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transgenderteensurvivalguide · 3 years

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“Elliot Page doesn’t remember exactly how long he had been asking.

But he does remember the acute feeling of triumph when, around age 9, he was finally allowed to cut his hair short. “I felt like a boy,” Page says. “I wanted to be a boy. I would ask my mom if I could be someday.” Growing up in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Page visualized himself as a boy in imaginary games, freed from the discomfort of how other people saw him: as a girl. After the haircut, strangers finally started perceiving him the way he saw himself, and it felt both right and exciting.

The joy was short-lived. Months later, Page got his first break, landing a part as a daughter in a Canadian mining family in the TV movie Pit Pony. He wore a wig for the film, and when Pit Pony became a TV show, he grew his hair out again. “I became a professional actor at the age of 10,” Page says. And pursuing that passion came with a difficult compromise. “Of course I had to look a certain way.”

We are speaking in late February. It is the first interview Page, 34, has given since disclosing in December that he is transgender, in a heartfelt letter posted to Instagram, and he is crying before I have even uttered a question. “Sorry, I’m going to be emotional, but that’s cool, right?” he says, smiling through his tears.

It’s hard for him to talk about the days that led up to that disclosure. When I ask how he was feeling, he looks away, his neck exposed by a new short haircut. After a pause, he presses his hand to his heart and closes his eyes. “This feeling of true excitement and deep gratitude to have made it to this point in my life,” he says, “mixed with a lot of fear and anxiety.”

It’s not hard to understand why a trans person would be dealing with conflicting feelings in this moment. Increased social acceptance has led to more young people describing themselves as trans—1.8% of Gen Z compared with 0.2% of boomers, according to a recent Gallup poll—yet this has fueled conservatives who are stoking fears about a “transgender craze.” President Joe Biden has restored the right of transgender military members to serve openly, and in Hollywood, trans people have never had more meaningful time onscreen. Meanwhile, J.K. Rowling is leveraging her cultural capital to oppose transgender equality in the name of feminism, and lawmakers are arguing in the halls of Congress over the validity of gender identities. “Sex has become a political football in the culture wars,” says Chase Strangio, deputy director for transgender justice at the ACLU.

(Full article with photos continued under the “read more”)

And so Page—who charmed America as a precocious pregnant teenager in Juno, constructed dreamscapes in Inception and now stars in Netflix’s hit superhero show The Umbrella Academy, the third season of which he’s filming in Toronto—expected that his news would be met with both applause and vitriol. “What I was anticipating was a lot of support and love and a massive amount of hatred and transphobia,” says Page. “That’s essentially what happened.” What he did not anticipate was just how big this story would be. Page’s announcement, which made him one of the most famous out trans people in the world, started trending on Twitter in more than 20 countries. He gained more than 400,000 new followers on Instagram on that day alone. Thousands of articles were published. Likes and shares reached the millions. Right-wing podcasters readied their rhetoric about “women in men’s locker rooms.” Casting directors reached out to Page’s manager saying it would be an honor to cast Page in their next big movie.

So, it was a lot. Over the course of two conversations, Page will say that understanding himself in all the specifics remains a work in progress. Fathoming one’s gender, an identity innate and performed, personal and social, fixed and evolving, is complicated enough without being under a spotlight that never seems to turn off. But having arrived at a critical juncture, Page feels a deep sense of responsibility to share his truth. “Extremely influential people are spreading these myths and damaging rhetoric—every day you’re seeing our existence debated,” Page says. “Transgender people are so very real.”

That role in Pit Pony led to other productions and eventually, when Page was 16, to a film called Mouth to Mouth. Playing a young anarchist, Page had a chance to cut his hair again. This time, he shaved it off completely. The kids at his high school teased him, but in photos he has posted from that time on social media he looks at ease. Page’s head was still shaved when he mailed in an audition tape for the 2005 thriller Hard Candy. The people in charge of casting asked him to audition again in a wig. Soon, the hair was back.

Page’s tour de force performance in Hard Candy led, two years later, to Juno, a low-budget indie film that brought Page Oscar, BAFTA and Golden Globe nominations and sudden megafame. The actor, then 21, struggled with the stresses of that ascension. The endless primping, red carpets and magazine spreads were all agonizing reminders of the disconnect between how the world saw Page and who he knew himself to be. “I just never recognized myself,” Page says. “For a long time I could not even look at a photo of myself.” It was difficult to watch the movies too, especially ones in which he played more feminine roles.

Page loved making movies, but he also felt alienated by Hollywood and its standards. Alia Shawkat, a close friend and co-star in 2009’s Whip It,describes all the attention from Juno as scarring. “He had a really hard time with the press and expectations,” Shawkat says. “‘Put this on! And look this way! And this is sexy!’”

By the time he appeared in blockbusters like X-Men: The Last Stand and Inception, Page was suffering from depression, anxiety and panic attacks. He didn’t know, he says, “how to explain to people that even though [I was] an actor, just putting on a T-shirt cut for a woman would make me so unwell.” Shawkat recalls Page’s struggles with clothes. “I’d be like, ‘Hey, look at all these nice outfits you’re getting,�� and he would say, ‘It’s not me. It feels like a costume,’” she says. Page tried to convince himself that he was fine, that someone who was fortunate enough to have made it shouldn’t have complaints. But he felt exhausted by the work required to “just exist,” and thought more than once about quitting acting.

In 2014, Page came out as gay, despite feeling for years that “being out was impossible” given his career. (Gender identity and sexual orientation are, of course, distinct, but one queer identity can coexist with another.) In an emotional speech at a Human Rights Campaign conference, Page talked about being part of an industry “that places crushing standards” on actors and viewers alike. “There are pervasive stereotypes about masculinity and femininity that define how we’re all supposed to act, dress and speak,” Page went on. “And they serve no one.”

The actor started wearing suits on the red carpet. He found love, marrying choreographer Emma Portner in 2018. He asserted more agency in his career, producing his own films with LGBTQ leads like Freeheld and My Days of Mercy. And he made a masculine wardrobe a condition of taking roles. Yet the daily discord was becoming unbearable. “The difference in how I felt before coming out as gay to after was massive,” says Page. “But did the discomfort in my body ever go away? No, no, no, no.”

In part, it was the isolation forced by the pandemic that brought to a head Page’s wrestling with gender. (Page and Portner separated last summer, and the two divorced in early 2021. “We’ve remained close friends,” Page says.) “I had a lot of time on my own to really focus on things that I think, in so many ways, unconsciously, I was avoiding,” he says. He was inspired by trailblazing trans icons like Janet Mock and Laverne Cox, who found success in Hollywood while living authentically. Trans writers helped him understand his feelings; Page saw himself reflected in P. Carl’s memoir Becoming a Man. Eventually “shame and discomfort” gave way to revelation. “I was finally able to embrace being transgender,” Page says, “and letting myself fully become who I am.”

This led to a series of decisions. One was asking the world to call him by a different name, Elliot, which he says he’s always liked. Page has a tattoo that says E.P. PHONE HOME, a reference to a movie about a young boy with that name. “I loved E.T. when I was a kid and always wanted to look like the boys in the movies, right?” he says. The other decision was to use different pronouns—for the record, both he/him and they/them are fine. (When I ask if he has a preference on pronouns for the purposes of this story, Page says, “He/him is great.”)

A day before we first speak, Page will talk to his mom about this interview and she will tell him, “I’m just so proud of my son.” He grows emotional relating this and tries to explain that his mom, the daughter of a minister, who was born in the 1950s, was always trying to do what she thought was best for her child, even if that meant encouraging young Page to act like a girl. “She wants me to be who I am and supports me fully,” Page says. “It is a testament to how people really change.”

Another decision was to get top surgery. Page volunteers this information early in our conversation; at the time he posted his disclosure on Instagram, he was recovering in Toronto. Like many trans people, Page emphasizes being trans isn’t all about surgery. For some people, it’s unnecessary. For others, it’s unaffordable. For the wider world, the media’s focus on it has sensationalized transgender bodies, inviting invasive and inappropriate questions. But Page describes surgery as something that, for him, has made it possible to finally recognize himself when he looks in the mirror, providing catharsis he’s been waiting for since the “total hell” of puberty. “It has completely transformed my life,” he says. So much of his energy was spent on being uncomfortable in his body, he says. Now he has that energy back.

For the transgender community at large, visibility does not automatically lead to acceptance. Around the globe, transgender people deal disproportionately with violence and discrimination. Anti-trans hate crimes are on the rise in the U.K. along with increasingly transphobic rhetoric in newspapers and tabloids. In the U.S., in addition to the perennial challenges trans people face with issues like poverty and homelessness, a flurry of bills in state legislatures would make it a crime to provide transition-related medical care to trans youth. And crass old jokes are still in circulation. When Biden lifted the ban on open service for transgender troops, Saturday Night Live’s Michael Che did a bit on Weekend Update about the policy being called “don’t ask, don’t tuck.”

Page says coming out as trans was “selfish” on one level: “It’s for me. I want to live and be who I am.” But he also felt a moral imperative to do so, given the times. Human identity is complicated and mysterious, but politics insists on fitting everything into boxes. In today’s culture wars, simplistic beliefs about gender—e.g., chromosomes = destiny—are so widespread and so deep-seated that many people who hold those beliefs don’t feel compelled to consider whether they might be incomplete or prejudiced. On Feb. 24, after a passionate debate on legislation that would ban discrimination against LGBTQ people, Representative Marie Newman, an Illinois Democrat, proudly displayed the pride flag in support of her daughter, who is trans. Representative Marjorie Taylor Greene, a Georgia Republican, responded by hanging a poster outside her office that read: There are TWO genders: MALE & FEMALE.

The next day Dr. Rachel Levine, who stands to become the first openly transgender federal official confirmed by the Senate, endured a tirade from Senator Rand Paul about “genital mutilation” during her confirmation hearing. My second conversation with Page happens shortly after this. He brings it up almost immediately, and seems both heartbroken and determined. He wants to emphasize that top surgery, for him, was “not only life-changing but lifesaving.” He implores people to educate themselves about trans lives, to learn how crucial medical care can be, to understand that lack of access to it is one of the many reasons that an estimated 41% of transgender people have attempted suicide, according to one survey.

Page has been in the political trenches for a while, having leaned into progressive activism after coming out as queer in 2014. For two seasons, he and best friend Ian Daniel filmed Gaycation, a Viceland series that explored LGBTQ culture around the world and, at one point, showed Page grilling Senator Ted Cruz at the Iowa State Fair about discrimination against queer people. In 2019, Page made a documentary called There’s Something in the Water, which explores environmental hardships experienced by communities of color in Nova Scotia, with $350,000 of his own money. That activism extends to his own industry: in 2017, he published a Facebook post that, among other things, accused director Brett Ratner of forcibly outing him as gay on the set of an X-Men movie. (A representative for Ratner did not respond to a request for comment.)

As a trans person who is white, wealthy and famous, Page has a unique kind of privilege, and with it an opportunity to advocate for those with less. According to the U.S. Trans Survey, a large-scale report from 2015, transgender people of color are more likely to experience unemployment, harassment by police and refusals of medical care. Nearly half of all Black respondents reported being denied equal treatment, verbally harassed and/or physically attacked in the past year. Trans people as a group fare much worse on such stats than the general population. “My privilege has allowed me to have resources to get through and to be where I am today,” Page says, “and of course I want to use that privilege and platform to help in the ways I can.”

Since his disclosure, Page has been mostly quiet on social media. One exception has been to tweet on behalf of the ACLU, which is in the midst of fighting anti-trans bills and laws around the country, including those that ban transgender girls and women from participating in sports. Mississippi Governor Tate Reeves says he will sign such a bill in the name of “protect[ing] young girls.” Page played competitive soccer and vividly recalls the agony of being told he would have to play on the girls’ team once he aged out of mixed-gender squads. After an appeal, Page was allowed to play with the boys for an additional year. Today, several bills list genitalia as a requirement for deciding who plays on which team. “I would have been in that position as a kid,” Page says. “It’s horrific.”

All this advocacy is unlikely to make life easier. “You can’t enter into certain spaces as a public trans person,” says the ACLU’s Strangio, “without being prepared to spend some percentage of your life being threatened and harassed.” Yet, while he seems overwhelmed at times, Page is also eager. Many of the political attacks on trans people—whether it is a mandate that bathroom use be determined by birth sex, a blanket ban on medical interventions for trans kids or the suggestion that trans men are simply wayward women beguiled by male privilege—carry the same subtext: that trans people are mistaken about who they are. “We know who we are,” Page says. “People cling to these firm ideas [about gender] because it makes people feel safe. But if we could just celebrate all the wonderful complexities of people, the world would be such a better place.”

Even if Page weren’t vocal, his public presence would communicate something powerful. That is in part because of what Paisley Currah, a professor of political science at Brooklyn College, calls “visibility gaps.” Historically, trans women have been more visible, in culture and in Hollywood, than trans men. There are many explanations: Our culture is obsessed with femininity. Men’s bodies are less policed and scrutinized. Patriarchal people tend to get more emotional about who is considered to be in the same category as their daughters. “And a lot of trans men don’t stand out as trans,” says Currah, who is a trans man himself. “I think we’ve taken up less of the public’s attention because masculinity is sort of the norm.”

During our interviews, Page will repeatedly refer to himself as a “transgender guy.” He also calls himself nonbinary and queer, but for him, transmasculinity is at the center of the conversation right now. “It’s a complicated journey,” he says, “and an ongoing process.”

While the visibility gap means that trans men have been spared some of the hate endured by trans women, it has also meant that people like Page have had fewer models. “There were no examples,” Page says of growing up in Halifax in the 1990s. There are many queer people who have felt “that how they feel deep inside isn’t a real thing because they never saw it reflected back to them,” says Tiq Milan, an activist, author and transgender man. Page offers a reflection: “They can see that and say, ‘You know what, that’s who I am too,’” Milan says. When there aren’t examples, he says, “people make monsters of us.”

For decades, that was something Hollywood did. As detailed in the 2020 Netflix documentary Disclosure, transgender people have been portrayed onscreen as villainous and deceitful, tragic subplots or the butt of jokes. In a sign of just how far the industry has come—spurred on by productions like Pose and trailblazers like Mock—Netflix offered to change the credits on The Umbrella Academy the same day that its star posted his statement on social media. Now when an episode ends, the first words viewers see are “Elliot Page.”

Today, there are many out trans and nonbinary actors, directors and producers. Storylines involving trans people are more common, more respectful. Sometimes that aspect of identity is even incidental, rather than the crux of a morality tale. And yet Hollywood can still seem a frightening place for LGBTQ people to come out. “It’s an industry that says, ‘Don’t do that,’” says director Silas Howard, who got his break on Amazon’s show Transparent, which made efforts to hire transgender crew members. “I wouldn’t have been hired if they didn’t have a trans initiative,” Howard says. “I’m always aware of that.”

