be thanking her for the extra business then,” Hopper adds with a gruff laugh. Chris doesn’t seem to find it amusing. He opts to turn on the small radio behind the bar, hoping to drown out your nonsense. with some music

It works for a little bit.

A little bit.

Until Roxette starts playing...

Then all Hell breaks loose in the form of an ecstatic cheer of, “I. Love. This. Song!”

Hopper really can’t contain his enjoyment now.

Upbeat pop music from a second-rate radio fuels you now.

“And I go la la la la la!” 

You’re booming now, swinging your head from side to side to the beat. Your hair is wild now from the throes of your merriment. Hopper likes it even more this way.

He joins in from time to time, singing a lyric from the chorus (poorly he thinks) but takes more pleasure in watching your one woman performance.

She’s got the look indeed.

Chris regards you with a cocked eyebrow and looks to the chief, shaking his head. “She’s something else,” he says with a dry laugh.

Hopper is too busy watching you hurrying to the whirring jukebox now, a hand full of quarters and promises of “you’re gonna love this song,” on your tongue as the first one fades out.

His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles.

“Yeah,” he says reverently, “she really is.”

#vic's fics! #stranger things #jim hopper x reader #i love my thicc police daddy

[redhoodieone]

Welcome Home

This is technically my first smut. I feel like since I always requests smuts, I figured I should give one back to Tumblr and for those who always make my fantasies come true. 

Warnings: Major Smut.

I knew my family was different the moment I found out my adoptive father was Batman. I was just a ten-year-old girl when I snuck down the stairs at midnight for a drink of water and spotted Batman leaving a trail of blood from his study and calling out for Alfred for help. The moment our eyes locked, Bruce instantly knew that I was clearly aware of his secret. He had also confessed it was him who saved me from a shootout that my parents were involved in and that it was him, as Batman. I felt I owed Bruce my own life for saving me, and I vowed to keep my father’s secret and pray that he would return home safely every night back to me.

It didn’t help that I soon discovered my adoptive older brother Dick Grayson was Robin. Not only did I have to keep his secret as well, but it made it more impossible to not have a crush on him. I mean, Dick has such a charming personality, beautiful baby blue eyes, and a devilish smile that can make any girl crawl on her hands and knees. And that ass…

I later found myself becoming the second Robin once Dick left to assume his own identity, Nightwing. Bruce trusted me, and he saw potential in me the second I told him I couldn’t see myself being a hero forever. Perhaps he never really wanted me to be his sidekick and figured if I got it out of my system that I could resume my life as a sixteen-year-old and do normal teenager activities. As if my life was normal anyways.

But things changed as soon as I was finally embracing myself as a hero. Bruce had taken in a new kid, Jason Todd. He was a troublemaker, a rebel, and a mysterious kid, who had never even spoken to me unless he had to. I don’t think my age helped the situation either; I was a couple of years older than him and he may not have seen me as an equal. But of course, the dark haired, icy blue eyed, bad attitude boy was given the Robin title, and I was removed because of a patrol-gone-wrong situation.

Stupid Harley Quinn and her baseball bat. Who knew one hit to my knee could bench me for two months (Alfred added an additional five months of rest).

Then the unthinkable happened. The second Robin was killed by the Joker. Jason Todd’s death put Bruce into a depression, and he swore he would never put another kid’s life in danger. Our father and daughter relationship broke apart before my very eyes. I spent my remaining teenage years in the mansion isolated, except for Alfred’s loving company.

I had graduated high school on time and I quickly decided to go to Gotham University to escape the Bat family. Before I moved out, I discovered Bruce had taken in another kid, Tim Drake, who was currently the new Robin. Was I hurt? Of course, I felt I was somehow replaced. Would I miss the Bat family? Maybe. Maybe not.

I did in fact wish the new younger Robin good luck. When Tim looked up at me, his light blue eyes were so innocent and frightened about me leaving him behind. I didn’t know why he would be so upset about me leaving; wouldn’t he want all of Bruce’s attention without me hanging around the mansion?

Now I’m twenty-one-years-old, and I’m still a student at Gotham University. Alfred had just called and informed me Bruce wants me back home.

As I sit in a taxi while anxiously waiting to pull up to Wayne Manor, I honestly don’t know why Bruce wants me back at home. Alfred has kept me up to date about the Bat family incidents and activities I have missed out those few years such as:

Dick Grayson becoming a womanizer (I saw it coming) and how he’s juggling working as a police officer and Nightwing. He’s still the favorite and golden child in Bruce’s eyes.

Jason Todd is back from the dead, and he’s currently operating his own team: Red Hood and the Outlaws (who knew he was leadership material underneath that thick skull of his?).

Tim Drake is Red Robin (does the fast food chain restaurant know about his superhero name?), and he’s currently assisting the Teen Titans when necessary while simultaneously aiding Bruce with detective work.

Damian Wayne is Bruce Wayne’s unknown biological child. I think he’s about fifteen-years-old now; from what I remember the last time I spoke to Alfred. I met Damian once, when Bruce asked me to meet him once Talia al Ghul practically dropped him off at Bruce’s doorstep. The boy was a little shit: bratty, stuck up, and insensitive. Even though he is the spitting image of Bruce, minus the different colored eyes (Bruce has blue and Damian’s are green), Damian claims he is set to take over the cowl when Bruce is either dead or done. God help us all…

But I still can’t figure out why I am needed back home. Is Alfred sick? Is Bruce dying after fighting all these years? Is it one of my brothers?

I jump in surprise once the taxi comes to a hard stop. After paying the man, I grab my duffel bag and I climb the front steps that I suddenly remember jumping off them as a kid. Alfred scolded me many times, and I still did it because being bad was fun.

I scoff loudly, and I jump down the five steps that would have given Alfred a heart attack. Maybe I haven’t changed as much as I thought.

I find the wooden front door unlocked, which is odd considering Alfred always makes sure to lock it. As a matter of fact, Alfred hasn’t greeted me like he always does when I come home. Where is Alfred?

After I unwrap my scarf, I pull my hoodie over my head to be more comfortable in the warm house. Sadly, I forgot to do laundry yesterday, so I came home in just my black yoga pants and red tank top. What would Alfred say?

I kick off my shoes and walk to the kitchen barefoot. Pulling my long hair into a ponytail, I notice a note on the counter that’s written for me. I unfold the note and stare at the nicest, well done cursive handwriting only one man can do here.

 Dear Lady Y/N,

I sincerely apologize for not being there to greet you properly. Master Bruce had wanted me to take my holiday to London early, and Lord knows I can use a week to myself after stitching up countless wounds, tidying up bedrooms and Bat caves, and playing messenger between you and your father. I have a cooked roast with garlic mash potatoes in the refrigerator if you are hungry. Do heat it up and perhaps show your father and brothers how to use the microwave.

I dearly love you and the boys,

 Love Alfred Pennyworth

P.S.

Look into the highest cabinet above the refrigerator, and you will discover a jar of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies just for you.

  I grin widely, and before I can turn around and find the cookies, I’m stuck between the counter and a tall, hard body behind me. I freeze.

“Welcome home, Y/N. I missed you so much,” Bruce whispers in my ear. I can feel his hot breath above my shoulder and neck. The familiar smell of his expensive cologne fills my nostrils. His large hands rub my legs and grip onto my hips very hard. “Did you miss me?”

“H-hi dad. W-what are you doing?” I ask softly, but I know it came out like a whisper. One of his hands is holding my waist, while the other caresses my abdomen. It feels strange considering Bruce is supposed to be my father, and we shouldn’t be this close or even touching each other. But a part of me wants to keep feeling his hands on me and see what he does next.

“Holding you. Smelling you. Touching you,” he answers, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He breathes harder when I press my backside against his front by accident. “It appears you want this too. Am I correct, Y/N?”

His hand pulls down my yoga pants enough, so he can reach into my underwear. Bruce continues to breathe hard from his nose when his fingers find my core. His thumb rubs fast circles on my clit, while he pushes two fingers inside me. I bite my bottom lip to stop a loud moan from coming out of me, but he appears he’ll have none of that. He stops fingering me.

“You better be loud, or I won’t let you cum, Y/N.”

Before I can beg him to keep going, he turns my face, so I can look him in those cold, pale blue eyes. “Please tell me you’re…not a virgin.” Bruce’s face is twisted in pleasure from just fingering me, but I can tell his lips are trembling and there’s a soft but pleading look in his eyes. This must hurt him as much as it’s hurting me.

“I-I’m not,” I confess, and wonder if he would change his mind if I said I was.

“Who was it with?” Bruce demands. He kisses along my shoulder to my neck before he bites on my soft spot. I hiss in pain and I grind into him again.

“Josh Mitchell. I was sixteen,” I answer harshly.

“Was he any good?”

Before I can answer, Bruce shoves the front of my body onto the counter, while he pulls down my yoga pants. My adrenaline is rushing, and I can feel myself wetting the counter from just his roughness. I can feel him unzip his pants and I can already imagine this thick, hard cock fucking me into oblivion.

“No, no he wasn’t good at all!” I cry out.

“Good, I’m actually relieved to hear that,” Bruce says, as he starts to stroke himself. “Do you want me to fuck you, Y/N?”

I want to turn around and watch him jack off. Hearing him pleasure himself isn’t enough. Bruce then jams two fingers back into my pussy and I whimper loudly. It has been too long since I’ve been intimate with a man. I need his cock now!

“I asked you a question, Y/N. Do I need to remind you who you are supposed to answer to?” he says seriously before adding a third finger inside me. I grip the counter and I breathe harder. I find myself rubbing my pussy on the edge of the smooth countertop for more friction, but he grabs my hips and stops me. “Now, do you want me to fuck you, Y/N, or should I leave you here, so you can dry hump the countertop alone?”

I growl louder, while my nails scratch the counter top. “YES! Yes, I want you to fuck me, Dad!”

As soon as those words left my mouth, I immediately wonder if I killed the mood. Why would I call him ‘dad’ when we’re about to have hot, rough sex in the kitchen? I need to apologize. I push myself up on my elbows and I shift my head to the side to apologize. I open my mouth to speak but stop when Bruce’s eyes darkened, and he growls as he slams his thick cock inside me.

I moan louder than I have in my entire life. His cock fills me up so much that I fear I won’t be able to walk straight for the next week or two. Bruce lifts my legs up and continues to shove me against the counter with every hard thrust. He wasn’t kidding when he said he was going to fuck me. The man is practically drilling into me with no kindness at all.

“Oh fuck! You’re so fucking tight. So wet and so hot,” Bruce groans out. With each thrust, I can feel he wants to let go and fuck me like he owns me.

“Go ahead, Dad. Fuck me. Fuck me like I’m yours and only yours,” I tempt him playfully.

Bruce growls and rams his cock faster into me. He keeps knocking the air out from my lungs, and I can feel my body pulsating against his. I grip the countertop harder each time, and I know my knuckles are turning white and becoming numb every second. With one hand on my hips, Bruce moves his other hand up my tank top to hold my tits.

“No bra? You’re a bad girl,” Bruce says in between panting.

“I forgot to do laundry,” I choke out.

“Excuses,” he manages to say, as he holds me up more, so he can penetrate me deeper. His cock is hitting a deeper spot in me. It must be my g-spot, because I have read about it but never actually felt it to know. I can feel myself clenching his dick tightly, and I know I’m getting closer to release. “You wanted me and your brothers to see your tits, huh?”

“Maybe,” I cry out louder than what I intended to. Fuck, what if one of my brothers hears me? They’ll really think I’m insane for fucking our father and for loving it every second. Bruce readjusts our position once more, so he can hit that spot continuously. “I-I think I’m going to cum!”

“Not yet, you better not!” Bruce growls, and drills into me harder and faster. With his powerful thrusts and the constant friction from the countertop on my clit, I know for a fact that I can’t last longer. His hands hold onto my hips while he fucks me harder than before.

I become a moaning mess. I can feel my mouth drop open because I feel liquid coming out from my core. Did I just squirt? What the hell is happening to me?

The sounds of skin on skin is louder because of my mess. I drop my head onto the counter while Bruce continues to fuck me. Before I can catch my breath, Bruce chuckles and lifts me up. “I just made you squirt. That has never happened before, has it?”

“No, that was my first time,” I answer breathlessly. He kisses my neck.

“You’re so wet,” Bruce grunts into my ear. Breathing heavily, he lifts my hips again, so he can rub my clit with his fingers. “You’re making a mess all over my cock. You’re such a bad girl.”

“I’m your bad girl,” I moan out, as I can feel another orgasm threatening to take over my body.

“Fuck yes, you are!” Bruce groans, and continues to shove his cock into my soaking wet pussy.

With every rough thrust, I know Bruce won’t last. I whimper once more when my pussy clenches his dick as he fucks me through my orgasm. A few more hard thrusts, Bruce pulls out and turns me over onto my back. He jacks himself off as I watch his cum spurt out all over my stomach.

Just seeing his hard, veiny thick cock before me turns me on once more. I lick my lips at how the tip of his dick glistens with his cum.

Bruce sighs heavily, and just when I think I should try to get up and clean myself, he pulls me up and kisses me. He shoves his tongue into my mouth, and we explore each other’s mouths as if this was our last chance to. He pulls away from me and rests his forehead against mine.

“You’re mine, Y/N. You belong to me, and the Batfamily. I don’t care who wants you, because you will never give them what you have given me. Do you understand?” Bruce asks, before giving me his famous bat glare.

“I understand, and I promise,” I swear before he kisses me once more.

“Good, now go wash up,” Bruce instructs before he helps me off the counter.

I grab a paper towel and wipe Bruce’s cum off my stomach before I pull up my yoga pants. As soon as I toss the damped paper towel into the trash, I immediately notice Dick Grayson is standing there at the entrance of the kitchen staring at me with fire in his eyes.

Yeah it’s my first smut...so I’m sorry if it sucks. (Pun intended)

#batfamily #bruce wayne #smut #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne smut

[fallout4holmes]

Journal 59

The preparations took weeks, but regiment by regiment the Brotherhood of Steel began the march home. Preston, Danse, and Valentine returned home long before, while I stayed in Cambridge to coordinate supply runs and as a gesture of goodwill. Paladin Brandis took it upon himself to act as a sort of liaison between me and the more stubborn soldiers. Proctor Teagan was just glad to have a willing source of supplies who wasn’t going to charge him an arm and a leg. I tried not to interact much with anyone else.

Preston and Danse came back to Cambridge on the final day of the Brotherhood’s departure. They claimed it was to escort me home. I believe that to be true, but more significantly I think Danse wanted to say goodbye.

We stood down the street from the police station, watching the final preparations. A Scribe hurried over to us, “General Holmes?”

“Scribe Haylen,” I greeted.

“When you see Deacon again, could you tell him I said thank you for helping me out? He distracted the Proctors when I was almost caught for jamming the communications array.”

“When you what?” Danse exclaimed. It was fortunate we were a distance away from the rest of the Brotherhood.

Haylen was offended, “It seemed like the only way to prevent the war was to stop the orders from coming through! How was I supposed to know no orders would be coming?"

Danse was astounded, “Why would you do something so foolish? If you’d been caught, your career would have been over, if not your life!”

Haylen stood tall and firmly stated, “Former commanding officer of mine always taught that I should stand by my principles, no matter what, sir.”

Danse was silent a solid two seconds as Preston and I tried not to smile. “Hmph. Well, he’s an idiot…” he softened with a small laugh, “a grateful and damn proud one.”

Haylen smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

“You don’t have to leave, you know,” Preston quietly suggested.

“Thank you, Colonel, but no. I need to go home.” She took Danse’s hand, “I'm glad to have known you, sir.”

“I feel the same.” He let go, “Take care of yourself, Haylen.”

“I will,” she said, and hurried off.

We watched in silence as the last vertibird took flight back toward the Capital Wasteland, the last caravan of soldiers marching south. The Brotherhood of Steel had left the Commonwealth.

Danse removed his helmet. “It’s strange, seeing them leave. I’m not as upset as I thought I would be.”

“You’ve a life to look forward to here,” I smiled. “A brave new world, all over again.”

Preston grinned, “Time to get back to work.”

After the Brotherhood's departure, the Railroad was free to spread out from the Boathouse as a less clandestine organization and more of a community service for synths. There are still plenty of people in the Commonwealth who are afraid of synths and react with anger upon their discovery, but without the Institute and without the Brotherhood to literally hunt them down, the Railroad has less and less reason to relocate them, and more and more reason to help educate the populace.

Liam Binet decided to move into the remains of Covenant, and turn the now overgrown and rundown settlement into a Minutemen Research Center. He was disturbed by the human remains littering the ground outside of town, and paled when I told him of the town's former purpose. Tinker Tom rigged an explosion to safely collapse the tunnel to the Compound; Liam wanted no part of that legacy of horror. Institute refugees were welcomed, along with any settler willing to apply themselves and learn what the scientists could teach. I insisted upon complete transparency, and Sturges and Curie both will make regular trips to see what progress is being made.

Isabel Cruz has thus far proven good to her word, working with Ada to design robots to defend settlements and assist with Minutemen patrols. As for the Minutemen themselves, Colonel Garvey plans on making regular trips to the Castle, though his office will remain in Sanctuary. Lieutenant Colonel Danse will also continue to oversee the training of the new recruits in Sanctuary. The current system in place works, and has even become a rite of passage for the new generation of recruits. The Minutemen grow stronger every day, and I can think of no two better people to guide them.

Two weeks after the Brotherhood of Steel left the Commonwealth, Valentine and I brought Shaun, Codsworth, and of course Dogmeat, on a trip to Sanctuary. Hancock and Cait escorted Piper and Nat at the same time, making quite the merry crowd on the trip north. We arrived at Sanctuary to see even MacCready and Duncan had been invited, and Deacon was there as well. Curie was bustling about the town, overseeing soldiers and townspeople alike as they decorated and prepared food.

I must admit, I was a bit nervous. Danse and Preston had asked me to perform the greatest honor I could imagine as their General, and more importantly, as their friend. I even dusted off my official uniform for the occasion. Valentine joked I should feel right at home, “seeing as how you’ve got experience impersonating a priest.” Oddly, it didn’t put me at ease.

Well, it was nearing time for the event, and neither groom was anywhere to be seen. Valentine went to check on Danse, while Sturges went to find Preston.

.......................

“Hey, Danse? You ok…” Nick trailed off into a quiet chuckle at the sight of Danse scowling at his reflection, a tie hanging twisted and undone around his neck. “Here, lemme do that.” Danse sighed and allowed Nick to help. “Never learned how to tie one of these things, did you?”

“Why would I?” Danse demanded, exasperated. “Neither of my uniforms required them.”

“Good point. Didn't want to wear your uniform?”

Danse looked down over his grey suit and blue vest, the same colors of his armor. “In a way, this is a different sort of uniform. I don't anticipate wearing this again.” Nick finished and stepped back. Danse looked in the mirror… and sighed, “Why am I doing this?”

Nick’s brow rose, “Thought this was your idea?”

“It was. I thought… clearly, I was malfunctioning on some level.”

“Hm. Can't say I've ever had a malfunction that made me propose to the fella I loved when I didn't want to.” Danse crossed his arms with rolled eyes, and then set to straightening his already straight jacket. Nick smiled, “Don't tell me you're nervous?”

“No. This is just,” he glanced at the window, “more than I thought.”

“You mean the party waiting? Hell, first marriage Sanctuary's seen, can't blame folks for wanting to celebrate.”

“I don't, but it's… uncomfortable. Valentine, why haven't you and Holmes married?”

Nick blinked. “You know, I think it just never occurred to us? Been living together, and Shaun became like a son to me so fast… guess I slipped into being married without stopping to think about it.” Nick paused a moment, “You wanna elope?”

Danse was confused, “What?”

“Skip all this, run out of town with your man down to Diamond City, have the reverend say a few quick words, honeymoon anywhere you want?”

Danse grinned, “Abandon my duties?”

That brought a warm chuckle. “Not even for love, huh?”

“Not for what is supposed to be a symbol of devotion and affection,” Danse clarified. “I know Preston would agree.”

“Suit yourself,” Nick shrugged. “Why'd you wanna do the symbol of devotion and affection anyway?”

Danse was quiet a long moment, looking off to the side but not really seeing what was in front of him. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. I'm not very good at telling him… it felt like something I should do.”

“He knows you love him, Danse. You've told him that much, at least?”

Danse chuckled, “Yes. But a wedding felt like a promise, with all the weight the ritual places on it. Something I can hold in memory, a…” he grasped for a fitting description, and when he found it he looked at Nick like he’d discovered something amazing. “It’s an initiation. Of sorts,” he faltered, sighing, “That sounds idiotic.”

“Nope,” Nick said.

“Really?”

Nick nodded with a smile, “Really. You ready?”

Danse took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes.”

Sturges hurried to find Preston. Danse was using their house, so Preston was in Sturges’s place. Why the hell the two people getting married couldn’t be in the same room he didn’t know, but Curie had been insistent that this was some sort of old tradition, and the two lovebirds had actually liked the idea. “Hey boss, you ready… oh c'mon, you ain't even dressed?!”

Preston stared at him, confused, “What do you mean?”

“Danse is in a suit.”

Preston looked at his uniform, “… shit. A suit? Fuck.”

“You didn't even look in the box, did you?”

“What box?!”

“The box with your name on it? Compliments of Anne Hargraves?”

Preston rushed to the box on the dresser Sturges was pointing to, opened it, and said, “…oh.”

Sturges rolled his eyes, “Man sees a custom made suit and he says ‘oh.’ Hustle, boss, the bride's waiting.”

“Don't let Danse hear you call him the bride.”

“Don't think he's gonna care, now hurry up. What the hell have you been doing in here?”

“Thinking. Pacing. Mostly thinking. Is he really waiting?”

Sturges glanced out the window, “He just stepped outside, folks are talking, you're not that late.”

“Late to my own wedding. Holy shit I'm having a wedding.”

Sturges smirked, “Sure are, boss. Kinda surprised Danse suggested it.”

“So was I. But it seemed important and… and yeah, I wanna spend the rest of my life with him. I love him.”

“This what you were thinking about when you should have been getting dressed?”

Preston laughed a little, sheepish, “Yeah. Still can't believe… any of it. That this is how my life is turning out.”

He looked in the mirror. The blue suit fit perfect, the grey vest reminding him of the Minutemen flag. He straightened the tie, it had been ages since he’d worn one, and Sturges put a hand on Preston’s shoulder.

“Glad you stuck with us, Preston.”

Preston smiled, “So am I.”

Sturges grinned, “C'mon lover boy, let's get you out there. Rest of your life is waiting.”

.......................

I’ve seen multiple weddings, some of which I was even invited to, and this one surpassed them all by far. The unbridled joy on their faces after the wedding kiss was a sight to behold. They didn’t leave each other’s side the entire evening. Preston even taught Danse to dance, a simple slow sway to a song on the radio, but dance just the same. Stories were told, multiple people produced packs of cards, the wine flowed freely, as well as some stronger substances courtesy of Mayor Hancock, but he also kept stock of who had had enough. The night was growing late when Preston suddenly interrupted Danse recounting a battle to a handful of recruits to kiss him, deeply. Danse’s expression completely changed, the recruits giggled maniacally, and set to ensure the newlyweds would leave the party immediately and unhindered.

“About time,” Valentine said to me as Danse and Preston hurried home. As I laughed, he put his arm around my shoulders, “Why haven’t we ever done this?”

“I am perfectly content to support my friends, but I can’t imagine being the focus of such an event.”

“We could always elope.”

I smiled, “Do you have a sudden desire to get married, Nick?”

He chuckled, “Not particularly, Sherlock. Just a question we never asked, is all.”

“I see. In that case, Nick Valentine, do you promise to have me as your partner, to love, comfort, and honor, in sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live?”

He smiled, small, and his eyes seemed to glow a little brighter. “I do.”

It is strange the emotion that so simple a phrase can elicit. “So do I.”

We left the party, made sure our son was sound asleep in bed, and followed the example of the newlyweds.

I am not so naive as to think the future will be easy. The Minutemen have made great progress, but there are still plenty of cold and bitter hearts and minds in the Commonwealth. Yet no matter what challenges we may face, no matter how strong the winds of conflict and war, as long as there are people who value compassion and justice before all else then a cleaner, stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared. We'll make sure of it.

#fallout 4 #fan fiction #danse #preston #nick valentine #danse/preston #brotherhood of steel #the minutemen #sherlock holmes #crossover

[gottaread13]

13

ELEVEN

WAITING ON DOC’S DOORSILL AT WORK WAS A POSTCARD FROM some island he had never heard of out in the Pacific Ocean, with a lot of vowels in it’s name. The cancellation was in French and initialed by a local postmaster, along with the notation courier par lance-coco which as close as he could figure from the Petit Larousse must mean some kind of catapult mail delivery involving coconut shells, maybe as a way of dealing with an unapproachable reef. The message on the card was unsigned, but he knew it was from Shasta. “I wish you could see these waves. Its one more of these places a voice from somewhere else tells you you have to be. Remember that day with the Ouija board? I miss those days and I miss you. I wish so many things could be different… Nothing was supposed to happen this way, Doc, I’m so sorry.” Maybe she was, then again, maybe not. But what about this Ouija board? Doc went stumbling through his city dump of a memory. Oh …oh, sure, dimly… it had been during one  of those prolonged times of no dope, nobody had any, everybody was desperate and suffering lapses of judgment. People were opening up cold capsules and laboriously sorting the thousands of tiny beads inside by color, in the belief that each color stood for a different belladonna alkaloid, which taken in big enough doses would get them loaded. They were snorting nutmeg, drinking cocktails of Visine and inexpensive wine, eating packets of morning-glory seeds despite rumors that the seed companies were coating them with some chemical that would make you throw up. Anything. One day when Doc and Shasta were over at Sortilege’s house, she mentioned this Ouija board she had. Doc had a brainflash. “Hey! You think it knows where we can score?” Sortilege raised her eyebrows and shrugged, but waved a go- ahead hand at the board. The usual suspicions then arose, like how could you be sure the other person wasn’t deliberately moving the planchette to make it look like some message from beyond, and so on. “Easy as pie,” Sortilege said, “just do it all by yourself.” Following her instructions, Doc breathed himself deeply and carefully into a receptive state, letting the tips of his fingers rest as lightly as possible on the planchette. “Now, make your request, and see what happens.” “Groovy,” said Doc. “Hey—where can I find some dope, man? a-and, you know, good shit?” The planchette took off like a jackrabbit, spelling out almost faster than Shasta could copy an address down Sunset somewhat east of Vermont, and even throwing in a phone number, which Doc promptly dialed. “Howdy, dopers,” cooed a female voice, “we’ve got whatever you need, and remember—the sooner you get over here, the more there’ll be left for you.” “Yeah like whom I talking to? Hello? Hey!” Doc looked at the receiver, puzzled. “She just hung up.” “Could’ve been a recording,” said Sortilege. “Did you hear what she was screaming at you? ‘Stay away! I am a police trap!’” “You want to come along, keep us out of trouble?” She looked doubtful. “I have to advise you at this point that it might not be anything. See, the problem about Ouija boards—” But Doc and Shasta were already out the door and soon rattling up the chuckholed obstacle course known as Rosecrans Boulevard under a cloudless sky, in the sort of perfect daylight you always saw on TV cop shows, unshaded even by the eucalyptus trees that had recently all been chopped down. KHJ was playing a Tommy James & the Shondells marathon. Commercial-free in fact. What could be more auspicious? Even before they reached the airport, something about the light had begun to go weird. The sun vanished behind clouds which grew thicker by the minute. Up in the hills among the oil pumps, the first raindrops began to fall, and by the time Doc and Shasta got to La Brea they were in the middle of a sustained cloudburst. This was way too unnatural. Ahead, someplace over Pasadena, black clouds had gathered, not just dark gray but midnight black, tar-pit black, hitherto- unreported-circle-of-Hell black. Lightning bolts had begun to descend across the L.A. Basin singly and in groups, followed by deep, apocalyptic peals of thunder. Everybody had turned their headlights on, though it was midday. Water came rushing down the hillsides of Hollywood, sweeping mud, trees, bushes, and many of the lighter types of vehicle on down into the flatlands. After hours of detouring for landslides and traffic jams and accidents, Doc and Shasta finally located the mystically revealed dope dealers address, which turned out to be an empty lot with a gigantic excavation in it, between a laundromat and an Orange Julius-plus-car wash, all of them closed. In the thick mist and lashing rain, you couldn’t even see to the other side of the hole. “Hey. I thought there was supposed to be a lot of dope around here.” What Sortilege had tried to point out about Ouija boards, as Doc learned later back at the beach, while wringing out his socks and looking for a hair dryer, was that concentrated around us are always mischievous spirit forces, just past the threshold of human perception, occupying both worlds, and that these critters enjoy nothing better than to mess with those of us still attached to the thick and sorrowful catalogs of human desire. “Sure!” was their attitude, “you want dope? Here’s your dope, you fucking idiot.” Doc and Shasta sat parked by the edge of the empty swamped rectangle and watched it’s edges now and then slide in, and then after a while things rotated ninety degrees, and it began to look, to Doc at least, like a doorway, a great wet temple entrance, into someplace else. The rain beat down on the car roof, lightning and thunder from time to time interrupting thoughts of the old namesake river that had once run through this town, long canalized and tapped dry, and crippled into a public and anonymous confession of the deadly sin of greed…. He imagined it filling again, up to it’s concrete rim, and then over, all the water that had not been allowed to flow here for all these years now in unrelenting return, soon beginning to occupy the arroyos and cover the flats, all the swimming pools in the backyards filling up and overflowing and flooding the lots and streets, all this karmic waterscape connecting together, as the rain went on falling and the land vanished, into a sizable inland sea that would presently become an extension of the Pacific. It was funny that of all things to mention in the limited space of a coconut-launched postcard Shasta should have picked that day in the rain. It had stuck with Doc somehow too, even though it came at a point late in their time together, when she was already halfway out the door and Doc saw it happening but was letting it happen, and despite it there they were, presently making out frantically, like kids at the drive-in, steaming up the windows and getting the seat covers wet. Forgetting for a few minutes how it was all going to develop anyway. Back at the beach, the rain continued, and every day up in the hills, another fragment of real estate came sliding down. Insurance salesmen had Brylcreem running down into their collars, and stewardii found it impossible even with half- gallon cans of hair spray purchased in duty-free zones far away to maintain their hairdos in anything close to a stylish flip. The termitic houses of Gordita Beach had all turned to the consistency of wet sponge, emergency plumbers reached in to squeeze the beams and joists, thinking of their own winter homes in Palm Springs. People began to go crazy even while on the natch. Some enthusiast, claiming to be George Harrison of the Beatles, tried to hijack the Goodyear Blimp, moored at it’s winter quarters at the intersection of the Harbor and San Diego Freeways, and make it fly him to Aspen, Colorado, in the rain. The rain had a peculiar effect on Sortilege, who was just around then beginning to get obsessed by Lemuria and it’s tragic final days. “You were there in a former life,” Doc theorized. “I dream about it, Doc. I wake up so sure sometimes. Spike feels that way, too. Maybe it’s all this rain, but we’re starting to have the same dreams. We can’t find a way  to return to Lemuria, so it’s returning to us. Rising up out of the ocean—‘hi Leej, hi Spike, long time ain’t it…’” “It talked to you guys?” “I don’t know. It isn’t just a place.”

DOC TURNED OVER Shasta’s postcard now and stared at the picture on the front. It was a photo taken underwater of the ruins of some ancient city—broken columns and arches and collapsed retaining walls. The water was supernaturally clear and seemed to emit a vivid blue-green light. Fish, what Doc guessed you’d call tropical, were swimming back and forth. It all seemed familiar. He looked for a photo credit, a copyright date, a place of origin. Blank. He rolled a joint and lit up and considered. This had to be a message from someplace besides a Pacific island whose name he couldn’t pronounce. He decided to go back and visit the Ouija-board address, which, being the site of a classic dope misadventure, had remained permanently entered in his memory. Denis came along for muscle. The hole in the ground was gone, and in it’s place rose a strangely futuristic building. From the front it might have been taken at first for some kind of religious structure, smoothly narrow and conical, like a church spire only different. Whoever put it up must have had a pretty comfortable budget to work with, too, because the whole outside had been covered in gold leaf. Then Doc noticed how this tall pointed shape was also curved away from the street. He went down the block a little way and looked back to get a side view, and when he saw how dramatic the curve was and how sharp the point at the top, he finally tumbled. Aha! In the old L.A. tradition of architectural whimsy, this structure was supposed to be a six- story-high golden fang. “Denis, I’m gonna look around for a while, you want to wait in the car or come in and cover my back or something?” “I was gonna go try and find a pizza,” Denis said. Doc handed him the car keys. “And… they did have driver ed at Leuzinger High.” bure. “And you remember this is a stick, not automatic and so forth.” “I’m cool, Doc.” And Denis sped off.