So what will it mean for Page’s career? While Page has appeared in many projects, he also faced challenges landing female leads because he didn’t fit Hollywood’s narrow mold. Since Page’s Instagram post, his team is seeing more activity than they have in years. Many of the offers coming in—to direct, to produce, to act—are trans-related, but there are also some “dude roles.”

Downtime in quarantine helped Page accept his gender identity. “I was finally able to embrace being transgender,” he says.

Page was attracted to the role of Vanya in The Umbrella Academy because—in the first season, released in 2019—Vanya is crushed by self-loathing, believing herself to be the only ordinary sibling in an extraordinary family. The character can barely summon the courage to move through the world. “I related to how much Vanya was closed off,” Page says. Now on set filming the third season, co-workers have seen a change in the actor. “It seems like there’s a tremendous weight off his shoulders, a feeling of comfort,” says showrunner Steve Blackman. “There’s a lightness, a lot more smiling.” For Page, returning to set has been validating, if awkward at times. Yes, people accidentally use the wrong pronouns—“It’s going to be an adjustment,” Page says—but co-workers also see and acknowledge him.

The debate over whether cisgender people, who have repeatedly collected awards for playing trans characters, should continue to do so has largely been settled. However, trans actors have rarely been considered for cisgender parts. Whatever challenges might lie ahead, Page seems exuberant about playing a new spectrum of roles. “I’m really excited to act, now that I’m fully who I am, in this body,” Page says. “No matter the challenges and difficult moments of this, nothing amounts to getting to feel how I feel now.”

This includes having short hair again. During our interview, Page keeps rearranging strands on his forehead. It took a long time for him to return to the barber’s chair and ask to cut it short, but he got there. And how did that haircut feel?

Page tears up again, then smiles. “I just could not have enjoyed it more,” he says.”

#suicide m #transphobia m #Elliot Page #transgender #representation #celebrities #actors #tv #movies #rep #trans #transmasculine #nonbinary #queer #long post

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bard-llama · 3 years

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Phillipa, again in Vergen, learns that Saskia wants to marry for love (and maybe a little as a political statement) Iorveth: "Well, we have to find a way to gain some political benefit out of it. At least he is not Stennis, though..."

OH GOD NOT STENNIS!!! I mean, I usually kill the fucker anyway, even though I don't think Geralt would let him die, canonically. BUT knowing that he never faces ANY punishment in canon, I let the fucker die.

But for canon, I do have a WiP where, post-Witcher 3, Iorveth recruits Roche to help him murder war criminals (sans themselves) who profitted off of others' suffering. He figures they need to work their way up to King Stennis of Aedirn. I know that's not what this ask is about, but I love this part, so I'm gonna include a snip under the cut.

Anyway, Philippa - she would 100% find a way to bilk their marriage for all its worth.

So I’m gonna include 2 snips from the WiP whose working title is “Becoming Terrorists Together”

You know what? Fuck it. Here’s 90% of the whole WiP lmao Seriously, there’s only like, half a page after this.

When Nilfgaard dictated terms that actually favored you after they literally tore a swath across the continent, a reasonable person would listen.

Vernon Roche was not a reasonable person. In point of fact, he typically enjoyed spitting on reasonable people. Especially if they were Nilfgaardian.

Unfortunately, no one asked him his opinion. In fact, there was very little asking going on at all.

“What do you mean, ‘congratulations, you’re in charge now’!?” Roche bellowed. He had a very good bellow, developed from years and years of yelling orders over the battlefield.

Emhyr var Emreis, Emperor of the Nilfgaardian Empire, King of Cintra, Lord of Metinna, Ebbing, and Gemmera, Sovereign of Nazair, Temeria, and Vicovaro, and Overlord of Aedirn, Redania, and Toussaint was not impressed. “I mean, congratulations. You’ve successfully managed a Free Temeria. Now you have to rule it.”

Roche sputtered. First off, ‘Free Temeria’ was a helluva way to say ‘Temeria, Protectorate of Nilfgaard’. Secondly, “I’m not a ruler.”

“Aren’t you? Shame,” Emhyr said tonelessly. He didn’t look up from the report he was reviewing. “What’s the problem? Isn’t this everything you’ve been fighting for?”

Roche gnashed his teeth together. Unlike a certain former intelligence operative, Roche’s goal had never been to rule. Why the fuck would he want to do that!? Roche was a behind the scenes kind of guy. He most certainly was not the guy to wear the crown.

Also, he’d seen firsthand how much paperwork the guy with the crown had to do. No thank you.

“I don’t know how to run a country,” he growled.

“Then you’re in for a sharp learning curve,” Emhyr shrugged. “I’d get started if I were you. Your swearing in ceremony is in an hour.”

“My fucking what?”

“Your swearing in as the Imperial High Commissioner of Temeria, Administrator of Mahakam, Governor of Ellander, and Presiding Overseer of the Northern Imperial Capital of Vizima, of course.”

Roche gaped in horror. “There’s no way in fuck that I’m becoming – that.”

“Oh?” Emhyr raised a single eyebrow. “Would you prefer that I assign a Nilfgaardian administrator?”

Roche grit his teeth. If Temeria were ruled by a Nilfgaardian still sore about the war efforts, then Temeria’s people would be subjected to harsh treatment, and that was the opposite of everything he’d worked for, dammit.

Still… ruling Temeria? Him!? And that fucking title – no way was he keeping that.

Ah hell, he was going to agree, wasn’t he? Emhyr played him too damn well, knew that Roche wouldn’t be able to say no.

He pursed his lips, frowning deeply. “What exactly would I have to do?”

Emhyr smirked, eyes still focused on the report in front of him. Roche had never wanted to stab anyone quite so badly in his life.

Forty-five minutes later, he was dressed in absurdly expensive Temerian blue robes and three maids were attempting to remove his chaperon.

“Sir, you are to be sworn in as the ruler of an Imperial protectorate! You must look dignified.” Emhyr’s chamberlain insisted.

“I shaved, didn’t I?” Roche shrugged. What was it with Nilfgaardians and beards, anyway? Who really cared if he had a five o’clock shadow?

“You did, sir. But I am afraid they absolutely cannot place your crown over a chaperon. So if you would remove it–”

“Wait, wait, I don’t need a fucking crown!”

“It is Nilfgaardian tradition, sir. Every Imperial Representative has been sworn in with a crown. The people expect a crown. You simply must wear it, I’m afraid.” Mereid, the chamberlain, somehow managed to look innocent and helpful, even as he nodded for the maids to grab at his chaperon again.

“The people expect an actual fucking ruler,” Roche muttered, dodging the maids. “Chaperons are traditional headwear amongst Temerian nobility. If anything, it’s more dignified to wear it!”

Mereid’s eyes narrowed and Roche felt a prickle of fear at the base of his spine. This was a man who even the Emperor deferred to. He was not to be messed with.

But dammit, did it have to be the chaperon?

“Sir,” Mereid began, his tone icy. “I must ask that you refrain from further struggling and remove the hat.” His eyes looked exactly like Ves’s three seconds before she knifed someone.

Roche removed the chaperon.

As casually as if he hadn’t just won a protracted battle, Mereid snapped his fingers. “Tend to his hair,” he ordered, and the maids immediately launched themselves at Roche again.

It took every bit of control he had not to bolt.

Ten minutes later, his hair was slicked back with a truly ridiculous amount of oil to tame his curls. Combined with his undercut, it looked absolutely ridiculous, but apparently Mereid was pleased.

“Now,” Mereid clapped, “we must proceed to the throne room.”

Roche blinked. “There’s not like, actually going to be an audience for this, is there?”

Mereid gave him a look. “The purpose of a coronation is for it to be witnessed, sir.”

“Ah fuck, Ves is never gonna let me forget this,” he groaned.

“It shall be forever memorialized, of course,” Mereid said casually. “The court painter is already working on your portrait.”

“Oh my gods, I hate everything.”

“Shall we depart, sir?” Mereid gestured to the door in a way that clearly suggested that it was not a question.

Roche glanced at his reflection in the mirror and thought of this being how he was remembered. “Fuck,” he grunted. Nonetheless, he followed Mereid when the chamberlain started out of the room.

Ves laughed at him, of course. She didn’t even have the courtesy to hold it in until after the ceremony. Instead, Roche had to listen to her cackle as Emhyr fucking var Emreis slowly lowered the crown of the King of Temeria onto his head.

Despite what Ves later claimed, he did not tear up at all when Foltest’s crown came to rest on his brow.

“People of Temeria,” Emhyr proclaimed grandly, “I present to you, the Imperial High Commissioner of Temeria, Administrator of Mahakam, Governor of Ellander, and Presiding Overseer of the Northern Imperial Capital of Vizima, Commander Vernon Roche!”

Roche felt vaguely like throwing up even as he stood and faced the scattered applause.

––

A month later, Roche did not want to set everything on fire any less than he had from the start. If anything, the urge had only gotten stronger with each paper he signed.

He was also, somewhat disappointingly, actually pretty decent at ruling a country. Temeria was doing better than it had since the war had started, and the economy was projected to be back at the level King Foltest had achieved by the end of the year.

Roche still hated it.

With a heavy sigh, he took off the crown and reverently placed it on a cushion. He would love to just be able to toss it aside when it got too heavy on his head, but it was Foltest’s crown. He couldn’t treat it with anything but the appropriate amount of solemnity and respect.

His robes, on the other hand.

Roche tore off the ridiculously heavy clothing as quickly as possible, leaving his hair a rat’s nest above his head. Then he headed for the one luxury he actually appreciated – the huge opulent bathtub. It was truly ridiculous – made from polished copper, it was inlaid with mother of pearl edging and was everything he hated about rich people – and also really, really nice to soak in.

Once the tub was steaming, Roche slid down until the surface of the water tickled his ears. The tub was deep and he let himself relax into the heat, tilting his head back and letting out a long sigh. The stresses of a life he’d never wanted began to sluice off of him with the water and he rolled his shoulders back against the side of the tub, stretching his neck with a yawn.

When he opened his eyes, he encountered dark red fabric and an olive green eye about three inches from his nose. It took his brain a half-second to process what he was seeing and then Roche found himself screaming, high pitched and shrill, as he grasped frantically at his chaperon to cover himself with.

Jerking back at his scream, the elf wanted in every northern kingdom and Nilfgaard blinked at him. Iorveth, somehow hanging from the ceiling, just stuck a finger in one ear and grimaced at the noise.

“Stop screaming, it’s me,” Iorveth said, offering him a bar of soap as if the leader of the Scoia’tael interrupting his bath wasn’t reason enough to yell.

“What the fuck!?” Roche yelped. “How the fuck did you even get in here!?”

Iorveth shrugged, still hanging upside down. “Your security needs work.”

Roche sputtered. “Why the fuck are you here!?”

“Why, to pay respects to the new Imperial High Commissioner, Administrator, Governor, Overseer, and Commander, of course” Iorveth smirked, mischief sparkling in the eye that was still far too close to him.

Roche poked Iorveth’s forehead with his pointer finger and pushed him away. “Ever heard of space? Privacy? Not being a shithead?”

Iorveth snorted, and did some sort of complicated flip through the air that left him standing next to Roche’s bathtub. Roche frowned. On the one hand, he didn’t particularly want to be naked and unarmed with Iorveth in the vicinity. On the other hand, he literally just got in, and it would be such a shame to waste the hot water.

Decided, he crossed his arms and glared at Iorveth. “What the fuck, Squirrel?”

Iorveth ignored his glare, poking around his room instead. “There’s no way you aren’t hating every minute of playing king.” The elf flicked the tip of Foltest’s crown.

Roche scowled. “Why are you here? And why aren’t you – you know – killing me?”

“Even death isn’t enough to escape Nilfgaard,” Iorveth said.

Roche’s forehead wrinkled and he squinted at Iorveth. Iorveth continued to search through his room, though the elf considerately stayed within Roche’s sightline.

Roche was suspicious.

“There were rumors you’d died,” he finally said.

Iorveth shrugged. “Not the first time. What, did you believe them this time?”

“No,” he found himself admitting. “Only I’m allowed to kill you.”

Iorveth glanced back at him with a smirk. “Don’t seem to be trying at the moment.”

“Water’s still hot,” Roche grumbled. Iorveth muffled a laugh and Roche was hit by the utter strangeness of chatting casually with fucking Iorveth while sitting in a ridiculously fancy bathtub that he only had because he was currently ruling Temeria.

What the fuck was his life?

Gods, the bathtub really was fantastic, though. He slumped back against the tub and let himself enjoy it, muscles slowly unwinding. If Iorveth killed him, the elf would be doing him a favor. But Iorveth was right – even in death, he probably wouldn’t be able to avoid fucking Nilfgaard.

Roche hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes until he opened them to see Iorveth staring at him again, though fortunately from much further away this time. “What?”

“This ruler thing isn’t allowed to kill you before I do,” Iorveth said eventually, turning back to poke at the shit decorating Roche’s room. “Fucking shit, your shoulders look tight enough to chop wood on.”

Roche snorted, shrugging shoulders that really were painfully tense. “What, are you offering a massage?”

Iorveth dropped the trinket he’d picked up and fumbled catching it, graceless in a way Roche had never seen an elf be before. Then Iorveth turned to him with a wide eye and what Roche almost thought was a blush. Roche’s eyebrows rose slowly.

“Actually,” Iorveth cleared his throat, “I was thinking of a more violent type of stress relief.”

“What?”

“Nilfgaard wants to quell all unrest in their lands, so they’re not going to prosecute any war criminals. Which means they’re fair game.”

Roche blinked at him. “Iorveth,” he said slowly, “you do realize that technically we are both war criminals?”

Iorveth just shrugged. “‘Least we haven’t gotten rich off of other people’s suffering.”

That was true. At least he and Iorveth had fought for a cause, even if what they did was monstrous. People driven by pure greed disgusted Roche, and he knew there was no shortage of greedy predators preying on those devastated by the war.

“Are you… inviting me to go murder assholes with you?” Roche asked in disbelief.

Iorveth tilted his head, shrugging again. “Essentially.”

Roche sucked on his lower lip. It was a terrible idea. He was leader of a country now, he couldn’t just swan off and do whatever he wanted. And what would they do, run around like vigilantes, punishing the cruel?

That actually sounded really fun. When was the last time he’d had fun? Definitely before fucking Emhyr’s grand fucking idea.

He pursed his lips. It really would be an awful decision, but gods, for the first time in ages, he actually felt interested in something. Excited about something.

“Huh,” Roche huffed, “I don’t think I’ve killed anyone in at least two months.”