THE FRONT DOOR was nearly invisible, more of a big  access panel that fit snugly into the curving façade. In the lobby beneath a tasteful sign in sans-serif face reading GOLDEN FANG ENTERPRISES, INC. \ CORPORATE HQ and behind a nameplate of her own that said “Xandra, hi!” sat an Asian receptionist wearing a black vinyl jumpsuit and a distant expression, who asked him in a semi-Brit accent whether he was sure he had the right place. “This is the address they told me at the Club Asiatique in San Pedro? Just here to pick up a package for the management?” Xandra reached for a telephone, punched a button, murmured into it, listened, gave Doc another doubtful once- over, stood, and led him across the reception area to a brushed- metallic door. It took only a step or two for him to dig that she’d logged more dojo hours in the year previous than he’d spent in front of the tube in his whole life—not the sort of young lady whose displeasure you’d go looking to provoke. “Second office on the left. Dr. Blatnoyd will see you in a moment.” Doc found the office and looked around for something to check out his hair in but saw only a small yellow-framed feng shui mirror by the door. The face looking back did not seem to be his own. “This is not promising,” he muttered. Behind a titanium desk, the window revealed a stretch of lower Sunset—taquerías, low-rent hotels, pawn shops. There were beanbag chairs and a range of magazines—Foreign  Affairs,  Sinsemilla Tips, Modern Psychopath, Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists— that gave Doc no handle on the clientele here. He started paging through 2000 Hairdos and was just getting into “That Five-Point Scissor Cut—What Your Stylist Isn’t Telling You,” when Dr. Blatnoyd came in wearing a suit in a deep, nearly ultraviolet shade of velvet, with very wide jacket lapels and bell-bottom trousers and accented with a raspberry-colored bow tie and display handkerchief. He seated himself behind the desk, reached for a weighty loose-leaf manual of some kind and began consulting it, squinting over at Doc from time to time. Finally, “So…you have some ID, I imagine.” Doc went looking through his wallet till he found a business card from a Chinese head shop on North Spring Street he thought would do the trick. “I can’t read this, it’s in some … Oriental… what is this, Chinese?” “Well, I figured that you, being Chinese—” “What? what are you talking about?”  “‘The … the Golden Fang …’?” “It’s a syndicate, most of us happen to be dentists, we set it up years ago for tax purposes, all legit— Wait,” peering at Doc you’d have to say diagnostically, “where’d you tell Xandra you were from again?” “Uh…” “Why, you’re another one of those hippie dopefiends, aren’t you. My goodness. Here for a little perking up, I’ll bet—” In a jiffy he was out with a tall cylinder of brown glass sealed elaborately with globs of some bright red plastic—“Dig it! just in from Darmstadt, lab quality, maybe I’ll even have some with you...” And before Doc knew it the hectic D.D.S. had a quantity of fluffy white cocaine crystals all chopped up into snortable format and arranged in lines on a nearby copy of Guns &Ammo. Doc shrugged in apology. “I try not to do dope I can’t pay for, ‘s what it is.” “Whoo!” Dr. Blatnoyd had a soda straw and was busy snorting away. “No worries, it’s on the house, as the TV antenna man always sez…Hmm, missed a little...” He took it on his finger and rubbed it enthusiastically into his gums. Doc did half a line in either nostril, just to be sociable, but somehow could not shake the impression that all was not as innocent here as it looked. He had been in a dentist’s office or two, and there was a distinctive smell and a set of vibes that were as absent here as room echoes, which he’d also been wondering about. Like something else was going on— something… not groovy. There was a quiet but no-nonsense knock at the door, and Xandra the receptionist looked in. She had unzipped the top of the jumpsuit, and Doc could now make out this exquisite pair of no-bra tits, their nipples noticeably erect. “Oh, Doctor,” she breathed, half singing it. “Yes, Xandra,” replied Dr. Blatnoyd, moist-nosed and beaming. Xandra nodded and slid away back on out the door again, smiling over her shoulder. “And don’t forget to bring that bottle” “Be right back,” Blatnoyd assured Doc, speeding out after her, eyes frenziedly focused on where her ass had just been, his echoless footsteps soon vanishing into unknown regions of the Golden Fang Building. Doc went over and had a look at the manual on the desk. Titled Golden Fang Procedures Handbook, it was open to a chapter titled “Interpersonal Situations.” “Section Eight— Hippies. Dealing with the Hippie is generally straightforward. His childlike nature will usually respond positively to drugs, sex, and/or rock and roll, although in which order these are to be deployed must depend on conditions specific to the moment.” From the doorway came a loud, violent chirp. Doc looked up and saw a smiling young woman, blond, Californian, presentable, wearing a striped minidress of many different “psychedelic” colors and waving at him vigorously, causing enormous earrings, shaped like pagodas of some kind, to swing back and forth and actually jingle. “Here for my Smile Maintenance appointment with Dr. Rudy!” A blast from the past. “Hey! that’s at Japonica, ain’t it. Japonica Fenway! Imagine meeting you here!” This was not a moment he’d been either dreading or hoping for, though now and then somebody would remind him of the ancient American Indian belief that if you save somebody’s life, you are responsible for them from then on, forever, and he would wonder if any of that applied to his history with Japonica. It had been his first paying gig as a licensed private eye, and pay it did, for sure. The Fenways were heavy-duty South Bay money, living on the Palos Verdes Peninsula in a gated enclave located inside the already gated high-rent community of Rolling Hills. “How am I supposed to come see you,” Doc wondered when Crocker Fenway, Japonica’s dad, called him at the office. “Guess it’ll have to be outside the gates and down in the flats,” said Crocker, “like Lomita?” It was a pretty open-and-shut runaway-daughter case, hardly worth daily scale, let alone the extravagant bonus Crocker insisted on paying when Doc finally brought Japonica back, one lens missing from her wire-rim shades and vomit in her hair, making the handoff in the same parking lot where he and Crocker had met originally. It wasn’t clear if she’d ever clearly registered Doc then, or remembered him now. “So! Japonica! what’ve you been up to?” “Oh, escaping, mostly? There’s this, like, place? that my parents keep sending me to?” Which turned out to be Chryskylodon, the same nut plantation in Ojai that Doc remembered his Aunt Reet mentioning and which Sloane and Mickey had donated a wing to. Though Doc once may have rescued Japonica from a life of dark and unspecified hippie horror, apparently restoration to the bosom of her family had been enough to really drive her around the bend. Against the neutral surface of the wall opposite, Doc had a moment’s visual of an American Indian in full Indian gear, perhaps one of those warriors who wipe out Henry Fonda’s regiment in Fort Apache (1948), approaching with a menacing frown. “Doc responsible for crazy white chick now. What Doc planning to do about that? If anything.” “Excuse me, short man with strange hair? Are you all right?” And on she went without waiting for an answer, twinkling like a roomful of speed freaks hanging Christmas tinsel, about her different escapes. It was beginning to give Doc a headache. Owing to Governor Reagan’s shutdown of most of the state mental facilities, the private sector had been trying in it’s way to pick up some of the slack, soon in fact becoming a standard California child-rearing resource. The Fenways had had Japonica in and out of Chryskylodon on a sort of maintenance-contract basis, depending as always on how they themselves were feeling day to day, for both led emotional lives of unusually high density, and often incoherence. “Some days all I had to do was play the wrong kind of music, and there’s my bags already packed, down in the front hall waiting for the driver.” Soon Chryskylodon had found itself attracting a type of silent benefactor—middle-aged, male, though occasionally female, more focused than usual on the young and mentally disturbed. Freaky chicks and fun-loving dopers! Why do they call it the Love Generation? Come on up to Chryskylodon for a rockin weekend and find out! Absolute discretion guaranteed! Circa 1970, “adult” was no longer quite being defined as in times previous. Among those who could afford to, a strenuous mass denial of the passage of time itself was under way. All across a city long devoted to illusory product, clairvoyant Japonica had seen them, these travelers invisible to others, poised, gazing from smogswept mesa-tops above the boulevards, acknowledging one another across miles and years, summit to summit, in the dusk, under an obscurely enforced silence. Wingfeathers trembled along their naked backs. They knew they could fly. A moment more, an eyeblink in eternity, and they would ascend… So, Dr. Rudy Blatnoyd, out on a first blind date with Japonica at the Sound Mind Caff, a secluded eatery with a patio in back and a menu designed by a resident three-star organic chef, was not only enchanted, he was wondering if somebody hadn’t slipped some new psychedelic into his pomegranate martini. This girl was delightful! Being a little ESP-deficient, of course Rudy failed to appreciate that behind her wide sparkling gaze Japonica was not only thinking about but at this point actually visiting other worlds. The Japonica sitting with the older man in the funny velour suit was actually a Cybernetic Organism, or cyborg, programmed to eat and drink, converse and socialize, while Real Japonica tended to important business elsewhere, because she was the Kozmic Traveler, deep issues Out There awaited, galaxies wheeled, empires collapsed, karma would not be denied, and Real Japonica must always be present at some exact point in five- dimensional space, or chaos would resume it’s dominion. She returned to the Sound Mind to find that Cyborg Japonica had somehow malfunctioned and gone skipping into the kitchen and done something gross to the Soup of the Day, and now they would have to pour it all down the sink. Actually, it was the Soup of the Night, a sinister indigo liquid which probably didn’t deserve much respect, but still, Cyborg Japonica could have showed some self-control. Naughty, impulsive Cyborg Japonica. Perhaps Real Japonica should not let her have those special high-voltage batteries she had been asking for. That would show her. Dr. Blatnoyd, escorting her out through a roomful of disapproving faces, only grew more bedazzled. So this was a free-spirited hippie chick! He saw these girls on the streets of Hollywood, on the TV screen, but this was his first up-close encounter. No wonder Japonica’s parents didn’t know what to do with her—his assumption here, which he didn’t examine too closely, being that he did. “And actually, I wasn’t too sure about who he was till I came in for my first Smile Evaluation…” At which point in Japonica’s reminiscing, in popped the lecherous toothyanker himself, zipping up his fly. “Japonica? I thought we’d agreed never to—” Catching sight of Doc—”oh, you’re still here?” “I escaped again, Rudy,” she twinkled. Denis also now came lurching in. “Hey man, your ride’s in a body shop.” “It signed itself in, Denis?” “I sort of mashed the front end. I was looking at these chicks out on Little Santa Monica—” “You went to Beverly Hills for a pizza, and rear-ended somebody there.” “Needs a new … what do they call that, with the hoses, where the steam comes out—” “Radiator—Denis, you said you took driver ed in high school.” “No, no, Doc, you said did they have Driver Ed, and I said yes cause they did, this dude Eddie Ochoa, that there wasn’t a cop south of Salinas could get near him, and that’s what everybody called him—” “So, like, you … never actually… learned …” “All that stuff they wanted you to remember, man?” Xandra, visibly disheveled, now came running in after Denis, yelling, “I told you you couldn’t come up here,” then spotted Japonica and screeched to a halt. “Oh. Smile Maintenance Chick. How lovely,” while scaling tiny glares Dr. Blatnoyd’s way like the star-shaped blades in kung fu movies. “Miss Fenway,” the doctor began to explain, “may seem a little psychotic today….” “Groovy!” cried Denis. “What?” Blatnoyd blinking. “Being insane, man? it’s groovy, where are you at, man?” “Denis …” Doc murmured. “It is not ‘groovy’ to be insane. Japonica here has been institutionalized for it.” “Yep,” beamed Japonica. “Like, in the place? Psychedelic! They put those volts in your head, man?” “Volts ‘n’ volts,” twinkled Japonica. “Whoa. Bad for la cabeza, man.” “C’mon, Denis,” said Doc, “we’re gonna have to figure out how to catch a bus back to the beach.” “If you need a ride, I’m heading that way,” offered Japonica. Running a fast eyeball diagnostic, Doc could see nothing too alarming—right at the moment she was being as sane as anybody here, not too many useful remarks Doc could pass, so he settled for, “Everything cool with your brakes and lights, Japonica? license-plate lights and so forth?” “A-OK? Just had Wolfgang in for periodic maintenance?” “That’s…” “My car?” Yes, another warning buzzer, but Doc was now on to obsessing over the vast numbers of law enforcement likely to be deployed between here and the beach. “Excuse me,” wondered Xandra, who’d been staring at Denis, “is that a slice of pizza on your hat?” “Oh wow, thanks, man, I’ve been lookin all over for that…” “Mind if I tag along with you people?” asked Dr. Blatnoyd. “Contingencies of the road and so forth.” Wolfgang turned out to be a ten-year-old Mercedes sedan with a roof panel passengers could slide back, allowing them, like dogs in pickups, to stick their heads out in the wind if they wanted. Doc rode shotgun, widebrim fedora down over his eyes, trying to ignore a deep foreboding. Dr. Blatnoyd climbed in the back with Denis and then spent some time trying to push a #66 market bag full of something under the front seat on Doc’s side. “Hey,” exclaimed Denis, “what’s in that bag you’re stuffing under Doc’s seat?” “Pay no attention to that bag,” advised Dr. Blatnoyd. “It will only make everybody paranoid.” Which it did, except for Japonica, who was maneuvering them smoothly up Sunset through the late rush-hour traffic. Denis had his head out the roof. “Drive slower,” he called down after a while, “I want to dig this.” They were crossing Vine and about to go past Wallach’s Music City, where each of a long row of audition booths inside had it’s own lighted window facing the street. In every window, one by one as Japonica crept by, appeared a hippie freak or small party of hippie freaks, each listening on headphones to a different rock ‘n’ roll album and moving around at a different rhythm. Like Denis, Doc was used to outdoor concerts where thousands of people congregated to listen to music for free, and where it all got sort of blended together into a single public self, because everybody was having the same experience. But here, each person was listening in solitude, confinement and mutual silence, and some of them later at the register would actually be spending money to hear rock ‘n’ roll. It seemed to Doc like some strange kind of dues or payback. More and more lately he’d been brooding about this great collective dream that everybody was being encouraged to stay tripping around in. Only now and then would you get an unplanned glimpse at the other side. Denis waved, yelled and flashed peace signs, but nobody in any of the booths noticed. At last he slid back down into the Mercedes. “Far out. Maybe they’re all stoned. Hey! That must be why they call those things headphones!” He put his face closer to Dr. Blatnoyds than the dentist was really comfortable with. “Think about that, man! Like, headphones, right?” Japonica was driving so skillfully that it wasn’t till they were out of the white dazzle of Hollywood and across Doheny that Doc noticed (a) it was now dark and (b) the headlights weren’t on. “Ah, Japonica, like, your lights?” She was humming to herself, a tune Doc recognized, with dawning concern, as the theme from Dark Shadows. After four more bars, he tried again. “Like, it would be so groovy, Japonica, really, to have some lights working is all, seeing ‘s how Beverly Hills cops are known to lurk uphill on these different cross streets? just waiting for minor violations, like lights, to pop folks on?” Her humming was way too intense. Doc made the mistake of looking over, only to find her staring at him and not the road, eyes glittering ferally through a blond curtain of California-chick hair. No, this was not reassuring. Though hardly a connoisseur of the freakout, he did recognize a wraparound hallucination when he saw one and understood immediately that while she likely didn’t see Doc at all, whatever she was seeing was indeed physically out there, in the gathering fog, and just about to— “Everything all right, baby?” Rudy Blatnoyd rang in. “Oo-oooo” warbled Japonica, putting some vibrato onto  it and stepping on the gas, “Ooo-ooo woo-oo, woo-ooo…” Cross traffic, neighborhood machinery such as Excaliburs and Ferraris, came blurring by at high speed, missing them by small clearances. Dr. Blatnoyd, as if wishing to start a therapeutic discussion, was glaring at Denis. “There. That’s just what I’ve been talking about.” “You didn’t say nothing about it happening while she’s driving, man.” Japonica had meantime decided that she must run every red light she could find, even speeding up to catch  some before they could turn green. “Urn, Japonica, my dear? That was a red light?” Blatnoyd pointed out helpfully. “Ooh, I don’t think so!” she explained blithely. “I think that was one of Its eyes!” “Oh. Well, yes,n Doc soothed. “We can sure dig that, Japonica, but then again—” “No, no, there’s no It’ watching you!” Blatnoyd now in some agitation. “Those are not eyes,’ those are warnings to come to a full stop and wait till the light turns green, don’t you remember learning that in school?” “That’s what those colors are for, man?” Denis said. Suddenly, like a UFO rising over the ridgeline, the flashing lights of a police car appeared uphill and came swooping down on them, the siren screaming. “Like, shit,” Denis heading for the hatch in the roof again, “I’m outta here, man,” overlooking for the moment the streetscape rushing past. Feeling no sign of deceleration, Doc, trying not to think about the paper bag under the seat, kept reaching with his foot for the brake pedal, meantime trying gently to steer the car over to the shoulder. If he’d been in his own ride and by himself, he might have chosen to make a run for it, at least open a door an inch or two and get rid of the bag, but by the time he could bring himself to try even that, the Man was on top of them. “License and registration, miss?” The cop seemed to be focused on Japonica’s tits. She smiled back at him in high- intensity silence, occasionally glancing at the Smith & Wesson on his hip. His partner, a rookie even blonder than he was, came and leaned on the passenger side, content for the moment to watch Denis, who had paused in his effort to climb through the roof to gaze at the strobing array of colored lights on top of the cruiser, and now and then go, “Oh wow, man.” “Are you the Great Beast?” inquired rattling-mad Japonica in her sub-jailbait lilt. “No no no,” Blatnoyd droning desperately, “that’s a policeman, Japonica, who only wants to make sure you’re all right…” “Just the license and registration if you wouldn’t mind,” said the cop. “You know you were driving without your headlights, miss.” “But I can see in the dark,” Japonica nodding emphatically, “I can see real good\n “Her sister went into labor about an hour ago,” Blatnoyd imagining he was charming their way out of a ticket, “and Miss Fenway promised she’d be there in time to see the baby born, so she might’ve been a little inattentive back there?” “That case,” said the cop, “maybe somebody else ought to be driving.” Japonica promptly jumped in the back seat with Blatnoyd, while Doc slid over behind the wheel and Denis moved up front to ride shotgun. The cops looked on beaming, like instructors at an etiquette class. “Oh and we’ll need everybody’s ID, too,” the rookie announced. “Sure thing,” Doc bringing out his PI license. “What’s it about, Officer?” “New program,” shrugged the other cop, “you know how it is, another excuse for paperwork, they’re calling it Cultwatch, every gathering of three or more civilians is now defined as a potential cult.” The rookie was making checkmarks on a list attached to a clipboard. “Criteria,” the other cop continued, “include references to the book of Revelation, males with shoulder-length or longer hair, endangerment through automotive absentmindedness, all of which you folks have been exhibiting.” “Yeah man,” Denis put in, “but we’re in a Mercedes, and it’s only painted one color, beige—don’t we get points for that?” Doc noticed for the first time that both cops were... well, not trembling, the police wouldn’t tremble, but vibrating for sure, with the post-Mansonical nerves that currently ruled the area. “We’ll hand this all in, Mr. Sportello, it’ll go in some master data bank here and in Sacramento, and unless there’s wants or warrants we don’t know about, you won’t hear any more on this.” FOLLOWING DR. BLATNOYD’S directions, Doc turned off Sunset, braking almost immediately for a guard gate staffed by private heat of some kind. “Evening, Heinrich,” boomed Rudy Blatnoyd. “Nice to see you, Dr. B.,” replied the sentry, waving him through. They went winding through Bel Air, up hillsides and canyons, arriving at a mansion with another gate, low and nearly invisible inside it’s landscape gardening, seeming so much constructed of night itself that at sunrise it might all disappear. Behind the gate glimmered a pale slash through the dark, which Doc finally figured out was a moat, with a drawbridge over it. “Won’t be a minute,” Dr. Blatnoyd climbing out, grabbing the bag from under the front seat and getting into a cryptic discussion over the gate intercom with a voice Doc guessed to be female, before the gate opened and the drawbridge came down, rumbling and creaking. Then the night was very quiet again—not even the distant freeway traffic could be heard, or the footpads of coyotes, or the slither of snakes… “Way too quiet,” said Denis, “it’s freaking me out, man.” “I think we’ll wait here on this side of the moat,” Doc said. “Okay?” Denis rolled an enormous joint and lit up, and soon the interior of the Mercedes was full of smoke. After a while there was shrieking on the gate intercom. “Hey man,” said Denis, “you don’t have to yell, man.” “Dr. Blatnoyd wishes us to inform you,” announced the woman at the other end, “that he will be remaining as our guest, and there is thus no further need for you to wait.” “Yeah, and you talk like a robot, man.” It took them a while to find their way back to Sunset. “I guess I’ll crash with some friends in Pacific Palisades,” Japonica announced. “Mind letting us off at the Greyhound in Santa Monica? We can grab the midnight local.” “By the way, aren’t you the man who found me and brought me back to my dad that time?” “Just doing my job,” Doc immediately defensive. “Did he really want me back?” “I’ve worked gigs like that a couple of times since,” Doc said carefully, in case she had to drive much more tonight, “and he seemed like your standard worried parent.” “He’s an asshole,” Japonica assured him. “Here, this is my office number. I don’t have regular hours, so you may not always find me in.” She shrugged and managed a smile. “If it’s meant to be.”

THINGS WERE WEIRD for a few days with the Dart over in  Beverly Hills, though Doc imagined it was having itself a nice time in the company of all those Jaguars and Porsches and so forth. When he finally went over to pick up his ride, at Resurrection of the Body, a collision emporium somewhat south of Olympic, he ran into his friend Tito Stavrou having a lively argument with Manuel the owner. Tito ran a limo service, though there was only one unit in his fleet, unfortunately not one of those limos able to Glide from the Curb, much less Insert Itself Effortlessly into Traffic—no, this one lurched from the curb percussively into traffic, being in fact garaged for at least half of any given premium period (as Tito’s latest insurance carrier had just discovered, much to it’s own, and you can imagine how much to Tito’s, dismay) or being attended to by various sand-and-fill crews around the Greater L.A. Area. One calendar year it got repainted six times. “You sure you mean limo and not limón?” suggested Manuel, as part of the recreational abuse he liked to lay on Tito whenever the vehicle showed up with a new set of dings. They stood out in the main shed, assembled from a Quonset hut first cut in half lengthwise and the two pieces then rearranged so that they met in a point high overhead to make a sort of churchlike vault. “It would be cheaper if you just pay me in front, small fee, anytime you want it painted, just bring it by, day or night, any color in stock includin the metallics, in and out in a couple hours.” “What worries me,” said Tito, “is that ‘in and out,’ you know, all these high-risk elements of the auto-parts community you deal with?” “This is Resurrection, ése! Were in the miracle business! If Jesus turned water into wine in front of your face? would you be goin, ‘What’s this I’m drinkin, I wannit Dom Perignon,’ or some shit? If I was that picky about what comes in here for a paint job? ask for what? their license and registration? Then they’re really pissed off, they go someplace else, plus I get put on a shit list I might not want to be on?” Manuel noticed Doc for the first time. “You the Bentley?” “The’64 Dodge Dart?” Manuel looked back and forth between Doc and Tito for a while. “You guys know each other?” “That would really depend,” Doc was about to say, but Manuel went on. “I was gonna charge you more, but guys like Tito here, they’re sub-sidizin guys like you.” The amount on the invoice was nevertheless a Beverly Hills type of number, and half Doc’s day got blown setting up a payment schedule. “Come on,” said Tito, “I’ll buy you lunch. I need your advice on something.” They went down to Pico and headed toward Rancho Park. This street was a chowhound’s delight. Back when Doc was still new in town, one day around sunset—the daily event, not the boulevard—he was in Santa Monica near the western end of Pico, the light over all deep L.A. softening to purple with some darker gold to it, and from this angle and hour of the day it seemed to him he could see all the way down Pico for miles into the heart of the great Megalopolis itself, having yet to discover that if he wanted to, he could also eat his way down Pico night after night for a long while before repeating an ethnic category. This did not always turn out to be good news for the indecisive doper who might know he was hungry but not necessarily how to deal with it in terms of specific food. Many was the night Doc ran out of gas, and his munchies- afflicted companions out of patience, long before settling on where to go eat. Today they ended up at a Greek restaurant called Teké, which according to Tito meant an old-time hashish parlor in Greek. “I hope this won’t be a problem,” said Tito, “but word is around you’ve been working on this Mickey Wolfmann case?” “Not how I’d put it. Nobody’s paying me. Sometimes I think all it is is guilt. Wolfmann’s girlfriend is my ex-old lady, she said she needed help, so I’ve been trying to help.” Tito, who had made a point of facing the front entrance, lowered his voice till Doc could hardly hear him. ‘“I’m taking a chance that you ain’t bent, Doc. You ain’t bent, are you?” “Not so far, but I could always use a nice envelope full of cash.” “These guys,” an unhappy look crossing Tito’s face, “don’t hand you envelopes, it’s more like, do what they want, maybe they don’t fuck you up too bad.” “You’re sayin this is mob-related—” “I only wish. I mean, I know some Family badasses who scare most people, they sure scare me, but I wouldn’t ever go to them with this, they’d just take a look at who it is and go, like, ‘Pasadena, man.’” “Not to mention you owe them money.” “No more, I kicked all that.” “What. No horses, no pan parlors? No Li’l T-Rex? No Salvatore ‘Paper Cut’ Gazzoni? No Adrian Prussia?” “Nope, even Adrian’s off my ass anymore, all paid off, the vig, everything.” “Good news cause sooner or later that fucker’d be reachin for his baseball bat, going to town on your head or somethin. Man gives loan-sharkin a bad name.” “They’re all in my sorry past now, I been twelve-steppin it, Doc. Meetings, everythin.” “Well, Inez must be happy. How long’s it been?” “Comin up on six months next weekend. We’re gonna go celebrate it in style, too, we’re takin the limo to Vegas, stayin at Caesar’s—” “Excuse me, Tito, am I confusing Las Vegas with someplace else where all they do is fucking gamble nonstop? How do you expect to—” “Avoid temptation? Hey that’s just it, how’m I ever gonna know? Thing is to jump in, see what happens.” “Oboy. This is all cool with Inez?” “Her idea.” Mike the owner and cook appeared with a huge plate of dolmadhes, Kalamata olives, and midget spanakopitas it looked like it would take a week to polish off. “You’re sure you want to eat here,” he greeted Tito. “This is Doc, he saved my life once.” “And this is how you thank him?” Mike shaking his head in reproof. “Think long and hard, my friends,” muttering back to the kitchen. “I saved your life?” Tito shrugged. “That time up on Mulholland.” “You saved mine, man, you’re the one knew where it was,” this particular “it” being a car-napped 1934 Hispano- Suiza J12 whose return Doc had been negotiating with a Lithuanian thyroid case who showed up carrying a modified AK-47 with a banana clip so oversize that he kept tripping over it, which looking back was what had saved everybody’s lives, probably. “I was doin that all for myself, man, you happened to be there when we brought it back and all that money started flyin around.” “Whatever, Doc—there’s somethin now that you’re the only one I can tell it to.” A quick look around. “Doc, I was one of the last people to talk to Mickey Wolfmann before he dropped off the screen.” “Shit,” replied Doc, encouragingly. “And no, I haven’t been near the heat with this. It would get back to these guys before I was out the door, and I’d end up a shark hors oeuvre. “D and D, Tito.” “What happened, Mickey got to where he didn’t always trust his drivers. They were most of ’em ex-cons, which meant they had their own IOUs to pay off that sometimes he didn’t know about. So once in a while he calls me on the unlisted line, and I pick him up someplace we decide on at the last minute.” “You used that limo? Not exactly a low profile.” “Nah, we’d use Falcons or Novas, I can always score one on short notice, even a VDub if it ain’t painted too funny.” “So the day Mickey disappeared… he called you? you took him someplace?” “He wanted me to pick him up. He called in the middle of the night, it sounded like a pay phone, he was talking real quiet, he was scared, like somebody was after him. He gave me an address out of town, I drove up there and waited, but he never showed. After a couple hours I was getting too much attention so I split.” “Where was this?” “Ojai, near someplace called Chryskylodon.” “I’ve been hearing about it,” Doc said, “some nuthouse for the upper brackets. Old Indian word that means ‘serenity.’” “Ha!” Tito shook his head. “Who told you that?” “It’s in their brochure?” “It ain’t Indian, it’s Greek, trust me, they talked Greek around the house all the time I was coming up.” “What’s it mean in Greek?” “Well, it’s squashed together a little, but it means like a gold tooth, this one here—” He tapped at a canine. “Oh, shit. Tang’? Could it be that?” “Yeah, close enough. Gold fang.”