Iorveth looked mildly impressed. “We could fix that.”

“It is definitely wrong to long to murder people,” he pointed out.

“Moralize later, dress now,” Iorveth said, picking through his wardrobe. “Where’s your armor? There’s no way you let them take it away in favor of these ridiculous things.” Iorveth held up a velvet brocade robe to support his point.

Roche laughed. Iorveth wasn’t wrong, after all. “Under the bed. Had to hide it from the chamberlain.”

Iorveth turned to the bed, an absurdy lavish four poster bed with chiffon draped ever so precisely around the bedframe. Laying on it felt like laying on a cloud.

Roche hated it. He usually slept on the floor instead.

“We’re waiting until my bath is done to leave, though,” he said and Iorveth shot him a disbelieving look. “I can’t just waste the hot water,” Roche justified, flushing slightly. A lifetime of little money had taught him that nothing should be wasted. Baths didn’t cost him coin now, but old habits died hard.

“What, and I’m just supposed to wait for you?” Iorveth grumbled.

“Hey, no one invited you here,” Roche pointed out. “I don’t care what you do, but I’d recommend not getting caught at it. You’re still wanted… pretty much everywhere.”

Iorveth smirked proudly, “I know.”

Roche rolled his eyes, yawning and leaning back in the bath, stretching his neck from side to side.

“That’s a gigantic bathtub,” Iorveth said, something contemplative in his tone.

“Uh huh,” Roche grunted.

“If you’re enjoying the hot water, I don’t see why I shouldn’t,” Iorveth said nonsensically, and Roche opened his eyes to stare.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Iorveth just arched an eyebrow and reached for the straps holding his weapons.

“Are you fucking serious?” Roche asked in disbelief. It wasn’t that he objected, necessarily – years and years of military life had removed any shame he might’ve felt at being naked in front of his enemy. But naked and sharing a bath? “You know this is weird, right?”

Iorveth just snorted, now setting about removing his numerous weapons. Roche was a little impressed by how many the elf managed to fit on his body. “You, Vernon Roche, are currently ruler of Temeria. Is there any part of your life that isn’t weird nowadays?”

Roche opened his mouth to respond – and then closed it. Iorveth wasn’t wrong, after all. “Claiming to be part of my life?” he finally asked.

“Of course I am,” Iorveth said confidently, “I’m your nemesis and you’re mine.”

Roche swallowed at that, watching as Iorveth removed his belt, gloves, and all the various straps that held his hodgepodge armor together. Apparently he was really doing this, really planning to join Roche in the bath.

Seriously, what was his life now???

Instead of thinking too hard about that, Roche cleared his throat, jerking his gaze away as Iorveth pulled his chainmail over his head. “So, this murder thing…”

“Mm?”

“You have a hit list or something? Or were you just planning to run around until you found an appropriately irritating war criminal?”

“Wouldn’t be that hard,” Iorveth muttered. “Stennis of Aedirn is top of my hit list, but not necessarily the best place to start.”

Roche blinked. “Stennis… as in King Stennis?”

Iorveth shrugged, and in Roche’s memory, he could hear that brash voice easily declaring, king or beggar, what’s the difference?

Back then, Roche had had many opinions on the difference. The likes of King Foltest could hardly be compared to some beggar on the streets. Or even some whoreson who had somehow found his way into power.

Now? Now Roche had the blood of two kings on his hands, and really, what was a third?

“That will require careful planning. He’s probably got good security.”

Iorveth was silent for long enough for Roche to look at him again, and he flushed when faced with the sight of Iorveth’s bare chest, ribs visible and skin a handful of shades darker than Roche’s. Iorveth’s gambeson lay in a pile next to him, and the elf was currently working to remove his hose – only at Roche’s words, he’d apparently stopped to stare at Roche instead.

“What?” Roche asked, hoping the heat from the bath hid his blush. Why was he suddenly feeling awkward about nudity? It wasn’t like they hadn’t seen the worst of each other before. Who cared if there was a bit of skin on display?

His eyes caught on the peaks of Iorveth’s nipples, darker than Roche’s – almost the color of polished cedar. Roche bit his lip, feeling oddly fixated as Iorveth’s nipple hardened in the cool air under his gaze.

“I’d heard you killed kings now,” Iorveth said eventually, shifting enough to break Roche’s gaze and when Iorveth bent to remove his hose, Roche quickly turned away. His face and ears felt hot and he sank lower into the tub.

“Gods, I hope people aren’t going around gossiping about that,” he groaned. “Both were supposed to be fucking secret, dammit.”

Iorveth pursed his lips, staring at Roche. “You really did it,” he said slowly, and there was something in his voice that made Roche look at him. Standing naked with absolutely no shame, Iorveth frowned at Roche. “Radovid I get. You got a Free Temeria out of it, and even most dh’oine agree he was insane. But Henselt? Really?”

Roche cleared his throat, determinedly keeping his eyes trained on Iorveth’s face and not the miles of bare skin that lay in front of him. “He deserved it,” Roche grunted.

“He was a king,” Iorveth said, as if that explained everything. Roche frowned at him. “What did he do to drive you that far?”

Iorveth sounded genuinely curious and Roche swallowed. He didn’t really want to talk about this, didn’t really want to remember the way the Kaedweni king had stolen his family from him. He closed his eyes and grit his teeth, trying not to go back there.

A touch on his shoulder startled him and Roche jerked around, blinking wildly as he realized that the touch had been Iorveth – what, comforting him? That was fucking weird. Still, Iorveth’s touch was cool against his slightly-overheated skin, and the look on the elf’s face was more akin to understanding than pity.

Roche supposed that was acceptable. He swallowed harshly and forced himself to answer, “he murdered my men.”

Iorveth inhaled sharply, clearly not having expected that. “Oh,” the elf murmured, obviously lost for words.

Roche cleared his throat. “So, King Stennis…” he changed the subject, shifting in the tub to allow Iorveth room to climb in.

Iorveth was silent as he took the invitation and stepped into the bath, sighing softly at the touch of hot water. They sat facing away from each other, and the press of Iorveth’s back against his was oddly hypnotic. Roche found himself only able to focus on the places they touched – and the places they didn’t.

“I’m… sorry,” Iorveth eventually said.

Roche blinked, shaking himself out of his daze. “Why?”

Iorveth tapped his fingers against the side of the tub. “Enemies deserve respect,” he said. “The Blue Stripes were uncommon enemies – efficient and ruthless and well-led. I may not feel anything at their deaths – but they were your unit.”

Were. Roche swallowed roughly, digging his fingernails into his palms. “Let’s talk about Stennis,” he grunted forcefully.

Iorveth sighed, and for a moment, Roche almost thought that Iorveth’s shoulders pressed against his more intentionally. Offering comfort again? What a strange thing for his nemesis to do.

“Why did you come to me?” he asked, not sure if he expected Iorveth to answer truthfully or not.

Iorveth hummed. “We are remnants of a past age,” Iorveth said slowly. “Our skills are no longer needed nor wanted. Instead, we’re supposed to fit into nicer, less controversial boxes.” Roche could feel Iorveth shrug against him, “I’ve never been one to conform to societal expectations.”

Roche snorted, “yeah, no shit.”

Iorveth huffed in amusement. “I figured you probably hated all this as much as I do.”

Roche grunted in agreement. “The bathtub is nice, at least.”

Iorveth actually laughed, twisting around to face him. “It is. And yet, you still look tense enough to string a bow.”

Roche grumbled. He hadn’t really thought about how he’d left his back exposed to his nemesis, not until cool fingers hesitantly touched his shoulders. Inexplicably, he didn’t tense further, even though touch typically meant violence, especially coming from Iorveth.

Only Iorveth didn’t hurt him. Actually, Iorveth’s touch was gentle as he traced the line of the tattoo that spanned Roche’s shoulders. Roche shivered at the light scratch of Iorveth’s bow calluses, unsure why he was allowing this.

Except that it had been so very long since anyone had touched him in kindness and Roche couldn’t make himself pull away. If he was lucky, this wasn’t some sort of ruse to get him to let his guard down before Iorveth slit his throat.

Though really, Iorveth could kill him right here and now with little resistance – and yet, he continued to live and breathe. Instead, he felt Iorveth’s fingers dip under the surface of the water, continuing to trace the tree tattooed across his back, each branch a tribute to the men he’d lost.

Roche swallowed, suddenly feeling the urge to cry. He pinched his index finger and thumb together tightly, letting the pressure ground him.

“So,” he coughed. “King Stennis? Why do you want to kill him?”

“He poisoned the Dragonslayer and faced no consequences,” Iorveth said, a growl in his voice. His fingers traced back up the trunk of the tree on Roche’s back and then he dug his thumbs into Roche’s traps.

Roche gasped sharply, the pressure a painful ache until his muscles slowly unwound under Iorveth’s touch.

“Seriously,” Iorveth said casually, as if he weren’t apparently giving Roche a shoulder massage. “How are you even able to move right now? You feel like a brick shithouse.”

“Gee, thanks,” Roche snorted, wincing slightly as the heels of Iorveth’s palms kneaded between his shoulder blades.

Then he felt the moment his tension released, and he practically melted into Iorveth’s touch, feeling looser and more relaxed than he had in… fuck, who even knew how long?

Iorveth continued massaging his shoulders, moving up to circle his thumbs against Roche’s neck and dipping down to work at his back on occasion. But Roche wore his stress in his shoulders and Iorveth spent the most time there, fingers strong and agile, pushing and pulling at his muscles with surprising ease.

Roche sighed deeply, closing his eyes and trying to remember the thread of the conversation. Right. Stennis. And the Dragonslayer. He poisoned her? Really?

“I thought the Dragonslayer was alive and well and running the only country that hasn’t succumbed to Nilfgaard?”

“She is,” Iorveth responded, voice low. It added a sense of privacy to their conversation that made Roche feel oddly special. “Geralt and the fucking sorceress healed her. The peasants wanted to make Stennis pay, but apparently Gwynbleidd’s morality won’t allow for a lynching. The nobles, of course, don’t care if Stennis is a poisoner, because he’s royal, so…”

“So now it’s left to you to get revenge?”

“Some might call it justice.”

Roche turned his head to look at Iorveth over his shoulder. “Somehow I doubt anyone would picture either of us as agents of justice.”

“Who cares what others think?” Iorveth shrugged, sliding his thumbs up the nape of Roche’s neck.

Roche turned back around and let him. “Most people,” Roche answered, leaning into Iorveth’s hands.

“You don’t,” Iorveth said, voice utterly assured. “As long as it’s for Temeria.”

Roche huffed. He wasn’t wrong, but still. “I think I’m supposed to care now. The whole ruling thing and all?”

“You hate it.”

“Of course I fucking hate it. That’s probably why fucking Emhyr forced it on me.”

Iorveth hummed in agreement, massaging Roche’s neck and the base of his skull. It felt ridiculously good and Roche felt his body melting into Iorveth’s touch, putty in the elf’s hands.

Iorveth could have done anything and Roche wouldn’t have been able to stop him. He could slit Roche’s throat, could drown him in the bath, could break his neck, hell, Iorveth could even suffocate him in a chokehold.

The elf did none of that. Instead, when the water began to cool, Iorveth slid his hands down Roche’s neck and across his shoulders, squeezing them briefly. Then, cool lips pressed against the curve where Roche’s neck met his shoulder. By the time his gasp found voice, Iorveth was already pulling away, rising gracefully to his feet and stepping out of the tub, stealing Roche’s towel.

“There’s a Redanian,” Iorveth said casually, as if he hadn’t just kissed Roche. Roche gaped at him, but Iorveth didn’t appear to notice as he began dressing. “Former general, hoarded medical supplies and food and charged exorbitant prices for them. Located in the Outskirts of Vizima, so figured we could start with that.”

Roche swallowed, belatedly pulling himself out of the tub. Iorveth helpfully passed him the already-wet towel and Roche took it with a grumble. “What’s the target’s name?”

“Arnold of Denesle,” Iorveth answered, still acting like absolutely nothing out of the ordinary had happened. He’d even pulled Roche’s armor from under the bed and laid it out for him.

Roche sucked on his lip as he dried off quickly, reaching for his armor. Technically, he supposed, a kiss wasn’t that much stranger than the rest of this situation – i.e. Iorveth having snuck into the royal palace, joined him in the bath, and even given him a massage. Maybe Iorveth was playing some sort of mind game with him?

If that was the case, Roche should really push it from his thoughts. As he got dressed, he tried to do so – but there was something about the way Iorveth’s chapped lips had brushed against his skin that had him shivering, the spot still tingling.

Sometimes, he felt he knew his nemesis well enough to know how Iorveth thought. Other times, it was very clear that as much as he’d studied Iorveth, he had no idea what went through Iorveth’s head.

If Roche’s tattoo sounds familiar, it’s ‘cause I used the same concept in How to Fluster an Elf. This WiP was actually written first, though.

#iorveth x saskia #rorveth #iorveth x roche #the witcher #wips #ask

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rpmemesbyarat · 3 years

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RP meme from "Appendix Two: Rat Bastards" in The World of Darkness Ratkin Breedbook

"Life is best lived to extremes."

"Enduring a life of shame, dreaming of the day when you can fulfill your grandest dreams. . . and basest urges."

"Any revolutionary has a reason why he’s taken a dangerous path in life."

“I’m not lost. I know exactly where I’m not going. You,

on the other hand, are headed right for where you shouldn’t be."

"Sure, your wife thinks you’re a rat bastard, but you know you’re both better off this way."

"You used to have nightmares about the life you left behind, but now your existence is one unending dream."

"Since the day you walked out, you’ve traveled just about

everywhere. The credit on your ATM card ran out a long time

ago — which is just as well, since you don’t want to be tracked down to pay old debts."

"You’ve had nightmares about people from your old life tracking you down, but there’s no way you’d ever go back. "Drifting from one small town to the next, you never trust anyone for long."

"Staying in one place just seems too damn dangerous, so the road has become your home."

"Sure, it was hard at first."

"You already messed up one family, so why should you be eager to screw up another one?"

"You don’t have a home, nor do you want one."

"Everything you need is in carried on you back — physical

baggage is as burdensome to you as emotional baggage."

"As far as you’re concerned, change is good."

"Every few months, you change some aspect of your appearance — whether that means growing a beard, dying your hair, or even shaving your head."

"You have no intention of ever getting close to anyone ever again."

"Trusting someone means setting yourself up for betrayal."

"Your identity is a facade, one which you intend to preserve."

"As long as no one inquires into your past, you don’t really care about theirs."

"Your new life is a series of adventures, and the other travelers you work with are all means to fulfilling those

ends."

"You’re a man of mystery and prefer to keep it that way."

"The streets belong to everyone. Someday, we’ll take

back the rest of the city, too."

"In mere moments, your mind was overwhelmed by the history of the world. . . and the dangers it faced."

"Prophetic dreams revealed an entire world just beyond

this one."

"Other creatures have names for the spirits that live

there, but you remember them by their sounds and scents."

"These wonders were amazing, but to you, the human world

was even more fascinating."

"The wealthy humans didn’t trust you, but you found plenty of other people who had abandoned the pretense of “civilized” society."

"Some lived on the streets because they thought it was glamorous; a few preferred the dangers of street life to the violence at home; most of them had no choice.

"No matter what their reasons, they all had one thing in common; they needed help."

"Since you can scrounge, hide and survive with the cunning of a rat, you actually like life on the street, and genuinely care for the people who live there."

"You help them; in return, you know a few good-hearted people who would do anything to help you."

"Isn’t it dangerous to wander the streets as a human female?"

"Won’t you get ripped off, like everyone else who tries to help the homeless?"

"You can’t resist meddling in human affairs, especially among humans who are living on the edge."

"You give them change, help them out when life is rough, get them help when they’re sick, and mourn them when they die."

"The streets are a drama that goes on from day to day, and you prefer to be more than just a spectator."

"Let the cowardly humans watch; you prefer to get involved."

"Where the law fails, I prevail.

"The Earth can’t fight back, so I’ll fight back for her."

"You started your crusade to defend the Earth because of New Age beliefs and good intentions."

"You’ve always wanted to do the right thing."

"Grassroots political movements did nothing. Door-to-door

fund-raisers just made other people rich. Formal protests just landed you in jail, while the corporations kept getting richer and richer."

"Desperate times called for desperate measures. . . and desperate tactics."

"You now pass judgment on the corporations that poison the world."

"You’ve taken to methods and philosophies that give the environmental movement a bad name."

"Sabotaging and stealing equipment is just the beginning."

"If they’re wounding the Earth, then you’ve got every right to act in self-defense."

"Someone is responsible, and someone must pay. If necessary, they all must pay."

"Others deal in law; you deal in justice."

"You’re eager to investigate any large corporation that profits from the misfortune of others."

"As long as you get your revenge a few times a year, you’ll stick around."

"Mock the law; it’s frustrated you for far too long."

"Watch patiently when you see injustice. Then start planning revenge."

"Hold your anger in check. . . until you need it."

"Some say it’s the government. Some say its the CIA, or

the Zionists, or the Bavarian Illuminati. I know that’s all hogwash. All of the world’s problems can be attributed to two groups that are forever at war; vampires and werewolves."

" All you ever wanted in life was to be left alone."

"A fair wage for a hard day’s work shouldn’t have been too much to ask."

"You’re an American, and thought you had rights, but you took the privileges given you by the U.S. Constitution for granted."

"The rifle you stowed under the blankets became the only thing you could trust."

"You started going to meetings for the free food, and the politics sounded just about right."

"Maybe they were a little too extreme, but they treated you like a friend when no one else did."

"Unfortunately, the more you listened to them, the more elaborate their politics and conspiracies theories became." "No two of them could really agree on who the real enemy was, who was to blame, who should be punished, or even what their militia should do."

"You wanted action. You wanted justice."

"You had dreams of new family, one that lived in secret throughout the United States."

"They were a lot like your old allies but they actually took action."

"Everyone in your squad agreed on a set of common goals and actually helped each other to achieve them."

"Now you’ve got places to hide, a steady supply of provisions, and a war you think you’re actually winning."

"You have your own interpretations of “traditional American values.”

"Be really careful where you disclose your political affiliations; you don’t want to blow your cover too easily."

"You’ve got to be stoic."

"If you wait long enough, you know that your chance to strike back will come."

"Do you have the password for this machine?"

"You gave the best years of your life to big, wealthy

businesses, selling off pieces of your life for a paycheck."

"You sold your soul, one hour at a time, as a temp employee."

"Years of working have worn down your enthusiasm."

"You’ve got a talent for marketing yourself as just about anything."

"You’ll do any job, if you really have to, but you’ve got a habit of discarding your employers before they discard you."

"Along the way, you scam all the little perks and privileges you can get, and always scurry away before the boss can figure out who’s responsible."

"You can assume the proper corporate guise for infiltrating any organization as a temporary employee."

"You’ve got access to computer files, methods of getting through security, and a talent for finding an organization’s weak point."

"It’s nice to finally have a little insurance, and it’s

nice to make the rich folks pay for a change."

"You’re unassuming enough that no one really remembers you."

"You’ve got a bad habit of overestimating your skills."

"If anyone offers you work, you’ll take it, but whether you can actually do the job is another matter."

"Every employer you find has some benefit you can exploit." "Remember to place your own survival first; after all, no employer is ever really going to give a damn about you."

"Take me. Now. No, not here!"

"You’re a tease."

"No one knows where you came from, but everyone seems to have ideas about where you’re going."

"Someone once described you as a “serial girlfriend,” going

from one guy to the next to get what you need."

"You’ve never had trouble finding a couch to crash on, but you’ve always had trouble saying good-bye."

"That’s why you just disappear when you feel you’re not wanted anymore."

"Maybe that lowers people’s opinion of you, but, hey!" "You’re new at this “human” thing!"

"People know what they want to take from you, so you just make a point of getting what you want from them first."

"All of your human friends are temporary, but with a little bit of work, you can get them to give you whatever you need."

"The human race is doomed anyway, and your goal in life is to survive long enough to breed. In the meantime, you’ll make a point of seizing everything you can along the way."

"Some people don’t understand how much work it is doing what you do."

"There are people out there who are lonely, and you fulfill their needs."

"Of course, their weakness eventually fills you with contempt, but it’s only natural for the higher life forms to prey on the weaker ones."

"You have no intention of living the life of the weak, enduring a minimum wage job as some counter jockey."

"Remember who your real friends are."

"Human lovers and boyfriends are disposable; use and discard them as necessity dictates."

"No animal should be caged. Humans like to build cages

for themselves, but all animals should run free. I know. I hold the key."

"Such barbarity. So many horrors."

"Weeks of furtive travel led you to an underground of others of your kind."

"You must use the humans’ own weapons against them."

"The Victorian Age created legends that will live on forever."

"To fulfill his greed, he dispatched his minions to gain information he could use in his criminal enterprises."

"Heirs to the throne have preserved and expanded his

criminal empire ever since."

"How much of his accomplishments are real and how much

is hype remains a topic of debate."

"Her knowledge of the many trailer parks and empty lots of North America is nothing short of incredible."

"Life abroad would no doubt puzzle her, though, since

it in no way resembles what she sees of foreign countries on TV soap operas."

"The shock was unspeakable!"

"Someone had stolen his dream!"

"[NAME] grew bitter, and descended into obscurity."

"A lifetime of poverty, aggravated by watching his rival attain fame and fortune, made him a bitter man."

"Each night, he would escape from the old folk’s home to enjoy the best strip joints, sleazy bars, whorehouses and

gambling dens the city had to offer."

"He has vowed to carry out a titanic act of vengeance before he dies; He dreams of destroying the happiest place on Earth, the largest amusement park in the world."

"No doubt it’s just a matter of time."

"After all, when you wish upon a star. . ."

#rp meme #rp memes #rp starters #roleplay memes #roleplay meme #roleplay starters #ratkin #wererats #werewolf the apocalypse

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diveronarpg · 4 years

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Congratulations, CLAUDIA! You’ve been accepted for the role of OTHELLO with a FC change to Chadwick Boseman. Admin Minnie: Claudia. Wow, Claudia. This application won me over. I got extremely excited in a matter of seconds just from your first paragraph alone — just ask the other admins, I can even send you a screenshot of my message: “ok i've read one paragraph and im in luv”. From your clean and precise analysis of his core (”learning that love and terror were not the antithesis of each other but an echo of the hunger that comes with being alive” YOU DID THAT) to the incredibly story you weaved in your para sample... you completely won me over. And so did your Othello. I cannot wait to see your plot points come to life, because I’m positive that you’re going to bring a storm to Verona. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Claudia

Age | 23

Preferred Pronouns | She / Her

Activity Level | 7

Timezone | GMT+11

How did you find the rp? | I’ve known about DiVerona for a while now but it’s been some time since I was active on the rpc scene. Stumbling upon it again after all this time and seeing Othello open feels a little like serendipity.

Current/Past RP Accounts | Here and here.

IN CHARACTER

Character | Othello. And if I could please request a faceclaim change to Chadwick Boseman.

What drew you to this character? |

Othello is a study in dichotomies – a man torn between polar extremes. Between savagery and nobility, brutality and kindness, love and war.

His very existence was borne of a war waged between his mother’s warmth and his father’s cruelty. He grew up in a house that felt more like battlefield than home, learning that love and terror were not the antithesis of each other but an echo of the hunger that comes with being alive. He feels everything: deeply, intensely, like an open wound half-healed; it’s his greatest strength and it will be his ultimate downfall. Odin is a man capable of a vast and terrible rage. There’s brutality sunken deep in his marrow, something black and rotten in his birthright, an ancient violence. He feels it in his blood like a beast that’s slept dormant all these years, lying in wait, watchful, preying on his worst instincts. He hears it singing in his veins, can taste it climbing into his throat, when he sees a guilty man’s blood spilled on fresh dirt. He thinks he sees glimpses of his father in the mirror, sometimes, when his mind is adrift and steeped in shadow. His eyes, soulless and quiet, his knuckles blooming with bruises.

Suffice to say, I love this broken, conflicted, contradiction of a man. There’s nothing more compelling than a tragic hero and the thing about Othello is that he has every inkling in him of someone who could so easily be tipped over the edge into monster. I love that discrepancy, I live for that sliver of doubt, the seduction of l’appel du vide and the terrifying realisation that he has everything in him to slip beyond that edge.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

ONE MORE SUCH VICTORY WOULD UTTERLY UNDO ME | Odin has survived the maelstrom of scandal and ruin that would have meant a fall from grace and high standing, the destruction of all that he has built for himself. And in doing so, he’s lost the only thing he has every truly loved in this life: Delilah. All of the love and devotion and pleas for understanding could not deny the rage and ruthlessness that came with her infidelity. With the heartbreak of knowing the one person he’d let into the deepest parts of his soul, who’d seen him bare and unstripped of all artifice, had betrayed him. He’s burned all their bridges, performed triage to save his reputation and his pride, but what of the love that still sickens him when he thinks of her and how she’s suffering? He has set fire to all traces of her inside his heart but it isn’t so easy to burn her out of his mind or his dreams. These are the places where man has no dominion. And what of the peace he knows he will never find again without her by his side? What of the treacherous slivers of doubt beginning to eat away at him that till now, he has tried to kill and smother with green-eyed reason? He couldn’t possibly be wrong, could he? He couldn’t have abandoned his happiness and his honour with the one woman who has loved him for all his flaws and vices at the turn of a whispered deception?

AM I MY BROTHER’S KEEPER? | Ivan is the closest thing Odin has to family. To blood. Ivan has stood at his side through everything, his left-tenant, his confidante, his greatest source of comfort and familiarity. Call it a blind spot, a weakness, but Ivan has earned his faith and unquestioning trust. It was Ivan who came to him when he first heard of Delilah’s betrayal, and it was Ivan who gave him the strength to do what had to be done. But now he has lost his greatest love, and his brother seems more and more a stranger to him by the day. Ivan has always been smarter, sharper, hungrier, hiscunning forged out of necessity and survival. It is the flicker of doubt, the silhouette of something far more treacherous and unforgivable that stains his dreams like nightshade. He is not a man of halfway, or half-done. Odin absolutely cannot abide the grey area of hesitation. If there is more than speculation to the idea that Ivan has somehow exaggerated, or misconstrued Delilah’s transgression… There’s nothing more dangerous than a man who has nothing left to lose.

WHY ARE YOU FULL OF RAGE? BECAUSE YOU ARE FULL OF GRIEF | Despite his well-crafted attempts at appearing to the contrary, Odin walks a finely wired tightrope between chaos and control. His ego is bruised and battered, and his heart is worn thin with humiliation. He was once a man that wore the hearts of Verona’s people on his sleep. Now, a whisper follows him everywhere he goes. A whisper that becomes a murmur, rising and spilling into a crescendo of rumour and disgrace that hounds him day and night. Odin is quicker to anger, more belligerent and unruly, a humming drum beat of shame and dishonour ringing in his ears every time he turns away and pretends not to hear the outrageous lies they spin. And with his beloved gone, cast out of his heart and soul, there is so little left to keep his worst instincts at bay. All it would take is one bad day. One simple push is all it would take to plunge him down the path into darkness. A push, or a drip of well-timed poison in his ear.

PROMETHEUS’ GAMBIT | Before Odin swore himself to the Capulets, he was a man of the people. A hero. A saviour. Someone who fought to protect those who could not protect themselves, who strove to uphold the law and to push for reform when, at times, it failed to protect Verona’s people. Why, then, would such a noble, virtuous man like Odin Bello, choose to fall in with the mob? Odin is idealistic, but pragmatic. War and injustice have taught him that the law is not enough. Verona runs on blood and money, and if that is what it takes to wield the power and influence in this city necessary to do genuine good, then so be it. Becoming a Captain of the Capulets was an act of necessity, and political savvy. He is a man of his word, and therefore loyal to their cause. But if there ever comes a day when he must choose between the Capulets and the life of an innocent, Odin’s sense of justice may cause him to waver.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Absolutely. Preferably in some manner of tragedy and disaster befitting the very embodiment of tragic irony.

IN DEPTH

In-Character Para Sample:

It is always the same dream.

The same endless plunge into nothingness, a black chasm void of any light or air or sound. It could be sinking, or rising, and Odin wouldn’t know the difference between the sky and the ground. Suffocating. Drowning. Either way, it is a slow, and terrible way to go.

The vice around his neck, coiling tight around his throat, tighter with every breath, crushing any frenzied hope of salvation. He scrabbles wildly at the noose (not a rope but smooth, sleek to the touch, and cold), knuckles paling with desperation as his lungs scream. He fights. But the end is always the same. The hand (when did the noose become so clearly defined? Are those fingers?) clenches around his throat, grinding down against his windpipe with unrelenting pressure. It metastasizes – liquefying with the metallic consistency of blood, or perhaps smoke, as it fills his mouth and his lungs and his chest, pouring into his ribcage and filling every fissure and crevice inside of him.

It tastes like death. It tastes like inevitability.

He drowns like this, suspended in time between shadow and purgatory, for what feels like an eternity. And then either his mind snaps, or the dream does, and he’s released, hurtling into reality with the speed of a sniper bullet.