§ § §

TYRION

A horse whickered impatiently behind him, from amidst the ranks of gold cloaks drawn up across the road. Tyrion could hear Lord Gyles coughing as well. He had not asked for Gyles, no more than he'd asked for Ser Addam. or Jalabhar Xho or any of the rest, but his lord father felt Doran Martell might take it ill if only a dwarf came out to escort him across the Blackwater. Joffrey should have met the Dornishmen himself, he reflected as he sat waiting, but he would have mucked it up, no doubt. Of late the king had been repeating little jests about the Dornish that he'd picked up from Mace Tyrell's men-atarms. How many Dornishmen does it take to shoe a horse? Nine. One to do the shoeing, and eight to lift the horse up. Somehow Tyrion did not think Doran Martell would find that amusing. He could see their banners flying as the riders emerged from the green of the living wood in a long dusty column. From here to the river, only bare black trees remained, a legacy of his battle. Too many banners, he thought sourly, as he watched the ashes kick up under the hooves of the approaching horses, as they had beneath the hooves of the Tyrell van as it smashed Stannis in the flank. Martell's brought half the lords of Dorne, by the look of it. He tried to think of some good that might come of that, and failed. "How many banners do you count?" he asked Brorm. The sellsword knight shaded his eyes. "Eight ... no, nine." Tyrion turned in his saddle. "Pod, come up here. Describe the arms you see, and tell me which houses they represent." Podrick Payne edged his gelding closer. He was carrying the royal standard, Joffrey's great stag-and-lion, and struggling with its weight. Bronn bore Tyrion's own banner, the lion of Lannister gold on crimson. He's getting taller, Tyrion realized as Pod stood in his stirrups for a better look. He'll soon tower over me like all the rest. The lad had been making a diligent study of Domish heraldry, at Tyrion's command, but as ever he was nervous. "I can't see. The wind is flapping them." "Bronn, tell the boy what you see." Bronn looked very much the knight today, in his new doublet and cloak, the flaming chain across his chest. "A red sun on orange," he called, "with a spear through its back." "Martell," Podrick Payne said at once, visibly relieved. "House Martell of Sunspear, my lord. The Prince of Dome." "My horse would have known that one," said Tyrion dryly. "Give him another, Bronn." "There's a purple flag with yellow balls. "Lemons?" Pod said hopefully. "A purple fleld strewn with lemons? For House Dalt? Of, of Lemonwood." "Might be. Next's a big black bird on yellow. Something pink or white in its claws, hard to say with the banner flapping." "The vulture of Blackmont grasps a baby in its talons," said Pod. "House Blackmont of Blackmont, ser." Bronn laughed. "Reading books again? Books will ruin your sword eye, boy. I see a skull too. A black banner." "The crowned skull of House Manwoody, bone and gold on black." Pod sounded more confident with every correct answer. "The Manwoodys of Kingsgrave." "Three black spiders?" "They're scorpions, ser. House Qorgyle of Sandstone, three scorpions black on red." "Red and yellow, a jagged line between." "The flames of Hellholt. House Uller." Tyrion was impressed. The boy's not half stupid, once he gets his tongue untied. "Go on, Pod," he urged. "If you get them all, I'll make you a gift." "A pie with red and black slices," said Bronn. "There's a gold hand in the middle." "House Allyrion of Godsgrace." "A red chicken eating a snake, looks like." "The Gargalens of Salt Shore. A cockatrice. Ser. Pardon. Not a chicken. Red, with a black snake in its beak." "Very good!" exclaimed Tyrion. "One more, lad." Bronn scanned the ranks of the approaching Domishmen. "The last's a golden feather on green checks." "A golden quill, ser. Jordayne of the Tor." Tyrion laughed. "Nine, and well done. I could not have named them all myself." That was a lie, but it would give the boy some pride, and that he badly needed. Martell brings some formidable companions, it would seem. Not one of the houses Pod had named was small or insignificant. Nine of the greatest lords of Dorne were coming up the kingsroad, them or their heirs, and somehow Tyrion did not think they had come all this way just to see the dancing bear. There was a message here. And not one I like. He wondered if it had been a mistake to ship Myrcella down to Sunspear. "My lord," Pod said, a little timidly, "there's no litter." Tyrion turned his head sharply. The boy was right. "Doran Martell always travels in a litter," the boy said. "A carved litter with silk hangings, and suns on the drapes." Tyrion had heard the same talk. Prince Doran was past fifty, and gouty. He may have wanted to make faster time, he told himself. He may have feared his litter would make too tempting a target for brigands, or that it would prove too cumbersome in the high passes of the Boneway. Perhaps his gout is better. So why did he have such a bad feeling about this? This waiting was intolerable. "Banners forward," he snapped. "We'll meet them." He kicked his horse. Bronn and Pod followed, one to either side. When the Dornishmen saw them coming, they spurred their own mounts, banners rippling as they rode. From their ornate saddles were slung the round metal shields they favored, and many carried bundles of short throwing spears, or the double-curved Dornish bows they used so well from horseback. There were three sorts of Dornishmen, the first King Daeron had observed. There were the salty Dornishmen who lived along the coasts, the sandy Dornishmen of the deserts and long river valleys, and the stony Dornishmen who made their fastnesses in the passes and heights of the Red Mountains. The salty Domishmen had the most Rhoynish blood, the stony Dornishmen the least. All three sorts seemed well represented in Doran's retinue. The salty Dornishmen were lithe and dark, with smooth olive skin and long black hair streaming in the wind. The sandy Dornishmen were even darker, their faces burned brown by the hot Dornish sun. They wound long bright scarfs around their helms to ward off sunstroke. The stony Dornishmen were biggest and fairest, sons of the Andals and the First Men, brownhaired or blond, with faces that freckled or burned in the sun instead of browning. The lords wore silk and satin robes with jeweled belts and flowing sleeves. Their armor was heavily enameled and inlaid with burnished copper, shining silver, and soft red gold. They came astride red horses and golden ones and a few as pale as snow, all slim and swift, with long necks and narrow beautiful heads. The fabled sand steeds of Dome were smaller than proper warhorses and could not bear such weight of armor, but it was said that they could run for a day and night and another day, and never tire. The Domish leader forked a stallion black as sin with a mane and tail the color of fire. He sat his saddle as if he'd been born there, tall, slim, graceful. A cloak of pale red silk fluttered from his shoulders, and his shirt was armored with overlapping rows of copper disks that glittered like a thousand bright new pennies as he rode. His high gilded helm displayed a copper sun on its brow, and the round shield slung behind him bore the sun- and-spear of House Martell on its polished metal surface. A Martell sun, but ten years too young, Tyrion thought as he reined up, too fit as well, and far too fierce. He knew what he must deal with by then. How many Dornishmen does it take to start a war? he asked himself. Only one. Yet he had no choice but to smile. "Well met, my lords. We had word of your approach, and His Grace King Joffrey bid me ride out to welcome you in his name. My lord father the King's Hand sends his greetings as well." He feigned an amiable confusion. "Which of you is Prince Doran?" "My brother's health requires he remain at Sunspear." The princeling removed his helm. Beneath, his face was lined and saturnine, with thin arched brows above large eyes as black and shiny as pools of coal oil. Only a few streaks of silver marred the lustrous black hair that receded from his brow in a widow's peak as sharply pointed as his nose. A salty Dornishmen for certain. "Prince Doran has sent me to join King Joffrey's council in his stead, as it please His Grace." "His Grace will be most honored to have the counsel of a warrior as renowned as Prince Oberyn of Dome," said Tyrion, thinking, This will mean blood in the gutters. "And your noble companions are most welcome as well." "Permit me to acquaint you with them, my lord of Lannister. Ser Deziel Dalt, of Lemonwood. Lord Tremond Gargalen. Lord Harmen Uller and his brother Ser Ulwyck. Ser Ryon Allyrion and his natural son Ser Daemon Sand, the Bastard of Godsgrace. Lord Dagos Manwoody, his brother Ser Myles, his sons Mors and Dickon. Ser Arron Qorgyle. And never let it be thought that I would neglect the ladies. Myria Jordayne, heir to the Tor. Lady Larra Blackmont, her daughter Jynessa, her son Perros." He raised a slender hand toward a black- haired woman to the rear, beckoning her forward. "And this is Ellaria Sand, mine own paramour." Tyrion swallowed a groan. His paramour, and bastard-born, Cersei will pitch a holy fit if he wants her at the wedding. If she consigned the woman to some dark comer below the salt, his sister would risk the Red Viper's wrath. Seat her beside him at the high table, and every other lady on the dais was like to take offense. Did Prince Doran mean to provoke a quarrel? Prince Oberyn wheeled his horse about to face his fellow Domishmen. "Ellaria, lords and ladies, sers, see how well King Joffrey loves us. His Grace has been so kind as to send his own Uncle Imp to bring us to his court. " Bronn snorted back laughter, and Tyrion perforce must feign amusement as well. "Not alone, my lords. That would be too enormous a task for a little man like me." His own party had come up on them, so it was his turn to name the names. "Let me present Ser Flement Brax, heir to Homvale. Lord Gyles of Rosby. Ser Addam Marbrand, Lord Commander of the City Watch. jalabhar Xho, Prince of the Red Flower Vale. Ser Harys Swyft, my uncle Kevan's good father by marriage. Ser Merlon Crakehall. Ser Philip Foote and Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, two heroes of our recent battle against the rebel Stannis Baratheon. And mine own squire, young Podrick of House Payne." The names had a nice ringing sound as Tyrion reeled them off, but the bearers were nowise near as distinguished nor formidable a company as those who accompanied Prince Oberyn, as both of them knew full well. "My lord of Lannister," said Lady Blackmont, "we have come a long dusty way, and rest and refreshment would be most welcome. Might we continue on to the city?" "At once, my lady." Tyrion turned his horse's head, and called to Ser Addam Marbrand. The mounted gold cloaks who formed the greatest part of his honor guard turned their horses crisply at Ser Addam's command, and the column set off for the river and King's Landing beyond. Oberyn Nymeros Martell, Tyrion muttered under his breath as he fell in beside the man. The Red Viper of Dorne. And what in the seven hells am I supposed to do with him? He knew the man only by reputation, to be sure ... but the reputation was fearsome. When he was no more than sixteen, Prince Oberyn had been found abed with the paramour of old Lord Yronwood, a huge man of fierce repute and short temper. A duel ensued, though in view of the prince's youth and high birth, it was only to first blood. Both men took cuts, and honor was satisfied. Yet Prince Oberyn soon recovered, while Lord Yronwood's wounds festered and killed him. Afterward men whispered that Oberyn had fought with a poisoned sword, and ever thereafter friends and foes alike called him the Red Viper. That was many years ago, to be sure. The boy of sixteen was a man past forty now, and his legend had grown a deal darker. He had traveled in the Free Cities, leaming the poisoner's trade and perhaps arts darker still, if rumors could be believed. He had studied at the Citadel, going so far as to forge six links of a maester's chain before he grew bored. He had soldiered in the Disputed Lands across the narrow sea, riding with the Second Sons for a time before forming his own company. His tourneys, his battles, his duels, his horses, his carnality ... it was said that he bedded men and women both, and had begotten bastard girls all over Dome. The sand snakes, men called his daughters. So far as Tyrion had heard, Prince Oberyn had never fathered a son. And of course, he had crippled the heir to Highgarden. There is no man in the Seven Kingdoms who will be less welcome at a 7)7rell wedding, thought Tyrion. To send Prince Oberyn to King's Landing while the city still hosted Lord Mace Tyrell, two of his sons, and thousands of their men-at-arms was a provocation as dangerous as Prince Oberyn himself. A wrong word, an ill-timed jest, a look, that's all it will take, and our noble allies will be at one another's throats. "We have met before," the Domish prince said lightly to Tyrion as they rode side by side along the kingsroad, past ashen fields and the skeletons of trees. "I would not expect you to remember, though. You were even smaller than you are now." There was a mocking edge to his voice that Tyrion misliked, but he was not about to let the Dornishman provoke him. "When was this, my lord?" he asked in tones of polite interest. "Oh, many and many a year ago, when my mother ruled in Dome and your lord father was Hand to a different king." Not so different as you might think, reflected Tyrion. "It was when I visited Casterly Rock with my mother, her consort, and my sister Elia. I was, oh, fourteen, fifteen, thereabouts, Elia a year older. Your brother and sister were eight or nine, as I recall, and you had just been bom." A queer time to come visiting. His mother had died giving him birth, so the Martells would have found the Rock deep in mouming. His father especially. Lord Tywin seldom spoke of his wife, but Tyrion had heard his uncles talk of the love between them. In those days, his father had been Aerys's Hand, and many people said that Lord Tywin Lannister ruled the Seven Kingdoms, but Lady Joanna ruled Lord Tywin. "He was not the same man after she died, imp," his Uncle Gery told him once. "The best part of him died with her." Gerion had been the youngest of Lord Tytos Lannister's four sons, and the uncle Tyrion liked best. But he was gone now, lost beyond the seas, and Tyrion himself had put Lady Joanna in her grave. "Did you find Casterly Rock to your liking, my lord?" "Scarcely. Your father ignored us the whole time we were there, after commanding Ser Kevan to see to our entertainment. The cell they gave me had a featherbed to sleep in and Myrish carpets on the floor, but it was dark and windowless, much like a dungeon when you come down to it, as I told Elia at the time. Your skies were too grey, your wines too sweet, your women too chaste, your food too bland ... and you yourself were the greatest disappointment of all." "I had just been born. What did you expect of me?" "Enormity," the black-haired prince replied. "You were small, but far-famed. We were in Oldtown at your birth, and all the city talked of was the monster that had been born to the King's Hand, and what such an omen might foretell for the realm." "Famine, plague, and war, no doubt." Tyrion gave a sour smile. "It's always famine, plague, and war. Oh, and winter, and the long night that never ends." "All that," said Prince Oberyn, "and your father's fall as well. Lord Tywin had made himself greater than King Aerys, I heard one begging brother preach, but only a god is meant to stand above a king. You were his curse, a punishment sent by the gods to teach him that he was no better than any other man." "I try, but he refuses to learn." Tyrion gave a sigh. "But do go on, I pray you. I love a good tale." "And well you might, since you were said to have one, a stiff curly tail like a swine's. Your head was monstrous huge, we heard, half again the size of your body, and you had been born with thick black hair and a beard besides, an evil eye, and lion's claws. Your teeth were so long you could not close your mouth, and between your legs were a girl's privates as well as a boy's." "Life would be much simpler if men could fuck themselves, don't you agree? And I can think of a few times when claws and teeth might have proved useful. Even so, I begin to see the nature of your complaint." Brorm gave out with a chuckle, but Oberyn only smiled. "We might never have seen you at all but for your sweet sister. You were never seen at table or hall, though sometimes at night we could hear a baby howling down in the depths of the Rock. You did have a monstrous great voice, I must grant you that. You would wail for hours, and nothing would quiet you but a woman's teat." "Still true, as it happens." This time Prince Oberyn did laugh. "A taste we share. Lord Gargalen once told me he hoped to die with a sword in his hand, to which I replied that I would sooner go with a breast in mine." Tyrion had to grin. "You were speaking of my sister?" "Cersei promised Elia to show you to us. The day before we were to sail, whilst my mother and your father were closeted together, she and Jaime took us down to your nursery. Your wet nurse tried to send us off, but your sister was having none of that. 'He's mine/ she said, 'and you're just a milk cow, you can't tell me what to do. Be quiet or I'll have my father cut your tongue out. A cow doesn't need a tongue, only udders."' "Her Grace learned charm at an early age," said Tyrion, amused by the notion of his sister claiming him as hers. She's never been in any rush to claim me since, the gods know. "Cersei even undid your swaddling clothes to give us a better look," the Dornish prince continued. "You did have one evil eye, and some black fuzz on your scalp. Perhaps your head was larger than most ... but there was no tail, no beard, neither teeth nor claws, and nothing between your legs but a tiny pink cock. After all the wonderful whispers, Lord Tywin's Doom turned out to be just a hideous red infant with stunted legs. Elia even made the noise that young girls make at the sight of infants, I'm sure you've heard it. The same noise they make over cute kittens and playful puppies. I believe she wanted to nurse you herself, ugly as you were. When I commented that you seemed a poor sort of monster, your sister said, 'He killed my mother/ and twisted your little cock so hard I thought she was like to pull it off. You shrieked, but it was only when your brother Jaime said, 'Leave him be, you're hurting him/ that Cersei let go of you. 'It doesn't matter/ she told us. 'Everyone says he's like to die soon. He shouldn't even have lived this long."' The sun was shining bright above them, and the day was pleasantly warm for autumn, but Tyrion Lannister went cold all over when he heard that. My sweet sister. He scratched at the scar of his nose and gave the Dornishman a taste of his "evil eye." Now why would he tell such a tale? Is he testing me, or simply twisting my cock as Cersei did, so he can hear me scream? "Be sure and tell that story to my father. It will delight him as much as it did me. The part about my tail, especially. I did have one, but he had it lopped off." Prince Oberyn had a chuckle. "You've grown more amusing since last we met." "Yes, but I meant to grow taller." "While we are speaking of amusement, I heard a curious tale from Lord Buckler's steward. He claimed that you had put a tax on women's privy purses." "It is a tax on whoring," said Tyrion, irritated all over again. And it was my bloody father's notion. "Only a penny for each, ah ... act. The King's Hand felt it might help improve the morals of the city." And pay for Joffrey's wedding besides. Needless to say, as master of coin, Tyrion had gotten all the blame for it. Brorm said they were calling it the dwarf's penny inthestreets. "Spread your legs for the Halfman, now," they were shouting in the brothels and wine sinks, if the sellsword could be believed. "I will make certain to keep my pouch full of pennies. Even a prince must pay his taxes." "Why should you need to go whoring?" He glanced back to where Ellaria Sand rode among the other women. "Did you tire of your paramour on the road?" "Never. We share too much." Prince Oberyn shrugged. "We have never shared a beautiful blonde woman, however, and Ellaria is curious. Do you know of such a creature?" "I am a man wedded." Though not yet bedded. "I no longer frequent whores." Unless I want to see them hanged. Oberyn abruptly changed the subject. "It's said there are to be seventyseven dishes served at the king's wedding feast." "Are you hungry, my prince?" "I have hungered for a long time. Though not for food. Pray tell me, when will the iustice be served?" "Justice." Yes, that is why he's here, I should have seen that at once. "You were close to your sister?" "As children Elia and I were inseparable, much like your own brother and sister." Gods, I hope not. "Wars and weddings have kept us well occupied, Prince Oberyn. I fear no one has yet had the time to look into murders sixteen years stale, dreadful as they were. We shall, of course, just as soon as we may. Any help that Dome might be able to provide to restore the king's peace would only hasten the beginning of my lord father's inquiry - " "Dwarf," said the Red Viper, in a tone grown markedly less cordial, "spare me your Lannister lies. Is it sheep you take us for, or fools? My brother is not a bloodthirsty man, but neither has he been asleep for sixteen years. Jon Arryn came to Sunspear the year after Robert took the throne, and you can be sure that he was questioned closely. Him, and a hundred more. I did not come for some mummer's show of an inquiry. I came for justice for Elia and her children, and I will have it. Starting with this lummox Gregor Clegane ... but not, I think, ending there. Before he dies, the Enormity That Rides will tell me whence came his orders, please assure your lord father of that." He smiled. "An old septon once claimed I was living proof of the goodness of the gods. Do you know why that is, Imp?" "No," Tyrion admitted warily. "Why, if the gods were cruel, they would have made me my mother's firstborn, and Doran her third. I am a bloodthirsty man, you see. And it is me you must contend with now, not my patient, prudent, and gouty brother." Tyrion could see the sun shining on the Blackwater Rush half a mile ahead, and on the walls and towers and hills of King's Landing beyond. He glanced over his shoulder, at the glittering column following them up the kingsroad. "You speak like a man with a great host at his back," he said, "yet all I see are three hundred. Do you spy that city there, north of the river?" "The midden heap you call King's Landing?" "That's the very one." "Not only do I see it, I believe I smell it now." "Then take a good sniff, my lord. Fill up your nose. Half a million people stink more than three hundred, you'll find. Do you smell the gold cloaks? There are near five thousand of them. My father's own swom swords must account for another twenty thousand. And then there are the roses. Roses smell so sweet, don't they? Especially when there are so many of them. Fifty, sixty, seventy thousand roses, in the city or camped outside it, I can't really say how many are left, but there's more than I care to count, anyway." Martell gave a shrug. "In Dome of old before we married Dacron, it was said that all flowers bow before the sun. Should the roses seek to hinder me I'll gladly trample them underfoot." "As you trampled Willas Tyrell?" The Domishman did not react as expected. "I had a letter from Willas not half a year past. We share an interest in fine horseflesh. He has never bome me any ill will for what happened in the lists. I struck his breastplate clean, but his foot caught in a stirrup as he fell and his horse came down on top of him. I sent a maester to him afterward, but it was all he could do to save the boy's leg. The knee was far past mending. If any were to blame, it was his fool of a father. Willas Tyrell was green as his surcoat and had no business riding in such company. The Fat Flower thrust him into tourneys at too tender an age, just as he did with the other two. He wanted another Leo Longthom, and made himself a cripple." "There are those who say Ser Loras is better than Leo Longthom. ever was," said Tyrion. "Renly's little rose? I doubt that." "Doubt it all you wish," said Tyrion, "but Ser Loras has defeated many good knights, including my brother Jaime." "By defeated, you mean unhorsed, in tourney. Tell me who he's slain in battle if you mean to frighten me." "Ser Robar Royce and Ser Emmon Cuy, for two. And men say he performed prodigious feats of valor on the Blackwater, fighting beside Lord Renly's ghost." "So these same men who saw the prodigious feats saw the ghost as well, yes?" The Domishman laughed lightly. Tyrion gave him a long look. "Chataya's on the Street of Silk has several girls who might suit your needs. Dancy has hair the color of honey. Marei's is pale white-gold. I would advise you to keep one or the other by your side at all times, my lord." "At all times?" Prince Oberyn lifted a thin black eyebrow. "And why is that, my good imp?" "You want to die with a breast in hand, you said." Tyrion cantered on ahead to where the ferry barges waited on the south bank of the Blackwater. He had suffered all he meant to suffer of what passed for Dornish wit. Father should have sent Joffrey after all. He could have asked Prince Oberyn if he knew how a Dornishman differed from a cowflop. That made him grin despite himself. He would have to make a point of being on hand when the Red Viper was presented to the king.