—

He wakes like a dying man drawing his last, shuddering breath.

In his dream state, his sweat-streaked brow tightens with the anticipation of a brush of warm, soft lips. Ah. But she’s gone now, isn’t she? She is gone and he has carved her out of his chest like a pound of flesh he still holds clutched in his bloodied fist. The proof of her betrayal beating in his palm, visceral and raw as a slaughter.

Odin wakes from sleep every morning like he has survived a death. He moves as if his body is exhausted to find itself alive and begrudges him the audacity of enabling the very breath in his lungs. But years of military regimen has been beaten into him like sandstone worn smooth by a millennia of moon and tide. He drags himself out of bed, dresses, makes his bed squared with perfect angles, shaves, slips his gun out from beneath his pillow and into his holster. The barely risen sun casts everything in a dull tinge of faded indigo like day old bruising. He pads through the house, the hollow echo of his footsteps winding down and down the stairs.

A rap of knuckles upon his door splinters his reverie, his attention snaps to the entryway. Sharp. Alert.

It’s Katarina. She swirls through the door, out of uniform but armed to the teeth, gaze chilled as black ice.

“It’s the rat,” she hisses, eyes flashing like chips of steel in the dark.

The word has an affect akin to an electric shock: he’s awake.

“What did he do now?”

Katarina’s gaze narrows in disdain. “What rats are wont to do: lie and squirm and betray.”

“And what’s the word from Sloane? Rafaella?”

“Dispose and send in the cleaner.” Casual murder, discussed just like that. It’s not even seven in the morning yet, a time when normal, human citizens of Verona could be having their first cup of coffee.

“No use disposing of a rat if we can’t get something out of it first,” Odin deliberates. “Catch him for interrogation.”

Katarina snorts indelicately. “Shouldn’t be too hard, the way he’s been hitting The Dark Lady every night like the world is ending.”

The barest smirk toys at the corner of Odin’s mouth. “Maybe he’s not as stupid as we thought then.”

Those that lie to the Capulet Mob are usually exactly as slow-witted as they appear on the surface. Lying and betraying the Capulets is akin to signing one’s own death sentence in blood.

“Oh, I highly doubt that,” Katarina drawls, the syllables velveteen on her tongue.

“Tonight. Nine o’clock in The Orchid Room. You can handle getting him there on a work night?”

“Can I get a Veronesi police officer to slack and indulge their vices at a glorified whorehouse? Please.”

“Alright, then.” Odin gives a small nod, a subtle seal of approval.

“Well, I have to go see a gentleman about an exterminator.”

There is something to be admired in how efficiently a malvivente can get away with murder. The science and precision it takes to orchestrate a killing floor, a crime scene, a clean-up. In many ways, Cosimo Capulet is a virtuoso of his craft, if homicide could be considered an art.

“Have I mentioned how much I hate disappearing bodies from the precinct? Remind me to recommend that we accept external transfers only from now on.”

Katarina flicks him a smile sharp enough to cut through bone. “Here’s hoping third time’s a charm.”

––

The city is restless with fevered boredom. A sinister hush before a summer storm. Odin is alone on patrol this morning; Bellamy has begged off their shift with some falsified story about an elderly neighbour in crisis. In other words, a convincingly tedious tale to spin to cover the tracks of covert Montague business.

Odin doesn’t pry; there will be a time to play his cards and reveal his hand but today is not the day.

A crackling comes on over the radio, a standard 10-62 from dispatch. When he arrives on scene on the very outskirts of south Verona, it’s to an unsettling quiet. He steps out of the car, hand slipping cool over the grip of his gun. He heads round the back of the building, passing soundlessly down the winding cobblestone path that leads to the back entrance. His second cause for concern comes with his discovery that the door has been left unlocked. A push of the frame sends it swinging open. Odin’s hand flexes instinctively, curling tighter around his gun as he moves, barrel-first, into the house. With a slight exhale through his teeth, he raises his fist and hammers it into the peeling wood.

“Polizia,” he cries out. “Is anyone there?”

No answer.

No signs, even, of a breaking and entering.

He releases his fist, and heads cautiously on into the house. He clears one room after the other, swiftly and methodically, finding no signs of forced entry or illicit trespassing. The only remaining room left to scour is on the upper floor facing northward. Odin steps forward and reaches to open the door.

Of all the things Odin could have anticipated finding here, the rat they’ve have been hunting for over a week wouldn’t have made the list. But here, in the center of the room, sprawled on the floorboards like a tableau vivant, is Luca Salvatore. His nose and upper lip are smeared with quicksilver, and there’s powered gold, faintly gleaming, dusted around his collar. Ambrosia and il sangue di Faerie. An ironic harmony of Montague and Capulet – perhaps the only time the two sides have ever known true balance. How bittersweet, Odin muses as he lowers into a crouch to expect the body, he betrayed the Capulets and yet it is Montague poison that helped to seal his death. The foam gathered at the corner of Salvatore’s blue-tinged lips glimmers in the light, specks of chrome and liquid gold catching the sun seeping in from the window. Someone made damn sure they shoved enough fae blood and ambrosia down this man’s throat that he’d never live to draw another breath.

Odin sighs, a muscle tightening in his jaw as he pulls out his phone to send a message: Our rat’s been poisoned.

“Dispatch, 10-45D. I’ve got a body.”

Whatever secrets this man was harbouring, whatever danger or temptation drove him to fuck the Capulets, dying of borderline madness was a mercy.

Fool them once, they’ll kill you twice.

––

The night spirals on an endless loop at the The Dark Lady, time and space wrapped around a mobius strip of warped deception and illegality. The walls always look like freshly painted blood from the shadows of the lowlit stage. Unlike many of his fellow Capulets and officers – men are all the same, honourable or not, noble or not – Odin has never been seduced by the promise of The Dark Lady and her Sparrows. So long as his wife held his heart, he was hers in mind and body and endless soul.

Now, he is unchained. Adrift. But the thought of another woman, in her place, whispering the words she once whispered in his ear, physically sickens him. And perhaps it’s pathetic that the very idea of being unfaithful to his cheating ex-wife is anathema to him. Foolish, ignorant, blindly loyal Odin. That’s him. Besides, his purpose here tonight lies with business, not pleasure. If anyone knows who would have the most probable cause to poison their little rat, it’ll be the illustrious queen of the Sparrows. Of course, she’s kept him waiting. Her word and will is law within the dark walls of this establishment.

From his vantage point at the bar, he sees everything clearly through the haze of lust and debauchery. Men reduced to their base, animal selves, led by beautiful Sparrows with their fingers wrapped around their wallet. Gambling, prostitution, solicitation – technically, being here at all goes against the premise of his very existence as an officer of the law. The Dark Lady is one of the most profitable businesses on Capulet territory for good reason, however. Even if it weren’t for Odin’s interference, Mona has her hands in the pockets of every high-ranking officer within the police force. Or around their throats, with the numbers of untold secrets she has in her gilded arsenal.

He’s close to calling it a night and returning in the morning to reschedule when the piercing shatter of glass cuts through the music and hushed conversation.

“Jesus fuck, now look what you’ve done.”

A Sparrow, one of Mona’s girls, her long scarlet hair spilling loose down her shoulders, gives a soft yelp as she’s yanked from her position in a patron’s lap. Like the bird of her namesake with a broken wing, she’s tugged by the force of the man gripping at her wrist. Hard enough to bruise by the judgement of the man’s sheer height and build.

“Stupid little bitch,” the man hisses venomously, brushing furiously at his pants and the patch of wetness growing from spilled liquor staining the left leg. His grip on her tightens, the effect immediately visible from the lance of pain that flickers across her face, pointed and urgent.

The world goes very quiet, and very still. Odin tenses, every muscle in his body going rigid.

The walls here are red, the little Sparrow’s hair is red – vermillion, the colour of a sunset on fire, Bordeaux wine – and his vision bleeds red.

Odin moves without conscious thought: one moment he is at the bar, and the next his arm is slamming into the man’s gut, crushing the air from his lungs and forcing him to release the Sparrow out of shock. His hand, formed in a knuckled fist, fingers wrapped around thumb and the ring on his fourth finger that he keeps fucking forgetting to take off (or burn, or throw into the river, or melt down into scrap metal), swings forward in a brutal uppercut. It makes contact with a resounding snap of bone and cartilage, blood spraying forth in vivid, violent streaks of red.

“You crazy fucking bastard,” the man howls, staggering on his feet as his hands fly up to clutch at his face. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“There is one and only one rule in this club.” Odin widens his eyes a fraction. “Are you an idiot, or just in the mood to be skinned alive fully conscious?”

The man’s face twists into a snarling contempt. Naturally, he ignores the question entirely. “I know you,” he says, voice low and lascivious, swaying precariously on his feet. “You’re Odin Bello.”

Odin’s mouth flat lines, unimpressed by the drunken display before him.

“The man whose wife has fucked half the city.”

After, the reports will say that the man was found near dead: 6 broken ribs, dozens of broken, fractured bones, internal bleeding, contusions on his chest, arms and face, comatose.

After, they’ll say that Odin Bello lost his mind.

(Have you seen him? He doesn’t look like someone stable.

His wife was cheating on him for months with every member of his precinct, the poor fool. Who could blame him?

Bello’s insane. He’s completely lost it.

Did you hear the man he attacked is in a coma? Who knows, maybe he deserves it. Maybe he was asking for it.

I feel bad for the wife. Good thing she got out while she still could.)

––

After, Mona finds him in the alleyway with a cigarette dangling from his fingers, his hands and arms soaked in blood to the elbow. He smells like the inside of a slaughterhouse, and ash. She stalks over on stiletto heels sharpened to a knife point and slaps a black dossier against his chest. The Dark Lady’s insignia is debossed, an imprint, a shadow of an elegant swirling sigil.

“This isn’t a favour, Bello. I expect repayment in full, and then some.”

Her hand shoots out to grip him by the chin, manicured fingernails digging into his jawline as she drags his face down towards her eye line.

“You pull that shit in my club again and I’m blacklisting you for life.”

Odin shakes her hand free like her touch is nothing but air and straightens, presses the cigarette back to his lips and lets the smoke coil and spiral from his fingertips. Even the smoke tastes of something raw. Like fresh blood, metallic and veined with rust. There are flecks of it clinging to his cheekbones, splattered across his shirt like an abstract impressionist rendering of violence. The afterimage of it seared into the black and white negative of his silhouette. He looks like an old god, covered in the grime and filth of modernity. A bloodied relic of an ancient religion built on the altar of human sacrifice. He inhales, black smoke swirling in his lungs, the faint glow of eyes like ritual fire as he turns to face her.

“Do you think she knows?”

Bewilderment, then disgust as understanding dawns on Mona’s face. “How the fuck would I know, Bello?”

Odin watches her, unblinking, utterly motionless, his gaze deadened and hollowed like the heart of a black hole. A yawning abyss of unending nothingness with no horizon.

Am I only a monster if she knows what I’ve done?

Extras:

ORIGIN: Standing at 6’5” since he was 18 years old, Odin cuts a striking figure. His presence commands gravitas without him ever having to speak a word: a simple nod, a tilt of the chin. Soldiers fall silent when he speaks, higher-ranking officers defer to his cool judgement and lateral insight. He is a man born for leadership, marked for authority and the steady ascent to power. They say that those who deserve power do not want it, and in Odin’s case, at least to begin with, this is true. He enlisted at 18 to find an escape, a lifeline. A pathway to an existence free of his father and the brutal legacy he’d built for him — the only thing his father had ever given him other than his name. It was of little surprise that being primed and honed for war came easily to him. Odin rose swiftly through the ranks, impressing his superiors with his discipline, resolve and relentless potential. If anything, he was a little too disciplined, a little too resolute. Too intense and dead-eyed even when his fellow recruits were pushed to the brink of physical and mental collapse. Odin never seemed to tire, never seemed to even approach a tangible breaking point. He was utterly in his element: consistently ranking first in all his classes and dominating thr basic training activities with his physical advantages. But he was also charismatic, distinctly likeable, and always willing to help and shoulder someone else’s burden if he saw them struggling. As much as the other recruits would have preferred it, he was impossible to hate. At 24, he was promoted early to Lieutenant and led a squad of nine men who were willing to fight and die at his word. Out there, in the desert, they would have walked open-eyed into a minefield if he had given the order. Five years later, he was honourably discharged with the end of his tour. At least, that’s what his official military transcript says. What the transcript doesn’t say is that Odin Bello was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder, chronic insomnia and major depressive disorder following his return. This will do you good, the Lieutenant Colonel had said. You’ve fought this war for long enough but now it’s time for you to go home, to find a little peace for yourself. He returned to the country, battle still burning in his blood and his head full of quiet demons, and immediately left in search of a place that did not feel like a graveyard. So he found, Verona, wartorn, streets red with blood, a monster lurking behind the face of every man, and felt for the first time in a very long time, at home.

HEART: Odin has a great love for animals and small children. When he was young, he would feed what little food he had to the local dogs and strays. They followed him around the streets like a loyal pack of guard dogs and one time even chased off a gang of older children harassing him for non-existent money. Odin was a single child but he often played with the other children in his town and helped to look after the youngest ones when needed. His heart is most visibly softest when he’s around children. To this day, he ensures that a significant portion of his pay – as a law enforcer and Capulet – goes to the local orphanage of Verona. He spends at least one day a week in his time off-duty feeding the stray creatures of Verona – be they beggars, street ruffians or stray dogs.

SOUL: It’s a hypocrisy of the highest order to be an officer of the law, and yet a Capulet. The Capulets are the source of half the rife and warfare in the city, the beating heart of the black market that funnels contraband and weaponry through the illicit networks of the underground. The Capulets liken their legacy to that of Robin Hood, a legendary tale of David defeating Goliath. Now, however, the Capulets are fat and glutted on their gold and wealth. Just as filthy rich and corrupted as the aristocrats they overthrew in the name of liberty and equality. Joining the Capulets was a means to an end for Odin, an opportunity to oversee the inner workings of the Capulet crime family, and to use it for his own quiet purposes. A thief that slipped away with the life savings of a dozen families he swindled could be dealt with in shadow and silence. A rapist plaguing the city with no proof to his accusations but the blood and tears of his victims could be found dead in the morning, his throat slit in retribution. A murderer could be caught, and punishment dealt in a manner befitting his crime, not by the corrupt, unjust systems of the court. It does not sit entirely well with the balance of Odin Bello’s soul, that he works for the Capulets and paints his hands in blood for them. But as long as the good he can do outweighs the evil, then he is willing to stretch his soul a little thinner in the name of what must be done.

HAMARTIA: Odin does not do anything in halves. It’s all or nothing with him. He loved his mother with all his heart, and he hates his father with the very same heart. He has never known a middle ground. The love he knows is a double-edged sword – all-consuming, and therefore, destructive. For Odin, there is no other way to love than to give everything of himself until here is nothing left. Even if it means his ruin. He gave everything to Delilah when he swore himself to her – his heart, his name, his soul, his life. He would have ridden into hell for her and beyond, if she had asked. He would have plucked the moon from the sky and given her the stars to light her smile, if she had asked. At the time of her betrayal, he had believe his rage equal to his love. Burning like wildfire from inside of him until it consumed all the good and warmth he had associated with loving her. Grief, he has since realised, outlasts rage. He placed Delilah on a pedestal and made her his god. Casting her out of Eden meant leaving behind a hollowness nothing else could fill. So he clings to the only other person who has ever worn the shape of love in his life – his comrade-in-arms, his brother, Ivan. Ivan, who has never abandoned him or given him cause for pain or doubt. Ivan, who has always understood his rage and darkness, and stands by him in the light nevertheless.

#accepted #accepted: othello #WHEW WELCOME CLAUDIA YOU DESTROYED ME!!!

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barryjaybluejeans · 6 years

Text

Baby ’s first TAZ fic! Inspired by this actual news story. Shout-out to @fridge246 for being a wonderful beta!

Spoilers through the whole mini-arc-pilot-thing.

Kirby found the woman seated in a booth by the door of the little coffee shop in downtown Kepler, just where they had agreed to meet. In the small room, empty but for her and a few of the sleepy town's residents out for lunch, she was easy to spot.

The woman looked, in two words, fancied up. Artificial tan and frosted tips, and cosmetics applied with surprisingly artful hand. She looks just as put together as she did in all the photos he found while researching her story online; the more recent photos, anyway. It was clear she had made special changes in her appearance lately, the way a person does when they are trying to impress a certain someone.

And, Kirby thought, eyeing her tee-shirt which bore the iconic silhouette of Sasquatch on the front, he had a pretty good idea who that someone was.

“Renee?” Kirby asked, shifting his laptop bag under one arm to free his right hand.

She smiled broadly, flashing teeth that matched her french-tipped nails. “Got it in one. You’re the man from the Lamplighter? Kirby?”

They shook hands, exchanging a few more pleasantries as Kirby settled himself across from her. He pulled out his equipment—notepad, pencils, an old-school recorder.

“I ordered a pot of coffee,” Renee was saying, “just before you got here. We can have the waitress bring another mug for you, if you’d like?”

“Yeah, sounds fine. The food isn’t the greatest here, honestly, but it makes for a quiet place to meet. Do you mind if we get started right away?”

Renee’s eyes were all but sparkling with eagerness. “Absolutely not!”

“Right.” He cleared his throat, and switched on his recording. “I’m sitting with Renee Lesky, the former stay-at-home mother of two, and current Bigfoot enthusiast.”

“I prefer cryptid activist,” she interrupted.

“Of course. Renee, your life, uh, has taken a significant change in the last several months. You’ve already discussed this with other...news outlets, but if you don’t mind, could you explain for our readers how that all started? What set you to become a...an activist?”

She leaned forwards, hands clasped under her chin. Kirby could have sworn she was pausing for dramatic effect, and he made a note to work that in somehow when he wrote this whole thing up. In a voice heavy with importance, Renee said into the recorder, “ I met Bigfoot.”

“She’s loony-tunes.”

Kirby double-clicked his pen, held at the ready over his notebook. “Is that your professional opinion?” he asked, eying Ranger Newton.

Behind his desk, the man was scowling up a storm, and that expression was only made worse by the dark, heavy bags under his eyes and the patches of scruff on his typically clean-shaved face. It didn’t take an investigative journalist to see that the man was in a bad mood, and probably had been for at least a few days.

If he would have known the Newton would be like that, Kirby would have stopped by the ranger shack another day. He had been tempted to just leave when he first arrived, but it had been weeks since he first tried to get a few answered questions out of him about the Lesky-Bigfoot situation, and this could be his only chance to corner the man. Even all his wheedling at Ned Chicane, who was friends with Newton, hadn’t been enough to help arrange a meeting.

“Professionally,” Newton said, “the parks department respectfully disagrees with Ms. Lesky’s enthusiastic but ill-informed beliefs.”

“Uh-huh.” Kirby jotted that down. Shame. He might still work in the phrase loony-tunes and figure out a way to give the same punch without truly being a quote.

Frankly, Kirby had to agree with his original assessment. Renee was at best overly enthusiastic, at worst...well. There was a word for people who called furred creatures “majestic” in such breathless tones. But, Kirby was used to the crazies and the frauds and the “enthusiastic, but ill-informed”—he had built the Lamplighter on not only working with them, but preaching to them.

No, he wasn’t bitter about that. Yes, there might have been a time when he once believed the wild stories told by people just like he had become, but he was older now. Kirby had accepted the cold, hard, cryptid-less facts of reality.

“Ms. Lesky says that the parks department denies it was a cryptid. Is that right?”

“Yeah, we do.”

“So, what do you think that is in her footage?”

“It was a bear. I told Ms. Lesky that, just as I’m tellin' you now, just as I’ll tell anyone else who comes ‘round here asking.”

Kirby glanced down at highlighted note from his interview with Renee. “She claims that the parks service won’t admit she capture footage of a bigfoot because, quote, ‘the government is conspiring to control, both the knowledge available to folks and this majestic being living out in the wilds of Kepler.’ End quote.”

Newton stared at him.

Kirby threw up on hand. “Her words! The Lamplighter does not endorse those views.”

“Right.” He leaned forwards and rested his arms on the desk, his chair squeaking under him. “I can safely promise you, Mr. Kirby, that I am not a part of any government conspiracy. And I’m for sure not following government orders to hide animals from the public.

“I have an appreciation for flora and fauna—they’re precious things, and with the dangers facing their dwindling numbers, no on would be more happy to discover new critters runnin’ around in the woods than me or my fellow rangers. I would love it if this were somethin’ other than your average black bear. But it ain’t.”

He rose from the desk, and although Duck Newton wasn’t a tall man, he had this presence that seemed to loom over the room. It was unsettling. Kirby tried not to squirm in his seat.

Newton reached behind him to grab the hat hung from a row of hooks on the wall, then stepped towards the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me Mr. Kirby, as delightful as this has been, I’m scheduled for patrol right ‘bout now.”

Kirby tucked away his notebook and stood. “Right. If you see anything strange out there, you know who to call,” he joked.

Newton smiled serenely. “I do believe I do.”

As the afternoon slowly turned towards the cool of evening, Kirby retreated to the Cryptonomica and its modem. Stepping inside the shop was almost worse than the muggy summer outdoors had been. Last month, the AC had quit, and Ned Chicane was still figuring out a way to get it fixed without spending the money it would cost. None of the windows could open all the way. And even when they did manage to slide one up an inch, letting in a faint trickle of air, that only managed to stir up the dust that seemed to perpetually coats the racks and displays inside. It stuffy, hot, smelt of old taxidermy, and all around uncomfortable.

But, there was internet and a steady supply of caffeinated beverages. Kirby could make do.

He pulled out his notes from the interview with Newton. It was probably for the best that he hadn’t been able to convince the ranger to let him record the meeting; there hadn’t been anything sensational, anyway, and this way he wouldn’t have to re-listen to and transcribe half-an-hour of audio.

Spreading his material out on the little corner table he had claimed as his station, he set to work. The Lamplighter blog didn’t need an update until Monday, but if he wanted to have the edition out for sale in the store, he would need to turn the copy in bright and early Friday morning. Which was tomorrow.

Well, he had at least six hours.

Behind him, there was a muffled thump and rustling, then the squeak of an unoiled door and heavy footsteps. He didn’t need to turn to know that it was Ned Chicane, emerging from his “secret” back room with what the shopkeeper probably imagined was an air of mystery.

“Ah, you’ve returned from your journalistic pursuits, I see.”

“Yep,” Kirby answered, popping the last syllable. He didn’t look up from his work.

“Are...you still doing that piece about the old bat with the, uh, thing for our legendary friend?”

“Mmhm. Same as I have for the past month.”

“Oh, yes. I haven’t forgotten! I just...wondered, I suppose, if you had changed your mind about using that particular set of events.”

Kirby typed the last few words of a sentence, letting his fingers hit the keyboard with a series of hard click-clacks . Then he paused. He ran a hand through his hair as he turned, and he eyed Ned. Who was leaning against the counter in his usual get-up (loud suit, bolo tie), with his usual showman’s smile on his face. Except, there was a trace of anxiety lining his face, faint enough that Kirby almost missed it, and that betrayed the whole look.

“What’s up, Ned?” Kirby sighed. “You’ve been pussy-footing around this story since I discovered it. And now you want me to trash it the night before I need it?”

Ned shifted on his feet. “I didn’t say that precisely, but, well, if you decided to...”

“Ned.”

He dithered for a moment, moving from the counter to toy with a few of the knickknacks lining the surfaces of the store. “It is a bit of a hot-bed topic isn’t it?”

“How’d you mean?”

“As I understand it, there are accusations at the state government. I shouldn’t think the Lamplighter, or the business that graciously hosts your fine press, would want to be associated with those.”

Of course. With all the bits and pieces he had gathered about Ned Chicane’s none-too-pristine history, it wasn’t surprising that he would be concerned about drawing government attention. A chuckle escaped Kirby. “It’s conspiracy theories, Ned. Just...all this—“ he gestured broadly, swooping arms over the cluttered storefront “—on a political level. Folks’ll eat it up, and those who aren’t already interested won’t pay it any mind.”

He didn’t appear convinced.

“Look, if you’re that nervous, I’ll be careful with my wording. Or put a disclaimer with the article, or something. But this the kinda thing the people who buy my magazine want to hear about, and I can’t just not ignore it.”

Bigfoot, as cliche as that particular cryptid was, had become a major selling point for not only the Lamplighter and the Cryptonomica, but the town of Kepler as a whole. It had been sometime since Kirby had first leaked that video Ned had faked (which Kirby was still impressed with the quality of), and even now, tourists would make a visit simply because they had watched “Bigfoot wrestles monster wildcat REAL!!” on YouTube.

Ned made a thoughtful noise, and stared at a spot on the wall over Kirby’s head while his brow furrowed deeper. Just as he looked about to respond, the bell over the entrance jingled. And in rushed a large bear of a man—larger even than Ned—all stomping boots and frantic calls.

“Ned! You gotta talk to—“

His eyes landed on Kirby, tucked away in the almost-hidden corner of the room, and the man jerked to a stop. His words cut off sharply, and the man began to stumble, apparently having tripped over his feet. His arms windmilled, as Ned stepped forwards to help him catch his balance.

“Barclay!” Ned boomed, a little too jovial to be sincere. “How wonderful to see you here, right now!”

“Um, thanks.” The man—Barclay—glanced back towards Kirby again. “Ah. Um. Hi, um.”

“Hey,” Kirby said, with an uncertain wave.

Barclay turned back to Ned. “Can I...talk with you privately?”

And that was Kirby’s cue to turn back to his computer and ignore the whole deal. Ned was up to something shady; water was wet, more news at eleven. As curious as he might be about...whatever it was that was going on, the less he knew about Ned’s back-door business, the more he could deny involvement in when the cops showed up.

The two murmured in low, indiscernible tones for a few moments, while Kirby pointedly did not try to listen. Before long, Ned spoke up and announced that he would be going out for a bit.

Kirby smiled politely. “Sure thing. I’ll keep an eye on the place while I’m here.”

They left, quickly, and Kirby caught Barclay glancing at him a few times as the two headed out the door. Weird, but—Kirby shook his head, rising to grab a can from the vending machine. Ned’s definitely-illegal shenanigans were his own problem, and Kirby had an article to write.

“Looks like your fangirl is talking again.”

A copy of the Lamplighter slapped on the table. Loudly. Three of the four people gathered around the table jumped, then all shrunk under the glare Mama directed at them.

The Pine Guard—the vital line of defense protecting the alliance between Earth and Sylvan, ensuing the harmony and safety of both worlds—had been rounded up like a group children called the the principal’s office.

Mama leaned against the table, still glaring. “And let’s pray you haven’t got a reporter fanboy now.”

Barclay was not having a very good day. Or week. Or month. The last four months, actually, had not been especially wonderful. Somehow, everything was managing to grow worse and worse.

He glanced at the Zine, then began studying the grain in the table intently. The copy had landed cover up, and out from the grainy still-photo stared a familiar, fur-covered figure. He remembered the moment. The image didn’t fully capture the shock and horror he had felt, or the panicked way he had tried fall behind a tree for cover.

“What were you doing?” Aubrey asked. Barclay didn’t look, but he could imagine her leaning over the table and peering at the picture with delight.

“Yes,” Mama snapped. “What were you doing?”

Barclay dared a peek up, just enough to see her arms folded disapprovingly across her chest. “It...the crane position,” he muttered, and instantly regretted it. Exercise—he should have just said exercise .

“And you needed to do this undisguised? Outside? Where God an’ every hiker with a smartphone can see you?” Mama demanded, at the same time Aubrey hooted, “ Nude yoga? ”

Well. This was the moment he would die. He had always hoped he would go out in some brave way, in the line of duty for the Pine Guard, but apparently whatever deity was out there had a cruel, cruel sense of humor.

Barclay hunched into his shoulders. If only, he wished he wished desperately, he could snap his fingers, like he was Aubrey doing a magic show. A cloud of smoke, and, poof, he would make himself and this whole situation disappear.

“It wasn’t like that,” he muttered, for all the good that might do.

Someone snorted—Ned, probably, since it didn’t sound like Aubrey, and Duck had seemed less amused by the situation than the other two. Barclay ducked his head lower.

“You,” Mama hissed, voice like a sharped, swinging scythe. “Ned Chicane. Care to explain how this ended up not only published and for sale in your store, but on the front page?”

Ned defended himself, claiming it would have been more suspicious if he had refused to let Kirby print that. He went on, but Barclay was doing his best to block out the rest of the meeting. Duck spoke up, at one point, saying he’d do his best to keep Renee Lesky from raising too much trouble, but that she seemed determined enough to take extreme measures.

Extreme measures . Barclay hoped that meant she would continue trying to spread her story, and not that the woman would take to wandering the wilds of the Monongahela, calling for him.

“It’ll blow over soon,” Ned insisted.

“Better hope so!” Mama hit her palm against the table, and Barclay jolted straight. She sighed, and finally sank into a chair, massaging her forehead. “Y’all just gonna need to be extra careful from now on— Extra. Careful . Ya hear me?”

“Yes’um,” the four chorused as one.