§ § §

BRAN

The tower stood upon an island, its twin reflected on the still blue waters. When the wind blew, ripples moved across the surface of the lake, chasing one another like boys at play. Oak trees grew thick along the lakeshore, a dense stand of them with a litter of fallen acorns on the ground beneath. Beyond them was the village, or what remained of it. It was the first village they had seen since leaving the foothills. Meera had scouted ahead to make certain there was no one lurking amongst the ruins. Sliding in and amongst oaks and apple trees with her net and spear in hand, she startled three red deer and sent them bounding away through?the ?rush. Summer saw the flash of motion and was after them at once. Bran watched the direwolf lope off, and for a moment wanted nothing so much as to slip his skin and run with him, but Meera was waving for them to come ahead. Reluctantly, he turned away from Summer and urged Hodor on, into the village. Jojen walked with them. The ground from here to the Wall was grasslands, Bran knew; fallow fields and low rolling hills, high meadows and lowland bogs. It would be much easier going than the mountains behind, but so much open space made Meera uneasy. "I feel naked," she confessed. "There's no place to hide." "Who holds this land?" Jojen asked Bran. "The Night's Watch," he answered. "This is the Gift. The New Gift, and north of that Brandon's Gift." Maester Luwin had taught him the history. "Brandon the Builder gave all the land south of the Wall to the black brothers, to a distance of twenty-five leagues. For their ... for their sustenance and support." He was proud that he still remembered that part. "Some maesters say it was some other Brandon, not the Builder, but it's still Brandon's Gift. Thousands of years later, Good Queen Alysanne visited the Wall on her dragon Silverwing, and she thought the Night's Watch was so brave that she had the Old King double the size of their lands, to fifty leagues. So that was the New Gift." He waved a hand. "Here. All this." No one had lived in the village for long years, Bran could see. All the houses were falling down. Even the inn. It had never been much of an inn, to look at it, but now all that remained was a stone chimney and two cracked walls, set amongst a dozen apple trees. One was growing up through the common room, where a layer of wet brown leaves and rotting apples carpeted the floor. The air was thick with the smell of them, a cloying cidery scent that was almost overwhelming. Meera stabbed a few apples with her frog spear, trying to find some still good enough to eat, but they were all too brown and wormy. It was a peaceful spot, still and tranquil and lovely to behold, but Bran thought there was something sad about an empty inn, and Hodor seemed to feel it too. "Hodor? " he said in a confused sort of way. "Hodor? Hodor? " "This is good land." Jojen picked up a handful of dirt, rubbing it between his fingers. "A village, an inn, a stout holdfast in the lake, all these apple trees ... but where are the people, Bran? Why would they leave such a place?" "They were afraid of the wildlings," said Bran. "Wildlings come over the Wall or through the mountains, to raid and steal and carry off women. If they catch you, they make your skull into a cup to drink blood, Old Nan used to say. The Night's Watch isn't so strong as it was in Brandon's day or Queen Alysanne's, so more get through. The places nearest the Wall got raided so much the smallfolk moved south, into the mountains or onto the Umber lands east of the kingsroad. The Greatjon's people get raided too, but not so much as the people who used to live in the Gift." Jojen Reed turned his head slowly, listening to music only he could hear. "We need to shelter here. There's a storm coming. A bad one." Bran looked up at the sky. It had been a beautiful crisp clear autumn day, sunny and almost warm, but there were dark clouds off to the west now, that was true, and the wind seemed to be picking up. "There's no roof on the inn and only the two walls," he pointed out. "We should go out to the holdfast." "Hodor," said Hodor. Maybe he agreed. "We have no boat, Bran." Meera poked through the leaves idly with her frog spear. "There's a causeway. A stone causeway, hidden under the water. We could walk out." They could, anyway; he would have to ride on Hodor's back, but at least he'd stay dry that way. The Reeds exchanged a look. "How do you know that?" asked Jojen. "Have you been here before, my prince?" "No. Old Nan told me. The holdfast has a golden crown, see?" He pointed across the lake. You could see patches of flaking gold paint up around the crenellations. "Queen Alysanne slept there, so they painted the merlons gold in her honor." "A causeway?" Joien studied the lake. "You are certain?" "Certain," said Bran. Meera found the foot of it easily enough, once she knew to look; a stone pathway three feet wide, leading right out into the lake. She took them out step by careful step, probing ahead with her frog spear. They could see where the path emerged again, climbing from the water onto the island and turning into a short flight of stone steps that led to the holdfast door. Path, steps, and door were in a straight line, which made you think the causeway ran straight, but that wasn't so. Under the lake it zigged and zagged, going a third of a way around the island before jagging back. The turns were treacherous, and the long path meant that anyone approaching would be exposed to arrow fire from the tower for a long time. The hidden stones were slimy and slippery too; twice Hodor almost lost his footing and shouted "HODOR!" in alarm before regaining his balance. The second time scared Bran badly. If Hodor fell into the lake with him in his basket, he could well drown, especially if the huge stableboy panicked and forgot that Bran was there, the way he did sometimes. Maybe we should have stayed at the inn, under the apple tree, he thought, but by then it was too late. Thankfully there was no third time, and the water never got up past Hodor's waist, though the Reeds were in it up to their chests. And before long they were on the island, climbing the steps to the holdfast. The door was still stout, though its heavy oak planks had warped over the years and it could no longer be closed completely. Meera shoved it open all the way, the rusted iron hinges screaming. The lintel was low. "Duck down, Hodor," Bran said, and he did, but not enough to keep Bran from hitting his head. "That hurt," he complained. "Hodor," said Hodor, straightening. They found themselves in a gloomy strongroom, barely large enough to hold the four of them. Steps built into the inner wall of the tower curved away upward to their left, downward to their right, behind iron grates. Bran looked up and saw another grate just above his head. A murder hole. He was glad there was no one up there now to pour boiling oil down on them. The grates were locked, but the iron bars were red with rust. Hodor grabbed hold of the lefthand door and gave it a pull, grunting with effort. Nothing happened. He tried pushing with no more success. He shook the bars, kicked, shoved against them and rattled them and punched the hinges with a huge hand until the air was filled with flakes of rust, but the iron door would not budge. The one down to the undervault was no more accommodating. "No way in," said Meera, shrugging. The murder hole was just above Bran's head, as he sat in his basket on Hodor's back. He reached up and grabbed the bars to give them a try. When he pulled down the grating came out of the ceiling in a cascade of rust and crumbling stone. "HODOR!" Hodor shouted. The heavy iron grate gave Bran another bang in the head, and crashed down near Jojen's feet when he shoved it off of him. Meera laughed. "Look at that, my prince," she said, "you're stronger than Hodor." Bran blushed. With the grate gone, Hodor was able to boost Meera and Jojen up through the gaping murder hole. The crannogmen took Bran by the arms and drew him up after them. Getting Hodor inside was the hard part. He was too heavy for the Reeds to lift the way they'd lifted Bran. Finally Bran told him to go look for some big rocks. The island had no lack of those, and Hodor was able to pile them high enough to grab the crumbling edges of the hole and climb through. "Hodor, " he panted happily, grinning at all of them. They found themselves in a maze of small cells, dark and empty, but Meera explored until she found the way back to the steps. The higher they climbed, the better the light; on the third story the thick outer wall was pierced by arrow slits, the fourth had actual windows, and the fifth and highest was one big round chamber with arched doors on three sides opening onto small stone balconies. On the fourth side was a privy chamber perched above a sewer chute that dropped straight down into the lake. By the time they reached the roof the sky was completely overcast, and the clouds to the west were black. The wind was blowing so strong it lifted up Bran's cloak and made it flap and snap. "Hodor," Hodor said at the noise. Meera spun in a circle. "I feel almost a giant, standing high above the world." "There are trees in the Neck that stand twice as tall as this," her brother reminded her. "Aye, but they have other trees around them just as high," said Meera. "The world presses close in the Neck, and the sky is so much smaller. Here ... feel that wind, Brother? And look how large the world has grown." It was true, you could see a long ways from up here. To the south the foothills rose, with the mountains grey and green beyond them. The rolling plains of the New Gift stretched away to all the other directions, as far as the eye could see. "I was hoping we could see the Wall from here," said Bran, disappointed. "That was stupid, we must still be fifty leagues away." just speaking of it made him feel tired, and cold as well. "Jojen, what will we do when we reach the Wall? My uncle always said how big it was. Seven hundred feet high, and so thick at the base that the gates are more like tunnels through the ice. How are we going to get past to find the three-eyed crow?" "There are abandoned castles along the Wall, I've heard," Jojen answered. "Fortresses built by the Night's Watch but now left empty. One of them may give us our way through." The ghost castles, Old Nan had called them. Maester Luwin had once made Bran learn the names of every one of the forts along the Wall. That had been hard; there were nineteen of them all told, though no more than seventeen had ever been manned at any one time. At the feast in honor of King Robert's visit to Winterfell, Bran had recited the names for his uncle Benjen, east to west and then west to east. Benjen Stark had laughed and said, "You know them better than I do, Bran. Perhaps you should be First Ranger. I'll stay here in your place." That was before Bran fell, though. Before he was broken. By the time he'd woken crippled from his sleep, his uncle had gone back to Castle Black. "My uncle said the gates were sealed with ice and stone whenever a castle had to be abandoned," said Bran. "Then we'll have to open them again," said Meera. That made him uneasy. "We shouldn't do that. Bad things might come through from the other side. We should just go to Castle Black and tell the Lord Commander to let us pass." "Your Grace," said Jojen, "we must avoid Castle Black, just as we avoided the kingsroad. There are hundreds of men there." "Men of the Night's Watch," said Bran. "They say vows, to take no part in wars and stuff." "Aye," said Jojen, "but one man willing to forswear himself would be enough to sell your secret to the ironmen or the Bastard of Bolton. And we cannot be certain that the Watch would agree to let us pass. They might decide to hold us or send us back." "But my father was a friend of the Night's Watch, and my uncle is First Ranger. He might know where the three-eyed crow lives. And Jon's at Castle Black too." Bran had been hoping to see Jon again, and their uncle too. The last black brothers to visit Winterfell said that Benjen Stark had vanished on a ranging, but surely he would have made his way back by now. "I bet the Watch would even give us horses," he went on. "Quiet." Jojen shaded his eyes with a hand and gazed off toward the setting sun. "Look. There's something ... a rider, I think. Do you see him?" Bran shaded his eyes as well, and even so he had to squint. He saw nothing at first, till some movement made him turn. At first he thought it might be Summer, but no. A man on a horse. He was too far away to see much else. "Hodor?" Hodor had put a hand over his eyes as well, only he was looking the wrong way. "Hodor?" "He is in no haste," said Meera, "but he's making for this village, it seems to me." "We had best go inside, before we're seen," said Jojen. "Summer's near the village," Bran objected. "Summer will be fine," Meera promised. "It's only one man on a tired horse." A few fat wet drops began to patter against the stone as they retreated to the floor below. That was well timed; the rain began to fall in earnest a short time later. Even through the thick walls they could hear it lashing against the surface of the lake. They sat on the floor in the round empty room, amidst gathering gloom. The north-facing balcony looked out toward the abandoned village. Meera crept out on her belly to peer across the lake and see what had become of the horseman. "He's taken shelter in the ruins of the inn," she told them when she came back. "it looks as though he's making a fire in the hearth." "I wish we could have a fire," Bran said. "I'm cold. There's broken furniture down the stairs, I saw it. We could have Hodor chop it up and get warm." Hodor liked that idea. "Hodor," he said hopefully. Jojen shook his head. "Fire means smoke. Smoke from this tower could be seen a long way off." "If there were anyone to see," his sister argued. "There's a man in the village." "One man." "One man would be enough to betray Bran to his enemies, if he's the wrong man. We still have half a duck from yesterday. We should eat and rest. Come morning the man will go on his way, and we will do the same." Jojen had his way; he always did. Meera divided the duck between the four of them. She'd caught it in her net the day before, as it tried to rise from the marsh where she'd surprised it. It wasn't as tasty cold as it had been hot and crisp from the spit, but at least they did not go hungry. Bran and Meera shared the breast while Jojen ate the thigh. Hodor devoured the wing and leg, muttering "Hodor" and licking the grease off his fingers after every bite. It was Bran's turn to tell a story, so he told them about another Brandon Stark, the one called Brandon the Shipwright, who had sailed off beyond the Sunset Sea. Dusk was settling by the time duck and tale were done, and the rain still fell. Bran wondered how far Summer had roamed and whether he had caught one of the deer. Grey gloom filled the tower, and slowly changed to darkness. Hodor grew restless and walked awhile, striding round and round the walls and stopping to peer into the privy on every circuit, as if he had forgotten what was in there. Jojen stood by the north balcony, hidden by the shadows, looking out at the night and the rain. Somewhere to the north a lightning bolt crackled across the sky, brightening the inside of the tower for an instant. Hodor jumped and made a frightened noise. Bran counted to eight, waiting for the thunder. When it came, Hodor shouted, "Hodor!" I hope Summer isn't scared too, Bran thought. The dogs in Winterfell's kennels had always been spooked by thunderstorms, just like Hodor. I should go see, to calm him ... The lightning flashed again, and this time the thunder came at six. "Hodor!" Hodor yelled again. "HODOR! HODOR!" He snatched up his sword, as if to fight the storm. Jojen said, "Be quiet, Hodor. Bran, tell him not to shout. Can you get the sword away from him, Meera?" "I can try." "Hodor, hush," said Bran. "Be quiet now. No more stupid hodoring. Sit down." "Hodor?" He gave the longsword to Meera meekly enough, but his face was a mask of confusion. Jojen turned back to the darkness, and they all heard him suck in his breath. "What is it?" Meera asked. "Men in the village." "The man we saw before?" "Other men. Armed. I saw an axe, and spears as well." Joien had never sounded so much like the boy he was. "I saw them when the lightning flashed, moving under the trees." "How many?" "Many and more. Too many to count." "Mounted? "No." "Hodor." Hodor sounded frightened. "Hodor. Hodor." Bran felt a little scared himself, though he didn't want to say so in front of Meera. "What if they come out here?" "They won't." She sat down beside him. "Why should they?" "For shelter." Jojen's voice was grim. "Unless the storm lets up. Meera, could you go down and bar the door?" "I couldn't even close it. The wood's too warped. They won't get past those iron gates, though." "They might. They could break the lock, or the hinges. Or climb up through the murder hole as we did." Lightning slashed the sky, and Hodor whimpered. Then a clap of thunder rolled across the lake. "HODOR!" he roared, clapping his hands over his ears and stumbling in a circle through the darkness. "HODOR! HODOR! HODOR!" "NO!" Bran shouted back. "NO HODORING!" It did no good. "HOOOODOR!" moaned Hodor. Meera tried to catch him and calm him, but he was too strong. He flung her aside with no more than a shrug. "HOOOOOODOOOOOOOR!" the stableboy screamed as lightning filled the sky again, and even Jojen was shouting now, shouting at Bran and Meera to shut him up. "Be quiet!" Bran said in a shrill scared voice, reaching up uselessly for Hodor's leg as he crashed past, reaching, reaching. Hodor staggered, and closed his mouth. He shook his head slowly from side to side, sank back to the floor, and sat crosslegged. When the thunder boomed, he scarcely seemed to hear it. The four of them sat in the dark tower, scarce daring to breathe. "Bran, what did you do?" Meera whispered. "Nothing." Bran shook his head. "I don't know." But he did. I reached for him, the way I reach for Summer. He had been Hodor for half a heartbeat. It scared him. "Something is happening across the lake," said Jojen. "I thought I saw a man pointing at the tower." I won't be afraid. He was the Prince of Winterfell, Eddard Stark's son, almost a man grown and a warg too, not some little baby boy like Rickon. Summer would not be afraid. "Most like they're just some Umbers," he said. "Or they could be Knotts or Norreys or Flints come down from the mountains, or even brothers from the Night's Watch. Were they wearing black cloaks, Jojen?" "By night all cloaks are black, Your Grace. And the flash came and went too fast for me to tell what they were wearing." Meera was wary. "If they were black brothers, they'd be mounted, wouldn't they?" Bran had thought of something else. "It doesn't matter," he said confidently. "They couldn't get out to us even if they wanted. Not unless they had a boat, or knew about the causeway." "The causeway!" Meera mussed Bran's hair and kissed him on the forehead. "Our sweet prince! He's right, Jojen, they won't know about the causeway. Even if they did they could never find the way across at night in the rain." "The night will end, though. If they stay till morning..." Jojen left the rest unsaid. After a few moments he said, "They are feeding the fire the first man started." Lightning crashed through the sky, and light filled the tower and etched them all in shadow. Hodor rocked back and forth, humming. Bran could feel Summer's fear in that bright instant. He closed two eyes and opened a third, and his boy's skin slipped off him like a cloak as he left the tower behind ... ... and found himself out in the rain, his belly full of deer, cringing in the brush as the sky broke and boomed above him. The smell of rotten apples and wet leaves almost drowned the scent of man, but it was there. He heard the clink and slither of hardskin, saw men moving under the trees. A man with a stick blundered by, a skin pulled up over his head to make him blind and deaf. The wolf went wide around him, behind a dripping thornbush and beneath the bare branches of an apple tree. He could hear them talking, and there beneath the scents of rain and leaves and horse came the sharp red stench of fear ...