“And Aubrey, you’re in charge of spreading that to the rest of the Lodge. We don’t need anyone else messin’ up and givin’ me even more trouble to clean up right now.”

“Of course,” Aubrey chirped. “I’ll call a meeting with Doctor Harris Bonkers.”

Mama half cracked a smile at that. “Good. Now go on.”

They cleared the room, pursued by her weary displeasure. As Barclay stepped through the doorway, he heard her call him back.

He ducked his head back in the room, hesitantly. “Yes?”

Mama steeped her fingers, and peered at him over her hands for a long moment. “So,” she said, cocking an eyebrow. “Nude yoga?”

“Uh, I’m just going to go. Yep. Good-bye.”

Outside her office, Ned, Duck, and Aubrey were gathered just down the hall. For a moment, Barclay almost felt touched that they had waited for him. Then, he spotted the copy of the Lamplighter in Aubrey’s hands, which she must have grabbed off the table—and, he heard the excerpt she was reading aloud. Dramatically, in her performance voice.

“—the moment I spotted that majestic creature, I realized that there’s so much more to life that we don’t know. Life is beautiful .”

“Aubrey,” he pleaded.

“Take pride! You’re a majestic creature. She even says she left her husband after she saw you, you hunk of a Bigfoot.”

He turned, pleadingly, to Duck. Duck was a sensible person, right? He was a professional, who would take pity on his tormented coworker.

Duck clapped a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’m sure she likes you for more than your ravishin’ good looks.”

Barclay buried his face in his hands.

#the adventure zone #taz amnesty #amnesty campaign #barclay #kirby #duck #ned #mama #aubrey #fic #taz spoilers #amnesty spoilers #barryjaybluejeans

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bellascag · 3 years

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Interview with Instagram influencer and Onlyfans user, Odessa

1. What are your overall thoughts of body hair on women?

I think body hair on women is just as natural as body hair on men and I would like to see women embrace it as a part of their body when regarding their femininity

2. Why do you grow your body hair?

I grow my body hair because I do not believe a body hair removal ritual is worthy of my time.

3. How does being open with your body hair make you feel?

It makes me feel extremely confident to be open with my body here because I have had to make no exchanges or compromises about who I am even when revealing some thing that is stereo typically excluded from beauty.

4. Have you always been confident about your body hair and not shaven?

I have not always been body hair confident. Especially as a teenager I felt ashamed of my body hair and I experimented with plucking waxing shaving and electric razors.

5. What are your first body hair stories?

A. I had gone to a swimming pool at a friends house when I was 12 and her and her dad BOTH teased me for having unshaven legs and I went home and shaved my legs for the first time with my one of my parents razors. Yuck! I was very embarrassed and felt like I was late to the shaving game even though I hadn’t even thought of it before.

B. The first time I noticed armpit hair on a woman was a counselor as a teenager and she was very proud of it and confident and I was in awe of her. That’s when it first started growing it out, although it would still be years before I completely stopped and my armpits were the last of my body hair that I discontinued shaving.

C. For a long time I was secretly hairy. I only shaved if it was showing and that didn’t include my legs. I only shaved or trimmed if I was going to be on a date. What exposing my under arms. It is my belief that most women are similar.

6. What inspired you to make an onlyfans and an instagram and where did this journey start?

It’s actually kind of a funny story. I posted about being body hair confident in a affirmation group on Facebook and encourage other people to share their photos. It was a simple selfie with under arm hair visible. I was invited to a group about hairy women and from there they had been encouraged me to start a page. I didn’t think much of it but I permitted him to make an Instagram fanpage with my photos. In a very short time it was clear that the page was a success! I took over the login info and was catapulted into a sudden confident position I had not expected.

7. What kind of subscribers do you receive on onlyfans? How do they treat you and your body hair?

The kind of subscribers I receive are either body hair fans or fans of natural women in general. Some are strictly fans of redheads and enjoy seeing red hair on other places of the body because it is exciting. Many feel overstimulated by the amount of shaven media available and another group feels nostalgic about body hair on beautiful women that they admired or slept with in the 70s. Some swear that the pheromone and hormone in the top mound of the bush or armpit scent is the focal point for their appeal. I feel I am treated well for the most part but it Also forces me to learn to discriminate between fans.

8. Is there a message at all that you want the public to learn through your openness with body hair?

I do want the public to learn the body hair is every bit as sexy as the body it’s on. Surprisingly it is women who have the hardest time with this concept in the audiences I have interacted with. I say it is surprising because women openly enjoy body hair on men without blinking an eye. I’m not even sure they realize they do it or that they are so ironic for thinking it’s so bizarre for a man to think the same. I don’t think it’s so bizarre.

9. What do the public in general, think of your body hair and your openness with the subject?

I believe the public is encouraged and amused because it is interesting if it is not something you were exposed to and that is encouraging if you are looking to be braver about your natural body. I find the amusement to be perfectly acceptable because sometimes it is through novelty that we make revelation.

10. What do you think of people who find body hair disgusting?

I think they have not thought it through. Man’s chest hair is pretty commonly embraced as sexy. Certainly hair is not seen as strictly masculine or it would be men with long hair! I also believe many inaccurately qualify shaving as a hygienic grooming process rather than an aesthetic grooming process.

What is the most shocking thing someone has said to you about your body hair?

I have been compared to many 70s icons, many of the mail! But I actually really, really dig that aesthetic so I’m not sure I should be shocked when it comes back to me LOL

11. How do you deal with negative comments?

To be incredibly honest I get so few negative comments! One of the ways I deal with this is by knowing my audience and not trying to break into main stream audiences. The mainstream audience members the trickle in are mostly overwhelmed by the sheer number of people who already except body hair. I love that fact! I think it pushes the message even harder because some might expect that I would be the subject of a shame group instead! Where I have been ridiculed in women’s groups I have also received incredible numbers of people sticking up for me! But I honestly don’t need it. Getting negative feedback is a part of the responsibility of influence.

12. Do your family support you and your choice to keep your body hair and to make it public? What are their thoughts on the subject?

Nobody in my family is surprised or shocked by my body hair but I have not made them aware of my public body hair presence.

13. Do your friends support you and your choice to keep your body hair and to make it public? What are their thoughts on the subject?

My friends are supportive! And I am supportive of their choices as well whether they pluck and wax everything are they unshaven like me.

14. How is body hair viewed down the generations of your family?

My Gran would just tell me I’m lucky my body hair is light! This used to be something that I believed was the truth. I feel ashamed of that now! If I were to have this conversation with her now, I would encourage her to embrace her body hair too!

15. Are you open with your friends and family on the subject of body hair? Do you ever talk about it with them?

It’s honestly not some thing that we discuss. If they notice it, they notice it. I stopped worrying about sleeveless shirts long long ago.

16. Why do you think body hair on women is so frowned upon?

I think that expensive and controlling rituals arent elaborate and having body hair suggests several undoings of those societal norms. It is such a departure from the Airbrush catalog that it’s hard for people to marry reality and their standard for media.

17. What do you think is the leading cause of the misconception that body hair is unhygienic?

If you shave every time you shower then you might assume that a hairy person hasn’t showered! Also I believe that natural can often be confused for unkempt.

18. What positives have you got out of being open with your body hair?

I am far more confident and far more likely to yeet a person who doesn’t like it. Nothing can make me second-guess my body on my body hair now.

19. How are women with body hair usually perceived in the public eye?

The public guy is the harshest. But I have to remember it is hard to everybody. The number one association with body here on women is the bearded lady for crying out loud. Next might be an association with animals. Yes these are cruel comparisons, which is why I feel this work is so valuable.

20. When you are out and about, do you get any public reactions to your body hair?

I have honestly not noticed any, but it is so far from my focus and most people are quiet observers LOL. I certainly do not hide it from public I even wear short sleeves that works sometimes.

21. How do you think body hair should be addressed in a relationship if one of them doesn’t like it?

Most individuals I have spent intimate time with are entirely neutral about it when it gets down to business, though some are intimidated by it. I think if any of my former partners were with me for my body hair they were too shy to admit it. I believe it should be upfront just like anything else. If someone tells me that they prefer shaved, I don’t think about them twice. There are more than enough people for them and more than enough people for me, there’s no reason I should entertain someone who doesn’t like it. If someone in a relationship decided to stop shaving And their partner had an issue with it I would encourage them both to investigate unshaven media and discuss it and see if it isn’t an issue with ingrained discomfort

22. What are your thoughts on having body hair as a political stand?

I think it’s a fantastic political stand, in fact my tagline is hairy girls from world leader ship. I hate the idea that being hairy or posting empowering photos or posting sexual photos should exclude someone from their own power and politics. I believe it is feminist I believe it is inclusive and I believe it is going to expand the definition of what ‘belongs’ in society. I’m hairy and I belong!

23. What are your thoughts on body hair and gender?

It certainly is a double standard, men’s body hair is allowed to shell and women’s body hair has been censored historically. I think that allowing women to be fully hairy is healthy for the spectrum. Women are allowed to be bearded and have back hair and hair on their bellybuttons Without sacrificing any bit of the femininity. I find it a fun mental exercise to feminize body hair, Especially when it is shown in the close-up isolated shots, because of course sometimes I am privy to seeing hair on male bodies. It’s good to rewire our brains!

24. What are your thoughts of body hair as a fetish?

I honestly didn’t know that it was a fetish until recently but I think it should be normalized. I feel it is an incredibly innocent fetish and in fact I think it is often about being intimate with a woman and seeing those vulnerable spaces.

25. What do you think of pornography’s influence of the “bare” look?

I think that pornography has shaped expectations of bodies. It certainly has shaped my expectation of my own and I battled many ingrown hairs attempting to re-create the look! I always found it last satisfying, much scratchiest, and more irritating then having longer softer hair. It is funny that I would prefer to appease a visual aesthetic rather than be comfortable! Luckily, many find hairy to be aesthetic as well.

26. How do you think pornography has effected our perception of body hair on women?

I believe that i don’t want women with influence who stop shaving or who vocalise their acceptance of body hair the better it will be. It really is women who hold the standard, men will follow. I have not yet been rejected for my Body hair by men, But I have been bullied by women. I really think more women need to throw out the razors and throw out the judgments.

27. What do you hope for the future of body hair on women?

I hope body hair comes into fashion! I hope that it becomes just as appealing as the rest of the body and a unique piece of every person to see how they groom themselves!

Questions received via email. 02/01/2021

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hencethebravery · 7 years

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Colin O’Donoghue spoke out loud in front of people about kissing Josh Dallas because he’s got nice lips. I literally can’t get over it, so here’s an AU about sneaking into someone’s house so you can kiss them on the mouth without inciting unnecessary drama. For the #CCsquad. @the-reason-to-sail-home @abbadons-little-witch @mahstatins

+ Honestly, it’s just as well he avoid the conversation altogether. It’s not as if he’d call his brother especially conservative per say, he just... knows Liam Jones. Knows that the man is physically incapable of keeping his opinions to himself—particularly those that might involve his younger brother—and he knows his own mind, how his thoughts tend to go maddeningly on, and he’d just prefer to avoid the inevitably wasted week that would follow. A week of waking up at the literal arse-crack of bloody dawn to avoid running into him. A week of vague text messages and convincing Robin to revise the duty roster. His own brother. The man who raised him, bathed him, fed him, changed his nappies.

Killian Jones, Lieutenant Killian Jones, a servant in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, sneaking his... friend in through the bloody window like they’re misbehaving school boys.

“I have clearance to sail on a vessel with nuclear weapons on it.”

David chuckles, his bicep resting behind Killian’s neck like a lumpy pillow, “Yes, so you’ve said.”

“Point being, I’ve got the ability to press a button and blow up the planet, yet I seem to be physically incapable of showing you through the door like a normal person.”

“I’ve walked through your door,” he sighs as he pushes Killian’s damp hair off his forehead, “Also, I’m pretty sure arming a nuclear weapon isn’t that easy.”

He plants a kiss on his forehead and Killian wants to die. Just a little bit.

“Go to sleep, Jones.”

“Trust me,” he answers softly, his voice heavy with sleep, “it is.”

When he wakes up the next morning he’s alone, the blankets tucked underneath his chin and he tosses them over his head in shame. What an unbelievable prick he is.

The first night he’d tugged David’s unreasonably broad shoulders through his bedroom window was the same night Liam had started bugging him about meeting a girl.

“You’ve brought them home before,” he had stated reasonably, friendly enough, not even pressing, just politely inquiring, “I just wanted to make sure nothing’s the matter.”

“All’s well, brother,” Killian answered with a gentle smile, “I assure you.”

They’re both in their mid-20s so it is, admittedly, a bit juvenile, but David, bless his oversized heart, insists that there’s something romantic about the whole thing. Something about it being just the two of them, feeling like he’s in high school again and your heart’s beating fast because yes, maybe you’re somewhere you ought not to be, but it’s also beating because someone is looking at you like that and it’s everything.

“Your shoulders barely fit through the window, love.”

“Yeah, but you like it.”

Shockingly enough, Killian Jones has a reputation for being a bit rough-and-tumble. Liam, being Captain as he is, can’t officially condone it, but he has to admit, it’s gotten them out of some close-calls in the past—gotten the men to sit down and shut up when they need to. You wouldn’t think it, what with the rather slim shoulders and clean shaven face, but it’s the eyes (that’s what Dave says, anyway), it was the eyes that gave it away.

“And when you forget to shave,” he murmurs, his hand coming up to cradle his jaw, “goosebumps.”

It was a bit hard growing up, without parents, raised by an over-achieving brother pushing you to do well, but you, know-it-all teenager that you are, being unable to get your head out of your arse long enough to understand that he just wants what’s best for you. Pressing your lips to a woman’s neck and feeling utterly alive, seeing Graham Humbert’s hands tugging at your belt and feeling the exact same thing. Sipping cheap, garbage rum on the roof of your shitty apartment building and wondering what the fuck it all means.

Using your fists to make a point since no one cares what you have to say anyway, since all you’ve ever done is push people away or they leave you behind and it had just been easier that way, hadn’t it?

When Dave had seen that old picture of him on Facebook, that Liam had posted, of course—that everyone had laughed and jeered at, because look at him, Lieutenant Jones, dressed all in leather, his hair grown sloppy over his face, and is that a hand-rolled cigarette in your mouth, mate? His back pressed up against that brick wall as if he were keeping something back, and of course, David Nolan didn’t laugh.

They hadn’t even kissed, not yet. A handshake that feels a bit too firm sometimes, a heavy hand on the shoulder, a longing glance across the room, but that had been all. Killian couldn’t be sure, and he hadn’t wanted to risk losing him, he had been too good a friend for that, and Dave had just stared at the photo, and stared back at him, and Killian had fought that heated blush with all he had.