§ § §

DAVOS

Lord Alester looked up sharply. "Voices," he said. "Do you hear, Davos? Someone is coming for us." "Lamprey," said Davos. "It's time for our supper, or near enough." Last night Lamprey had brought them half a beef-and-bacon pie, and a flagon of mead as well. Just the thought of it made his belly start to rumble. "No, there's more than one." He's right. Davos heard two voices at least, and footsteps, growing louder. He got to his feet and moved to the bars. Lord Alester brushed the straw from his clothes. "The king has sent for me. Or the queen, yes, Selyse would never let me rot here, her own blood." Outside the cell, Lamprey appeared with a ring of keys in hand. Ser Axell Florent and four guardsmen followed close behind him. They waited beneath the torch while Lamprey searched for the correct key. "Axell," Lord Alester said. "Gods be good. Is it the king who sends for me, or the queen?" "No one has sent for you, traitor," Ser Axell said. Lord Alester recoiled as if he'd been slapped. "No, I swear to you, I committed no treason. Why won't you listen? If His Grace would only let me explain-" Lamprey thrust a great iron key into the lock, turned it, and pulled open the cell. The rusted hinges screamed in protest. "You," he said to Davos. "Come." "Where?" Davos looked to Ser Axell. "Tell me true, ser, do you mean to burn me?" "You are sent for. Can you walk?" "I can walk." Davos stepped from the cell. Lord Alester gave a cry of dismay as Lamprey slammed the door shut once more. "Take the torch," Ser Axell commanded the gaoler. "Leave the traitor to the darkness." "No," his brother said. "Axell, please, don't take the light . . . gods have mercy . . . " "Gods? There is only R'hllor, and the Other." Ser Axell gestured sharply, and one of his guardsmen pulled the torch from its sconce and led the way to the stair. "Are you taking me to Melisandre?" Davos asked. "She will be there," Ser Axell said. "She is never far from the king. But it is His Grace himself who asked for you." Davos lifted his hand to his chest, where once his luck had hung in a leather bag on a thong. Gone now, he remembered, and the ends of four fingers as well. But his hands were still long enough to wrap about a woman's throat, he thought, especially a slender throat like hers. Up they went, climbing the turnpike stair in single file. The walls were rough dark stone, cool to the touch. The light of the torches went before them, and their shadows marched beside them on the walls. At the third turn they passed an iron gate that opened on blackness, and another at the fifth turn. Davos guessed that they were near the surface by then, perhaps even above it. The next door they came to was made of wood, but still they climbed. Now the walls were broken by arrow slits, but no shafts of sunlight pried their way through the thickness of the stone. It was night outside. His legs were aching by the time Ser Axell thrust open a heavy door and gestured him through. Beyond, a high stone bridge arched over emptiness to the massive central tower called the Stone Drum. A sea wind blew restlessly through the arches that supported the roof, and Davos could smell the salt water as they crossed. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the clean cold air. Wind and water, give me strength, he prayed. A huge nightfire burned in the yard below, to keep the terrors of the dark at bay, and the queen's men were gathered around it, singing praises to their new red god. They were in the center of the bridge when Ser Axell stopped suddenly. He made a brusque gesture with his hand, and his men moved out of earshot. "Were it my choice, I would burn you with my brother Alester," he told Davos. "You are both traitors." "Say what you will. I would never betray King Stannis." "You would. You will. I see it in your face. And I have seen it in the flames as well. R'hllor has blessed me with that gift. Like Lady Melisandre, he shows me the future in the fire. Stannis Baratheon will sit the Iron Throne. I have seen it. And I know what must be done. His Grace must make me his Hand, in place of my traitor brother. And you will tell him so." Will I? Davos said nothing. "The queen has urged my appointment," Ser Axell went on. "Even your old friend from Lys, the pirate Saan, he says the same. We have made a plan together, him and me. Yet His Grace does not act. The defeat gnaws inside him, a black worm in his soul. It is up to us who love him to show him what to do. If you are as devoted to his cause as you claim, smuggler, you will join your voice to ours. Tell him that I am the only Hand he needs. Tell him, and when we sail I shall see that you have a new ship." A ship. Davos studied the other man's face. Ser Axell had big Florent ears, much like the queen's. Coarse hair grew from them, as from his nostrils; more sprouted in tufts and patches beneath his double chin. His nose was broad, his brow beetled, his eyes close-set and hostile. He would sooner give me a pyre than a ship, he said as much, but if I do him this favor . . . "if you think to betray me," Ser Axell said, "pray remember that I have been castellan of Dragonstone a good long time. The garrison is mine. Perhaps I cannot burn you without the king's consent, but who is to say you might not suffer a fall." He laid a meaty hand on the back of Davos's neck and shoved him bodily against the waist-high side of the bridge, then shoved a little harder to force his face out over the yard. "Do you hear me?" "I hear," said Davos. And you dare name me traitor? Ser Axell released him. "Good." He smiled. "His Grace awaits. Best we do not keep him." At the very top of Stone Drum, within the great round room called the Chamber of the Painted Table, they found Stannis Baratheon standing behind the artifact that gave the hall its name, a massive slab of wood carved and painted in the shape of Westeros as it had been in the time of Aegon the Conqueror. An iron brazier stood beside the king, its coals glowing a ruddy orange. Four tall pointed windows looked out to north, south, east, and west. Beyond was the night and the starry sky. Davos could hear the wind moving, and fainter, the sounds of the sea. "Your Grace," Ser Axell said, "as it please you, I have brought the onion knight." "So I see." Stannis wore a grey wool tunic, a dark red mantle, and a plain black leather belt from which his sword and dagger hung. A red-gold crown with flame-shaped points encircled his brows. The look of him was a shock. He seemed ten years older than the man that Davos had left at Storm's End when he set sail for the Blackwater and the battle that would be their undoing. The king's close-cropped beard was spiderwebbed with grey hairs, and he had dropped two stone or more of weight. He had never been a fleshy man, but now the bones moved beneath his skin like spears, fighting to cut free. Even his crown seemed too large for his head. His eyes were blue pits lost in deep hollows, and the shape of a skull could be seen beneath his face. Yet when he saw Davos, a faint smile brushed his lips. "So the sea has returned me my knight of the fish and onions." "It did, Your Grace." Does he know that he had me in his dungeon? Davos went to one knee. "Rise, Ser Davos," Stannis commanded. "I have missed you, ser. I have need of good counsel, and you never gave me less. So tell me true-what is the penalty for treason?" The word hung in the air. A frightful word, thought Davos. Was he being asked to condemn his cellmate? Or himself, perchance? Kings know the penalty for treason better than any man. "Treason?" he finally managed, weakly. "What else would you call it, to deny your king and seek to steal his rightful throne. I ask you again-what is the penalty for treason under the law?" Davos had no choice but to answer. "Death," he said. "The penalty is death, Your Grace." "It has always been so. I am not . . . I am not a cruel man, Ser Davos. You know me. Have known me long. This is not my decree. It has always been so, since Aegon's day and before. Daemon Blackfyre, the brothers Toyne, the Vulture King, Grand Maester Hareth . . . traitors have always paid with their lives . . . even Rhaenyra Targaryen. She was daughter to one king and mother to two more, yet she died a traitor's death for trying to usurp her brother's crown. It is law. Law, Davos. Not cruelty." "Yes, Your Grace." He does not speak of me. Davos felt a moment's pity for his cellmate down in the dark. He knew he should keep silent, but he was tired and sick of heart, and he heard himself say, "Sire, Lord Florent meant no treason." "Do smugglers have another name for it? I made him Hand, and he would have sold my rights for a bowl of pease porridge. He would even have given them Shireen. Mine only child, he would have wed to a bastard born of incest." The king's voice was thick with anger. "My brother had a gift for inspiring loyalty. Even in his foes. At Summerhall he won three battles in a single day, and brought Lords Grandison and Cafferen back to Storm's End as prisoners. He hung their banners in the hall as trophies. Cafferen's white fawns were spotted with blood and Grandison's sleeping lion was torn near in two. Yet they would sit beneath those banners of a night, drinking and feasting with Robert. He even took them hunting. 'These men meant to deliver you to Aerys to be burned' I told him after I saw them throwing axes in the yard. 'You should not be putting axes in their hands.' Robert only laughed. I would have thrown Grandison and Cafferen into a dungeon, but he turned them into friends. Lord Cafferen died at Ashford Castle, cut down by Randyll Tarly whilst fighting for Robert. Lord Grandison was wounded on the Trident and died of it a year after. My brother made them love him, but it would seem that I inspire only betrayal. Even in mine own blood and kin. Brother, grandfather, cousins, good uncle . . . " "Your Grace," said Ser Axell, "I beg you, give me the chance to prove to you that not all Florents are so feeble." "Ser Axell would have me resume the war," King Stannis told Davos. "The Lannisters think I am done and beaten, and my sworn lords have forsaken me, near every one. Even Lord Estermont, my own mother's father, has bent his knee to Joffrey. The few loyal men who remain to me are losing heart. They waste their days drinking and gambling, and lick their wounds like beaten curs." "Battle will set their hearts ablaze once more, Your Grace," Ser Axell said. "Defeat is a disease, and victory is the cure." "Victory." The king's mouth twisted. "There are victories and victories, ser. But tell your plan to Ser Davos. I would hear his views on what you propose." Ser Axell turned to Davos, with a look on his face much like the look that proud Lord Belgrave must have worn, the day King Baelor the Blessed had commanded him to wash the beggar's ulcerous feet. Nonetheless, he obeyed. The plan Ser Axell had devised with Salladhor Saan was simple. A few hours' sail from Dragonstone lay Claw Isle, ancient sea-girt seat of House Celtigar. Lord Ardrian Celtigar had fought beneath the flery heart on the Blackwater, but once taken, he had wasted no time in going over to Joffrey. He remained in King's Landing even now. "Too frightened of His Grace's wrath to come near Dragonstone, no doubt," Ser Axell declared. "And wisely so. The man has betrayed his rightful king." Ser Axell proposed to use Salladhor Saan's fleet and the men who had escaped the Blackwater-Stannis still had some fifteen hundred on Dragonstone, more than half of them Florents-to exact retribution for Lord Celtigar's defection. Claw Isle was but lightly garrisoned, its castle reputedly stuffed with Myrish carpets, Volantene glass, gold and silver plate, jeweled cups, magnificent hawks, an axe of Valyrian steel, a horn that could summon monsters from the deep, chests of rubies, and more wines than a man could drink in a hundred years. Though Celtigar had shown the world a niggardly face, he had never stinted on his own comforts. "Put his castle to the torch and his people to the sword, I say," Ser Axell concluded. "Leave Claw Isle a desolation of ash and bone, fit only for carrion crows, so the realm might see the fate of those who bed with Lannisters." Stannis listened to Ser Axell's recitation in silence, grinding his jaw slowly from side to side. When it was done, he said, "It could be done, I believe. The risk is small. Joffrey has no strength at sea until Lord Redwyne sets sail from the Arbor. The plunder might serve to keep that Lysene pirate Salladhor Saan loyal for a time. By itself Claw Isle is worthless, but its fall would serve notice to Lord Tywin that my cause is not yet done." The king turned back to Davos. "Speak truly, ser. What do you make of Ser Axell's proposal?" Speak truly, ser. Davos remembered the dark cell he had shared with Lord Alester, remembered Lamprey and Porridge. He thought of the promises that Ser Axell had made on the bridge above the yard. A ship or a shove, what shall it be? But this was Stannis asking. "Your Grace," he said slowly, "I make it folly . . . aye, and cowardice." "Cowardice?" Ser Axell all but shouted. "No man calls me craven before my king!" "Silence," Stannis commanded. "Ser Davos, speak on, I would hear your reasons." Davos turned to face Ser Axell. "You say we ought show the realm we are not done. Strike a blow. Make war, aye . . . but on what enemy? You will find no Lannisters on Claw Isle." "We will find traitors," said Ser Axell, "though it may be I could find some closer to home. Even in this very room." Davos ignored the jibe. "I don't doubt Lord Celtigar bent the knee to the boy Joffrey. He is an old done man, who wants no more than to end his days in his castle, drinking his fine wine out of his jeweled cups." He turned back to Stannis. "Yet he came when you called, sire. Came, with his ships and swords. He stood by you at Storm's End when Lord Renly came down on us, and his ships sailed up the Blackwater. His men fought for you, killed for you, burned for you. Claw Isle is weakly held, yes. Held by women and children and old men. And why is that? Because their husbands and sons and fathers died on the Blackwater, that's why. Died at their oars, or with swords in their hands, fighting beneath our banners. Yet Ser Axell proposes we swoop down on the homes they left behind, to rape their widows and put their children to the sword. These smallfolk are no traitors . . . " "They are," insisted Ser Axell. "Not all of Celtigar's men were slain on the Blackwater. Hundreds were taken with their lord, and bent the knee when he did." "When he did," Davos repeated. "They were his men. His sworn men. What choice were they given?" "Every man has choices. They might have refused to kneel. Some did, and died for it. Yet they died true men, and loyal." "Some men are stronger than others." It was a feeble answer, and Davos knew it. Stannis Baratheon was a man of iron will who neither understood nor forgave weakness in others . I am losing, he thought, despairing. "It is every man's duty to remain loyal to his rightful king, even if the lord he serves proves false," Stannis declared in a tone that brooked no argument. A desperate folly took hold of Davos, a recklessness akin to madness. "As you remained loyal to King Aerys when your brother raised his banners?" he blurted. Shocked silence followed, until Ser Axell cried, "Treason!" and snatched his dagger from its sheath. "Your Grace, he speaks his infamy to your face!" Davos could hear Stannis grinding his teeth. A vein bulged, blue and swollen, in the king's brow. Their eyes met. "Put up your knife, Ser Axell. And leave us." "As it please Your Grace-" "It would please me for you to leave," said Stannis. "Take yourself from my presence, and send me Melisandre." "As you command." Ser Axell slid the knife away, bowed, and hurried toward the door. His boots rang against the floor, angry. "You have always presumed on my forbearance," Stannis warned Davos when they were alone. "I can shorten your tongue as easy as I did your fingers, smuggler." "I am your man, Your Grace. So it is your tongue, to do with as you please." "It is," he said, calmer. "And I would have it speak the truth. Though the truth is a bitter draught at times. Aerys? If you only knew . . . that was a hard choosing. My blood or my liege. My brother or my king." He grimaced. "Have you ever seen the Iron Throne? The barbs along the back, the ribbons of twisted steel, the jagged ends of swords and knives all tangled up and melted? It is not a comfortable seat, ser. Aerys cut himself so often men took to calling him King Scab, and Maegor the Cruel was murdered in that chair. By that chair, to hear some tell it. It is not a seat where a man can rest at ease. Ofttimes I wonder why my brothers wanted it so desperately." "Why would you want it, then?" Davos asked him. "It is not a question of wanting. The throne is mine, as Robert's heir. That is law. After me, it must pass to my daughter, unless Selyse should finally give me a son." He ran three fingers lightly down the table, over the layers of smooth hard varnish, dark with age. "I am king. Wants do not enter into it. I have a duty to my daughter. To the realm. Even to Robert. He loved me but little, I know, yet he was my brother. The Lannister woman gave him horns and made a motley fool of him. She may have murdered him as well, as she murdered Jon Arryn and Ned Stark. For such crimes there must be justice. Starting with Cersei and her abominations. But only starting. I mean to scour that court clean. As Robert should have done, after the Trident. Ser Barristan once told me that the rot in King Aerys's reign began with Varys. The eunuch should never have been pardoned. No more than the Kingslayer. At the least, Robert should have stripped the white cloak from Jaime and sent him to the Wall, as Lord Stark urged. He listened to Jon Arryn instead. I was still at Storm's End, under siege and unconsulted." He turned abruptly, to give Davos a hard shrewd look. "The truth, now. Why did you wish to murder Lady Melisandre?" So he does know. Davos could not lie to him. "Four of my sons burned on the Blackwater. She gave them to the flames." "You wrong her. Those fires were no work of hers. Curse the Imp, curse the pyromancers, curse that fool of Florent who sailed my fleet into the jaws of a trap. Or curse me for my stubborn pride, for sending her away when I needed her most. But not Melisandre. She remains my faithful servant." "Maester Cressen was your faithful servant. She slew him, as she killed Ser Cortnay Penrose and your brother Renly." "Now you sound a fool," the king complained. "She saw Renly's end in the flames, yes, but she had no more part in it than I did. The priestess was with me. Your Devan would tell you so. Ask him, if you doubt me. She would have spared Renly if she could. It was Melisandre who urged me to meet with him, and give him one last chance to amend his treason. And it was Melisandre who told me to send for you when Ser Axell wished to give you to R'hllor." He smiled thinly. "Does that surprise you?" "Yes. She knows I am no friend to her or her red god." "But you are a friend to me. She knows that as well." He beckoned Davos closer. "The boy is sick. Maester Pylos has been leeching him." "The boy?" His thoughts went to his Devan, the king's squire. "My son, sire?" "Devan? A good boy. He has much of you in him. It is Robert's bastard who is sick, the boy we took at Storm's End." Edric Storm. "I spoke with him in Aegon's Garden." "As she wished. As she saw." Stannis sighed. "Did the boy charm you? He has that gift. He got it from his father, with the blood. He knows he is a king's son, but chooses to forget that he is bastard-born. And he worships Robert, as Renly did when he was young. My royal brother played the fond father on his visits to Storm's End, and there were gifts . . . swords and ponies and fur-trimmed cloaks. The eunuch's work, every one. The boy would write the Red Keep full of thanks, and Robert would laugh and ask Varys what he'd sent this year. Renly was no better. He left the boy's upbringing to castellans and maesters, and every one fell victim to his charm. Penrose chose to die rather than give him up." The king ground his teeth together. "It still angers me. How could he think I would hurt the boy? I chose Robert, did I not? When that hard day came. I chose blood over honor." He does not use the boy's name. That made Davos very uneasy. "I hope young Edric will recover soon." Stannis waved a hand, dismissing his concern. "It is a chill, no more. He coughs, he shivers, he has a fever. Maester Pylos will soon set him right. By himself the boy is nought, you understand, but in his veins flows my brother's blood. There is power in a king's blood, she says." Davos did not have to ask who she was. Stannis touched the Painted Table. "Look at it, onion knight. My realm, by rights. My Westeros." He swept a hand across it. "This talk of Seven Kingdoms is a folly. Aegon saw that three hundred years ago when he stood where we are standing. They painted this table at his command. Rivers and bays they painted, hills and mountains, castles and cities and market towns, lakes and swamps and forests . . . but no borders. It is all one. One realm, for one king to rule alone." "One king," agreed Davos. "One king means peace." "I shall bring justice to Westeros. A thing Ser Axell understands as little as he does war. Claw Isle would gain me naught . . . and it was evil, just as you said. Celtigar must pay the traitor's price himself, in his own person. And when I come into my kingdom, he shall. Every man shall reap what he has sown, from the highest lord to the lowest gutter rat. And some will lose more than the tips off their fingers, I promise you. They have made my kingdom bleed, and I do not forget that." King Stannis turned from the table. "On your knees, Onion Knight." "Your Grace?" "For your onions and fish, I made you a knight once. For this, I am of a mind to raise you to lord." This? Davos was lost. "I am content to be your knight, Your Grace. I would not know how to begin being lordly." "Good. To be lordly is to be false. I have learned that lesson hard. Now, kneel. Your king commands." Davos knelt, and Stannis drew his longsword. Lightbringer, Melisandre had named it; the red sword of heroes, drawn from the fires where the seven gods were consumed. The room seemed to grow brighter as the blade slid from its scabbard. The steel had a glow to it; now orange, now yellow, now red. The air shimmered around it, and no jewel had ever sparkled so brilliantly. But when Stannis touched it to Davos's shoulder, it felt no different than any other longsword. "Ser Davos of House Seaworth," the king said, "are you my true and honest liege man, now and forever?" "I am, Your Grace." "And do you swear to serve me loyally all your days, to give me honest counsel and swift obedience, to defend my rights and my realm against all foes in battles great and small, to protect my people and punish my enemies?" "I do, Your Grace." "Then rise again, Davos Seaworth, and rise as Lord of the Rainwood, Admiral of the Narrow Sea, and Hand of the King." For a moment Davos was too stunned to move. I woke this morning in his dungeon. "Your Grace, you cannot . . . I am no fit man to be a King's Hand." "There is no man fitter." Stannis sheathed Lightbringer, gave Davos his hand, and pulled him to his feet. "I am lowborn," Davos reminded him. "An upjumped smuggler. Your lords will never obey me." "Then we will make new lords." "But . . . I cannot read . . . nor write . . . " "Maester Pylos can read for you. As to writing, my last Hand wrote the head off his shoulders. All I ask of you are the things you've always given me. Honesty. Loyalty. Service." "Surely there is someone better . . . some great lord . . . " Stannis snorted. "Bar Emmon, that boy? My faithless grandfather? Celtigar has abandoned me, the new Velaryon is six years old, and the new Sunglass sailed for Volantis after I burned his brother." He made an angry gesture. "A few good men remain, it's true. Ser Gilbert Farring holds Storm's End for me still, with two hundred loyal men. Lord Morrigen, the Bastard of Nightsong, young Chyttering, my cousin Andrew . . . but I trust none of them as I trust you, my lord of Rainwood. You will be my Hand. It is you I want beside me for the battle." Another battle will be the end of all of us, thought Davos. Lord Alester saw that much true enough. "Your Grace asked for honest counsel. In honesty then . . . we lack the strength for another battle against the Lannisters." "It is the great battle His Grace is speaking of," said a woman's voice, rich with the accents of the east. Melisandre stood at the door in her red silks and shimmering satins, holding a covered silver dish in her hands. "These little wars are no more than a scuffle of children before what is to come. The one whose name may not be spoken is marshaling his power, Davos Seaworth, a power fell and evil and strong beyond measure. Soon comes the cold, and the night that never ends." She placed the silver dish on the Painted Table. "Unless true men find the courage to fight it. Men whose hearts are fire." Stannis stared at the silver dish. "She has shown it to me, Lord Davos. In the flames." "You saw it, sire?" It was not like Stannis Baratheon to lie about such a thing. "With mine own eyes. After the battle, when I was lost to despair, the Lady Melisandre bid me gaze into the hearthfire. The chimney was drawing strongly, and bits of ash were rising from the fire. I stared at them, feeling half a fool, but she bid me look deeper, and . . . the ashes were white, rising in the updraft, yet all at once it seemed as if they were falling. Snow, I thought. Then the sparks in the air seemed to circle, to become a ring of torches, and I was looking through the fire down on some high hill in a forest. The cinders had become men in black behind the torches, and there were shapes moving through the snow. For all the heat of the fire, I felt a cold so terrible I shivered, and when I did the sight was gone, the fire but a fire once again. But what I saw was real, I'd stake my kingdom on it." "And have," said Melisandre. The conviction in the king's voice frightened Davos to the core. "A hill in a forest . . . shapes in the snow . . . I don't . . . " "It means that the battle is begun," said Melisandre. "The sand is running through the glass more quickly now, and man's hour on earth is almost done. We must act boldly, or all hope is lost. Westeros must unite beneath her one true king, the prince that was promised, Lord of Dragonstone and chosen of R'hllor." "R'hllor chooses queerly, then." The king grimaced, as if he'd tasted something foul. "Why me, and not my brothers? Renly and his peach. In my dreams I see the juice running from his mouth, the blood from his throat. If he had done his duty by his brother, we would have smashed Lord Tywin. A victory even Robert could be proud of. Robert . . . " His teeth ground side to side. "He is in my dreams as well. Laughing. Drinking. Boasting. Those were the things he was best at. Those, and fighting. I never bested him at anything. The Lord of Light should have made Robert his champion. Why me?" "Because you are a righteous man," said Melisandre. "A righteous man." Stannis touched the covered silver platter with a finger. "With leeches." "Yes," said Melisandre, "but I must tell you once more, this is not the way." "You swore it would work." The king looked angry. "It will . . . and it will not." "Which?" "Both." "Speak sense to me, woman." "When the fires speak more plainly, so shall I. There is truth in the flames, but it is not always easy to see." The great ruby at her throat drank fire from the glow of the brazier. "Give me the boy, Your Grace. It is the surer way. The better way. Give me the boy and I shall wake the stone dragon." "I have told you, no." "He is only one baseborn boy, against all the boys of Westeros, and all the girls as well. Against all the children that might ever be born, in all the kingdoms of the world." "The boy is innocent." "The boy defiled your marriage bed, else you would surely have sons of your own. He shamed you." "Robert did that. Not the boy. My daughter has grown fond of him. And he is mine own blood." "Your brother's blood," Melisandre said. "A king's blood. Only a king's blood can wake the stone dragon." Stannis ground his teeth. "I'll hear no more of this. The dragons are done. The Targaryens tried to bring them back half a dozen times. And made fools of themselves, or corpses. Patchface is the only fool we need on this godsforsaken rock. You have the leeches. Do your work." Melisandre bowed her head stiffly, and said, "As my king commands." Reaching up her left sleeve with her right hand, she flung a handful of powder into the brazier. The coals roared. As pale flames writhed atop them, the red woman retrieved the silver dish and brought it to the king. Davos watched her lift the lid. Beneath were three large black leeches, fat with blood. The boy's blood, Davos knew. A king's blood. Stannis stretched forth a hand, and his fingers closed around one of the leeches. "Say the name," Melisandre commanded. The leech was twisting in the king's grip, trying to attach itself to one of his fingers. "The usurper," he said. "Joffrey Baratheon." When he tossed the leech into the fire, it curled up like an autumn leaf amidst the coals, and burned. Stannis grasped the second. "The usurper," he declared, louder this time. "Balon Greyjoy." He flipped it lightly onto the brazier, and its flesh split and cracked. The blood burst from it, hissing and smoking. The last was in the king's hand. This one he studied a moment as it writhed between his fingers. "The usurper," he said at last. "Robb Stark." And he threw it on the flames.

[quiche-pocket]

Bare on the Ground: Mads and Burger Girl one-shot

Soooo I got this idea from @hissouthernprincess comment on part 2 of Two Sides of a Mads Coin. The comment of how interesting the dynamic between Tom and CC and Mads is and would there be more with them? This fic has been swimming in my head ever since then and I think I’ve finally fleshed it out enough to make sense thanks to @athroatfullofglass help!

A/N: This is a continuation of previous stories I’ve done focusing on Mads Larsen, from the tv show Kriger, and you, a waitress at a burger restaurant he goes to often. It’s a bit AU in that Joy does not exist, she is off somewhere happy doing things that don’t involve biker gangs. I also don’t talk about the police involvement in The Wolves as of yet so that dynamic is not included in this installment. As always nothing belongs to me except the plot. All the people are people that belong to themselves. The gif below belongs to the wonderful @allvikingsgifs. If you’d like to be added to a tag or removed from, please let me know!

Warnings: This is mostly sfw but there is some violence in here. Tom is a paranoid asshole so he does attack the reader in this story. Also, this installment does not focus on Mads so much as Tom and the changing dynamic of the couple as well as The Wolves. So, warning for lack of crime puppy! 

It was late and you were laying on the couch resting your head in Mads’ lap watching some sitcom rerun. He’d been restless all evening, but wouldn’t admit to anything when you asked. You had fed him and you each drank a couple of beers but he still wasn’t talking and it was making you anxious. Ever since your date that Tom had ruined, he had been going on more jobs and staying out later but not spending as much time at the club house during non-meeting times. Something was changing and it didn’t seem to be settling well with him, but you didn’t know quite how to bring it up.

His phone lit up on the coffee table and you tried to glance at the display when he snatched it up, but his hands were too big and he moved too quickly.  

“Yeah?” He answered and turned his upper body to face away from you slightly, like that would provide more privacy for the call. “Tonight?” You sat up at that and turned the face him, crossing your arms. Mads stood up and paced around the room listening to whoever was on the other end of the line and you let out a huff before downing the last of your beer and stomping into the kitchen for another one. If he was going out then there was no reason for you to stay sober was how you looked at it.  

“Hey Doll?” You heard him call from the other room and you huffed again before walking over to lean against the door jam and watch him with a raised eyebrow. “Sorry, little doll, I have...”

“To go do something that’s more important than spending time with me like you promised. I know.” You headed toward the couch and he grabbed your hand on the way by.

“It’s not like that. That was CC and he needs me to go do some quick surveillance shit on Akhmed’s warehouse. I promise it won’t take long, he said we just have to see if they have new cameras up since our last run.”  

“Mads. You know these things are never quick. I’m glad it’s CC that’s going with you, but you won’t be back before 3 AM and I know it and so do you. Just go and be safe and come home to me. But you will have to make it up to me, you know?”

“Come on dolly,” his voice took on a pleading tone and he came closer, holding out his hands in a placating gesture, “you know it’s not like that. I don’t have a choice! When Tom calls I have to go. Saying no isn’t an option.”

“I get that, but this wasn’t Tom that called tonight. Since when do you jump when CC says?”  

You knew this wasn’t his choice. You knew the gang was a huge part of his life no matter how he tried to separate you from it. They’d taken him in when he didn’t have anything. Mads had started as an errand boy, technically he still was. When you got him talking about it, he admitted that getting his colors was not nearly as important now as it had been a few months ago. You tried to talk to him about options on getting out once but he had shut the conversation down with one sentence. All it took was him telling you that he wouldn’t survive if he left the Wolves to know that you had to see this through no matter what. If you wanted to be with Mads, and you knew you did, this was always going to be part of it.

You stepped out of the shower and heard three loud knocks on the front door. No one came by this late. Maybe Mads forgot his key? Grabbing your phone to check for a text or missed call the door rattled again with three more knocks. Your heart jumped and you clutched your robe closer, fearing the worst. Walking to the front door you peered out the peep hole and saw an unwanted, scarred face staring back at you. Tom. Of course it was fucking Tom. You jumped as he pounded again and you unlocked the door, knowing ignoring him was not an option.

“Hey sugar, took you long enough,” he pushed the door open further and walked in, not even waiting for a response. “Nice place, sugar, I can see why Mads spends so much time over here when he should be with us.” Tom walked around and looked at pictures of your family, trinkets and souvenirs from trips you’d taken. You felt naked and exposed, and not just because you were dressed only in a robe. In the back of your mind you thought about going and putting some clothes on, but that would leave Tom out here in your home completely alone and that wasn’t an option.  

“Umm,” your voice came out shakily and you cleared your throat. “Mads isn’t here, he went out with CC about an hour ago. He won’t be back for a while,” Tom was smirking and you trailed off. “You know that, though.” He smiled wider and went to sit on the couch.  

“You have beer?” You nodded and he motioned towards the kitchen with a dismissive wave of his hand. You pause, about to argue, but then you remember who this is. All the comments Mads has made and the things you’ve seen with your own eyes. Tom is not someone to deny or fight, especially not when you’re on your own. Turning to the kitchen and nervously fidgeting with your robe to make sure everything stayed covered, you grabbed a beer from the fridge and brought it back to Tom with a bottle opener.  

“Thanks sugar.” He opened it and took a long pull before sitting forward on the couch and looking up at you standing. “I shouldn’t have to ask you to sit in your own house. I’m just here to talk. You haven’t been around the clubhouse lately so I thought it was my duty to come visit you here. Mads can’t keep you hidden away forever, girl.” He smirked and you swallowed down a shudder.  

“Like I said, he’s not here. I don’t know what you might need to talk to me about without him.”

“Well see, I’ve been hearing things around the clubhouse,” Tom took another long drink from his bottle, looking at you expectantly.

“What kinds of things are you hearing?” You were perched uneasily on the only other chair in the room refusing to sit on the couch with him.

“I have been hearing that you don’t want your boy to be a part of our little club anymore. That you’ve been feeding him stories about how he can get out of his life with us and get a boring job and have a normal life. Now why do you think they would be sharing those ideas with me?”

“I don’t know.” You crossed and uncrossed your legs, tapping on foot softly against the leg of the chair. Tom reached out and put his hand on your bare knee. Jerking sharply away, the force of your movement slid the chair loudly a few inches across the floor. “Maybe they are jealous about the new jobs he’s been getting and how much work he’s been recognized for?”

Tom smirked again and sat back, hands clasped behind his head. “So you do know what happens in our group, do you sugar?”

“He doesn’t tell me anything, but I do see him leaving more than he used to. And he talks on the phone in the house so I pick up on names and things.” You were starting to get nervous. At first this seemed like Tom checking in to make sure that Mads was doing what he was supposed to. Now it felt like he was there interrogating you. Finding out how much you know and everything about yours and Mads’ relationship.  

“You’re a smart girl sugar. You know that your boy is expendable. If I had known he was going to shack up with someone as fascinating as you, I would have kept him closer from the beginning. As it is, I need to make sure you and I have an understanding.” He stood up, downing the last of the beer and slowly circling behind the chair you sat in. You sat stock still, refusing to turn and look at him even when he leaned over the back of the chair to speak softly near your ear. “You listen to me sugar. Mads does not belong to you. He’s part of the Wolves, which means he belongs to me. And the moment he chose you to be his girl, he made you mine too. Neither of you are going anywhere without my permission. And hear me when I say that that,” he paused and leaned further, nudging behind your ear with his nose and sniffing your hair, “will never happen.”  

You did turn then. Tom’s nose was inches from yours and he stared into your eyes with the look of a man who was not denied anything. As you stared at him, heart pounding in your chest and hands trembling where they rested on your thighs, you saw something else in those eyes as well. There was fear there. You understood at that moment why Tom was standing in your living room trying to scare you into submission just like he did everyone else he came across. He was afraid what chaos would rain down if he allowed even one of his pawns to slip out of his grasp. It was that paranoia that caused him to keep Mads closer even though you knew he would never become anyone with any authority in the Wolves. Now there was someone else that his errand boy was loyal to. Another hand that fed the puppy, only this time he was getting more than scraps. Tom knew he had to step up his game if he wanted to keep Mads in line. Or he would kill him. He would kill you both. It was that thought that forced you to open your mouth and answer him.

“I’m not trying to get him to leave the club. It would take more than me being afraid for him to leave now. He knows what it means to be with the Wolves. And what would happen if he wanted out.”

“And you sugar? Do you know what would happen if he wanted out?”  

You nodded and Tom reached out and slapped you across the face lightning fast. You cried out and fell from the chair, pulling your knees to your chest and shaking on the ground.  

“You answer me when I ask you something, do you understand?” Tom’s voice was low and the threat was undeniable. He wouldn’t hesitate to hit you again.  

“Yes. I understand what would happen.”  

He walked around the chair and stood with both hands outstretched. An almost manic smile stretched across his face that he didn’t even try to make look comforting. When you just stared at his hands, he grabbed your wrists and pulled you to standing. Your robe had slipped when you fell so your chest was almost completely exposed and the tie was loose around your waist. Tom looked you up and down with the same horrifying grin on his face.  

“That’s good sugar,” he nodded and straightened your robe, retying the sash for you as you stood there petrified. “I’m glad we understand each other. Now, I have to go. I think my boy should be back from his job soon and I’ll need to be around for the report from CC. Don’t be a stranger, okay? I was serious when we met that you’re too pretty not to be shown off at the clubhouse more often. I expect to see you there soon.” He raised his hand and you flinched, making him let out one loud bark of laughter, before he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear almost tenderly. Then he was out the door.  

*************************************************************************************

It had been a week since Tom came by and nothing had changed for Mads. You didn’t tell him what had happened; honestly you were scared what might happen if he found out. Twice you had asked to come along to the clubhouse when he went, but each time he told you no and looked at you like you were a pod person. Since when did you want anything to do with the club, much less want to spend time at the clubhouse?

“Mads, come on, I just don’t want to be by myself tonight. I know you’ll be out late. I won’t be a bother, just let me come.”  

You were standing behind him while he was shaving before going to meet Tom and the others. You had your arms around his waist and your head resting between his shoulder blades. Your voice was quiet, but had a nearly desperate tone. How long was Tom going to let pass without you coming with Mads before he made another visit? You didn’t want to think what might happen the second time. You’d explained away the split lip from Tom’s slap by telling Mads you had slipped in the shower. You didn’t think you could lie and explain it away again.

“Little doll why are you so insistent on coming? You hate all of them. Especially Tom. What’s changed?” He asked as he turned and wrapped his arms around you. He dipped his head to meet your eyes which you kept trained to the ground.  

“I do hate them. But maybe it’s better if I just start showing my face more, like Tom said.”  

“Again, I ask you why you care what Tom says? He doesn’t have any impact on you, I’m the one who has to listen to him dolly.”  

“That’s not what he said...” You mumbled and he tensed in your arms.  

“What are you talking about? When did you and Tom talk dolly?” He lifted your chin and you tried to pull away, unsure what to say now that the information was out there. “No, hold still and answer me. What are you saying? When did you and Tom talk that I wasn’t there?”

“A week ago!” You shouted and in his moment of surprise you were able to pull away and lean against the bathroom wall, arms crossed over your stomach and shoulders hunched in a protective posture. Mads was still frozen against the sink staring at you with shocked and hurt eyes. “A week ago,” you repeated, much quieter and with a sigh. “He came by after you left for the surveillance run with CC and he threatened me. Apparently the other members of the club are telling him that I’m trying to get you to leave the Wolves. And he came by to make sure I understood what would happen to you and I if you left.”  

Mads took two cautious steps toward you and you felt tears stinging your eyes. You hadn’t cried since the night that Tom had come by. After he left, you got in the shower again and let the water mix with your tears and sobs. When Mads came home you had mostly gotten yourself together and had decided then that it would be better not to discuss what had happened. Now, though, with him staring at you and being so vulnerable, you couldn’t hold the tears back any longer.  

“Doll, did he hurt you?” You nodded and he reached out to touch your lip that had healed already. “Okay, fuck that. I’m going down there-”  

“To do what?” Your voice rose, cutting him off. “You cannot start shit, Mads. The last thing you need is to cause problems. If you go in there and start something with him, cause a scene, he’s going to kill you. You need to just keep doing what he says. You can’t leave. He will kill us both if you do.”  

“Is that what he said? I’m going to kill him.” Mads’ voice was deadly quiet.  

“Again, you cannot kill him, or punch him, or start anything. You don’t want out of the Wolves. You know it and so do I. But you do have to let me come with you to the clubhouse or he’s going to come around again and probably do something worse. We knew this was a risk. You’ve known from the beginning and you’re the one who told me. Nothing has changed, Mads.”  

He growled and paced into the bedroom and then back. His hands ran back through his hair and he let out a yell, punching the bathroom wall hard enough to crack the plaster. You gasped and cowered to the floor, surprised by the sound and his sudden outburst.  

“Dolly, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t mean to scare you,” he was kneeling by your side but still shaking with anger. “You should just leave me. I never should have gotten you caught up in this shit. I should have known that Tom wouldn’t let it go. I can’t keep you as safe as you should be, you deserve a better and more normal life than I could ever give you.”  

“Mads stop. I’m not going anywhere so just stop now. I’m not leaving you and you fucking better not try and leave me or I will kick your ass myself!” That made him smile ruefully and he pulled you into his lap on the floor. He kissed you on top of the head and you glared up at him. “I’m serious, Mads, you’d better put that idea right out of your head.”  

“I could never leave you, my doll. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened. But just know that I wouldn’t blame you at all if you decided to leave me. You don’t need the drama and danger that I bring.” You opened your mouth to retort and he put a hand over it. “I know, you say you won’t ever. I won’t talk about it again, but I’m just wanting to make it clear.” He pulls his hand away and kisses you quickly, shifting you so he can stand and helping you off the floor.  

“So now that you know why, are you going to let me come with you tonight?” You asked, challenging him with your eyes and your stance. Mads sighed and inclined his head in defeat.  

“You will come tonight but you will not go there unless CC or I are there no matter what anyone else says. I don’t trust any of those pricks but him. If Tom asks you to do something that takes you out of my sight, you tell me before you go and you keep your phone in your hand the entire time. I’m serious, dolly.”

“I hear you and I understand. I don’t like this any more than you do, so I will stay with you the whole time especially tonight.” He gave you a sharp nod and a light smack on your ass to send you off to get dressed and ready to go.

*************************************************************************************

Tom was waiting just outside the doors when you and Mads got buzzed through the gate. You’d let Mads tell you what to wear and you were self-conscious. The tight pants and heavy boots were not you, but the backless shirt and messy curls were what were making you so uncomfortable. Mads had told you this was better than a dress because you could move easier. And the boots kept you from having to worry about stumbling in heels. You weren’t going to drink and Mads told you to be as quiet as you could. Don’t talk to anyone you didn’t need to and don’t let anyone pull you away. Or that was the plan anyways.

As soon as you got close enough, Tom had his hand on your arm, pulling you along into the clubhouse toward the bar at the back.  

“Mads,” Tom called over his shoulder. “We need someone to pour drinks tonight. I’ll keep your girl company.” Tom took you by the elbow and sat you down in a chair by the bar. You glanced at Mads and he was glaring fiercely at Tom. You gave him a small smile when he glanced your way but it didn’t have much of an impact on calming his anger.  

The guys kept Mads busy at the bar. He would bring you your refills personally at a slow enough pace that you weren’t getting too drunk. They were also not as strong as he normally makes which was another huge relief. You were glad at the outfit choice when you realized you would be more on display with Tom than with Mads. Other members came over to talk to Tom and rub in Mads’ face that he was stuck behind the bar again.  

“Sugar, come have a smoke with me,” Tom stood and looked at you expectantly. You looked over and saw Mads throw the towel on the bar and hop over top. The men complained but he flipped them off and came up next to you.  

“A smoke sounds good. Let’s all go.” He pulled you in for a big kiss and left an arm low on your waist. “You’re doing great, dolly. We can get out as soon as the other start to scatter.” You leaned into him and when you got outside, you stood pressed with your back to his chest. Mads leaned in and kissed your neck before lighting a cigarette and giving it to you, then lighting one for himself.

“So sugar, did you tell my boy about our chat the other night?” Tom looked nonchalant but the edge to his voice and steeliness of his tone told the truth.  

“We talked about it,” Mads started to push you behind him, but you put your hand on his chest to stay him.  

“Everyone understands each other,” you said quietly and they both turned to look at you. “We all know what the rules are and who is in charge.” Mads tensed under your hand and you rubbed there gently. Meeting his eyes, he gave you a small nod.  

“You’ve got a smart girl, Mads. Is she telling me the truth? Do we all share an understanding?” Tom leaned close so you were nearly sandwiched between them and the two of them were practically sharing air over your shoulder.  

“Yeah. We do.” His response was quiet, but there was an underlying growl.  

“Great!” Tom clapped his hands together once. “You two can go home now. I don’t need you tonight, Mads. Have a nice night with your girl. Take care of my boy, sugar.” He kissed your cheek and patted your ass before walking back inside.  

Mads was seething next to you, so you leaned up into his ear.

“We always listen to Tom, right baby boy? Isn’t that what you told me?” He nodded but was still glaring daggers inside the club house. “You know who else my boy listens to?” His breath caught and that made him look down into your eyes. “He listens to me. You know why?” Mads opened his mouth to answer but you put two fingers over his lips and gently shook your head. “Don’t speak, baby boy. I know you know the answer, you’re such a smart boy. But my boy listens to me, because I always take care of him when he’s a good boy.” His eyes dropped shut and you tapped his lips once with your fingertips before taking his hand. “Ok, baby, take me home and you can start making up all these late nights to me.”

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