“You’ve changed so much,” he finally said, his voice proud and warm, “must’ve been hard.”

Killian’s voice, the deep, older voice of a grown man, cracking just enough, “Yeah,” he answered, “Yeah, it was.”

The pull-out is too small for the two of them.

“It’s fine,” David’s breath against his neck, large hands down by his waist, “it’s big enough.”

And this ex-junkie, ex-delinquent with the dirty hair and the leather jacket and the sodding flask all out of breath and trying to get a word in edgewise insisting that he’s a grown man and he really needs his own place.

“I don’t know,” rising up on his elbows, his grinning face staring down at a flushed, rumpled Lieutenant, “it’s kind of fun.”

David looks like a golden retriever puppy when he’s excited, and the furious teenager that stays hidden away under years of formal navy training cannot believe that Killian “Hook” Jones would sink so low as to associate with such an absolute sap.

He catches David’s own disproportionately slim hips between his thighs and manages to execute a surprisingly smooth flip, his own hands coming up to catch his wrists before he can interfere, “Must you be so infuriatingly optimistic?”

“I must,” answering with a smile, “it’s all 80s grunge and David Lynch movies in there,” gesturing towards Killian’s chest with his head, “the least I can do is appreciate the couch.”

“I’ve had this couch since Liam dragged it in off the street when we were kids,” their lips hovering teasingly against one another’s, barely a space of breath between them, “I’d watch for lice if I were you.”

Laughing and wrestling and falling off the old couch that is too small for them and David Nolan really doesn’t deserve the bedroom window.

“How do that man’s shoulders even fit through that window?”

Killian whips his head back around to his brother leaning up against the kitchen counter, watching their friends loudly yelling at the television, spilling beer all over the carpet that he had just cleaned for Christ’s sake.

“What did you just say?”

“I imagine it’s sort of amusing, actually. Shoulders like that. Small window. Like Marilyn Monroe in that film, the one with the singing?”

“Sure, that narrows it down, brother.”

He’s still trying to figure out if he can escape the minefield of this conversation, glancing over at the den trying to catch David’s eyes but the man is totally enamored by the game, and he would appear to be adrift in a sea of overprotective, vaguely patronizing concern.

“He would probably feel much more comfortable walking through our human-sized door, wouldn’t you say?”

Killian pauses, his fingers nervously picking at the wet label of his beer, trying to ignore the uncomfortable sensation that comes with actually breaking a sweat.

“...I suppose.”

“Let him use the door, Killian,” Liam says finally, his eyes crinkling happily at the corners, “and buy a bloody bed.”

#ouat ff #cc ff #cc fanfic #captain charming #cc: saved my life #@hencethewriter

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pagerunner-j · 7 years

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With everything that’s been going on I admit I’m too worn down to trust myself with a final revision on this, let alone a title, so the fic below is not on AO3 yet. It’ll get there. Eventually. In the meantime, though, I wanted to write and share something, so have a Critical Role vignette.

In brief, it’s early in Keyleth and Vax’s relationship, and Keyleth has just come to Percy with a question about it...

Percy was alone in his workshop when Keyleth found him for what he’d later refer to as That Conversation. And his solitude was a mercy, really, because when she greeted him, fumbled through the half-hearted beginnings of polite conversation, then blurted out, “I need to ask you some advice. About…sex,” he made the most undignified sound imaginable, and almost dropped a hammer on his foot.

It had been an uneventful evening up until that point. Percy had been catching up on some weapon repairs and minor improvements: nothing glamorous, just odd jobs and necessities. He hadn’t prepared for company, and in fact had thought the door was locked for safety’s sake. Still, here was Keyleth, looking like she’d been preparing for sleep before restlessly wandering off. Her circlet was absent, her hair was loose, and, to Percy’s horror, her feet were bare. He tried to shoo her back from the metal shavings all around him even as he asked at an unfortunately high pitch, “What?”

“I know, I know, that came out of nowhere. I’m sorry. But I…I’ve had a lot on my mind. And I wanted to talk to someone. Because…there’s Vax. And I’m not sure how to go about this, and…”

Percy took in her anxious expression and a deep breath all at once. This was happening. This of all conversations was suddenly happening. He rubbed one hand over his face. “All right. Let’s…slow down. I’m going to finish what I was doing before something explodes, and you can sit there, on that bench, and then when I’m done we’ll talk about whatever exactly is troubling you. Does that sound good?”

“Yes.” She nodded perhaps a bit too quickly. “Okay.”

“Right.” Percy looked at her a moment longer, then turned sharply to his worktable to square away his equipment. By the time he was done and had shrugged off his protective leathers, leaving him in an admittedly sweaty shirt and with soot probably smudged every which way, Keyleth was seated, and had moved on to worrying at her hair and tracing patterns across the dusty floor with one big toe. Percy brushed his hands clean on a nearby cloth and sat beside her. For a second both of them just thought.

Finally he said, “I’m sorry if I was abrupt just then, but you took me rather aback, and I have to ask…”

“Why I asked you?”

“Well, that and other things.”

Keyleth nodded and let both hands fall into her lap. “I guess I’ll start over. So. You know Vax and I have kind of started a relationship. Thing. Obviously.”

“Yes, that was a bit noticeable.”

“And we’ve kissed, and that was nice, and we’ve cuddled, and that was nice, and there’ve been a few other things—“

“I’m willing to take your word on that without exhaustive detail.”

“But I’ve never done this before.” Her expression turned both concerned and annoyed. “I mean, I know how it works, I’m not stupid. It’s not considered shameful among the Ashari to discuss our bodies, we’re taught how to be responsible and respectful, I know my cantrips, but it’s just…complicated, when it’s new. And I want to figure out how to make it good more than only knowing the basics. You know?”

Percy wasn’t sure whether to nod in understanding or feel more alarmed at what his part in this conversation was expected to be. He settled for saying, “Um, yes?”

“But I had no idea who to ask.” She shook her head. “I mean, I can’t talk to Vex, not about her brother. She’ll just pretend to vomit. Or actually vomit.”

“Either seem likely.”

“And I’d be fine with asking Pike”—which she said casually enough that Percy had an unusually vivid moment of contemplating their cleric’s sex life, which he made himself stop immediately—“but she’s not here. So I started thinking maybe I should talk to one of the boys instead, to get your perspective? But…that leaves me with Grog. Or Scanlan.”

Percy said faintly, “Dear gods, don’t start with Scanlan.”

“Or there’s you.” She gave him a faintly wistful smile. “And I trust you.”

“Well.” A little flicker of feeling, fond and also wistful in an odd sort of way, went through him. “That’s dreadfully misguided of you, but I suppose I should be flattered.”

Keyleth nudged his shoulder with her own, making a pfft sort of noise, then sighed. “So. That’s why I’m here. Asking for advice. Because I figured you’d know, and…” She stopped short. “Um. I mean. You do know, right? Because you’ve never actually talked about sex much, and I figured you were just being stuffy like usual, but I might be assuming—oh, gods, don’t tell me I assumed…”

Percy knew, just knew, that he was turning bright red. “No. That is, yes, I’ve had sex, and no, you didn’t wrongly assume.” He cast his own gaze skyward. “And Pelor above, I was not prepared to be having this conversation.”

“So was it with women, or men, or…?”

Percy made another strangled sound. “Let’s set that aside and go on with saying I’m familiar with your general scenario, all right?”

“All right.” She paused. Percy waited her out, watching her work her way to an even more tentative question. “So would you say there’s anything I should do that he might…like?”

He opened his mouth, shut it again. Of course there were thoughts flitting around his head—bits of memories and ideas trying to get his attention—but none of those were the point just now. “Keyleth, I think perhaps that’s…not the first step.”

She sounded frustrated. “I need somewhere to start.”

“But that ought to be with you.” He turned on the bench to face her better, reaching for words as he did. He didn’t intend to say as much, but what experience he’d had didn’t exactly lend itself as a model. The best he could do was work with the evidence at hand, and the consideration he knew Keyleth deserved. “Listen. I can’t speak for Vax’s preferences, which is another point I’ll be getting to, but I know he’s aware you’re new to this, and that he doesn’t mean to pressure you. And”—his voice went slightly wry—“no matter how much shit Vax and I may give each other, I can trust without reservation that in this, he’ll be kind.”

“I know that. I just…I don’t want to be some fragile, wilting flower.” She grimaced and kicked at a stray casing, sending it pinging off across the floor. “I want to impress him.”

Remembering the awed look he’d seen on Vax’s face many a time when watching Keyleth, Percy said quietly, “I assure you, you already do.”

“Really?”

“Most definitely.”

“So you mean…”

“Just be you, Keyleth.” He meant to stop there, but a few more things slipped out, no matter how he knew both of them could be about compliments. “Fierce, gentle, unsure, powerful, however you’re feeling. He knows those things about you. He loves you for them. I have to give him credit for that, because he’s right to.”

She blushed and hunched her shoulders around her ears. After a minute of thought, though, she relaxed somewhat. She hooked her hair back over one ear, twisted her lips, then blew out a long breath. “So you’re basically saying just show up, wing it, and hope for the best?”

“Well, not just that. I think it’s more important to talk to Vax than talk to me. If you’re trying to figure out some sort of…of sexy surprises, you can get to that when you’re more familiar with each other.” He paused. “Why are you smirking at me?”

She grinned wider. “Sexy surprises,” she repeated, exaggerating his tone. Percy groaned.

“You asked,” he protested, a little despairing, and she laughed. Oddly, it helped. “Also a valid point.” He gestured her way with one hand. “Don’t make the mistake of taking any of this too seriously.”

“The whole thing is pretty absurd, isn’t it?”

“Sex? Yes.” He hitched one shoulder. “But it’s not without its appeal.”

“That’s how you’re summing it up.”

“You did say I was insufferably stuffy.”

“Not insufferably,” she retorted, but Percy nudged her this time. Keyleth responded by leaning over and kissing him on the cheek. Percy tilted a look at her.

“What was that for?”

“For helping,” she said simply.

“Well. Thank you. Although I’m not sure I gave you anything sufficiently specific.”

“You gave me enough,” she said, and got up, brushing her dress straight. Percy looked at her there in the firelight and pondered a few things in silence until she interrupted him with, “Besides, I did get some suggestions from other people. Like a couple scented oils that might be useful…”

Percy’s thoughts ground to a halt and provided him a too-vivid image instead. “Um.”

“And Synala told me a long time ago that practicing with cucumbers can help”—she gestured a little too closely to her lips for Percy’s comfort—“although I don’t know if it’s the season around here for those?”

“Keyleth,” he said, strained. She laughed again, giving him a broad wink she was clearly trying to copy from Vex.

“And here I didn’t even get as far as creative uses for grasping vines,” she said, before he started waving his hands and saying, “Enough. Enough. I didn’t need to know about that part. Out.”

She was still laughing when she ducked outside his door, leaving Percy alone and a little bit shellshocked. “What just…” he murmured, before trailing off into a chuckle of his own. All he could really think in that moment was, Absurdities, indeed…

After a while, he got up and went back to his work.

And although the room may have gone dimmer for Keyleth’s absence, at least the thought of her parting smile lingered for a while.

#critical role #fic #wip? (sort of)#vaxleth #keyleth #percy

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pinkrabbitpro · 7 years

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Late by Pink Rabbit Productions Author’s Note: I completely forgot this and only ran across it because @spaceshipsarecool tagged me to post the first sentence of my last twenty fics (I’m working on it), so I owe a thanks for that (or y’all can blame her if it annoys you...I kid, I kid, the horror is all my doing as are the typos). read it on AO3 Read it on FFnet

Cat was late.

Kara Danvers tamped down the unease that shivered down her spine as she barely resisted the urge to look at her watch again as though that would make Cat appear. Even fifteen years after arriving on earth, she still had issues when people she cared for weren’t where they were supposed to be. She knew it was irrational, that if nothing else, traffic in National City was problematic at best, but she couldn’t help it, she worried.

She pushed off any temptation to give in to guilt over her over-reaction to the stress of worrying about someone. Given her history, she knew it wasn’t surprising. As an adolescent, she’d seen her entire world die, then been separated from the baby cousin she was supposed to be responsible for. She still didn’t know if he’d even made it to earth. Added to that, her arrival on earth had come with a crash that had left several people at a secret government facility dead.

Pure luck and Jeremiah Danvers had saved her from government custody and given her a home, a forged identity, and loving adoptive parents, even an infant sister two years later.

But still, she worried, particularly not when something or someone was important to her. She had a deep seeded terror of losing the people she loved.

And she was falling in love with Cat Grant. Or maybe that should be, had fallen in love with Cat Grant.

It had only been a little over a month since the up and coming media mogul swept into her life at an art show. Cat had been looking for an artist to handle several installation pieces for a new office building. She’d been a bit frosty and officious, though she’d described Kara’s work as beautiful, then added it was just too overwhelming for what she needed. She’d turned a sharp gaze Kara’s way and inquired if she could produce something a bit blander.

The money was good and Kara was tempted, but she’d been honest. She didn’t do bland, no matter how gorgeous Cat was. She’d meant to annoy the other woman with what she expected to be unwelcome flirtation. That had begun and back and forth dance that had nothing to do with either woman’s work and everything to do with the women themselves.

And it was a two-way street. They were as close to opposites as two people could be, but could always find something to talk about

It only took until the third date before they fell into bed, and another week before it was painfully obvious this was serious.

Kara was contemplating taking her home to meet her family, while Cat promised not to.

Digging out her cell phone, she peered at it, checking for a message that wasn’t there almost obsessively. “C’mon, Cat,” she whispered a little desperately, barely tamping down the urge to fly and hunt for her.

She briefly considered calling Eliza or Jeremiah—not that there was anything they could do, but they were both good at talking her out of emotional tail spins—but her adopted parents had enough problems with her little sister Alex, who at fifteen was going into full on bratty-teenager mode with a vengeance. So far, that had included more than a little resentment directed Kara’s way over any time their parents spent with her that Alex regarded as ignoring her. If she called, it was likely to just start another fight and make everything worse. She adored the younger girl, and considered her a real sister, but Alex’s resentments had left her wondering if it was mutual even if her parents insisted it was just a phase.

So she put the phone back down, though she kept an eye on it, hoping for some kind of contact. When a bartender skimmed by a few minutes later, she ordered a whiskey sour even though it wouldn’t do a damn thing to settle her mood like it might have a human. It would keep her hands busy and the burn on her throat would be a distraction.

More minutes and a half dozen more checks of her phone passed until she was just barely remaining seated when a shiver of awareness slid down her spine. Twisting in the booth, she heaved a sigh of relief and experienced a wave of weakness as her eyes laid on the willowy figure standing in the doorway.

Kara waved, grinning when she saw Cat look her way, but every sense went on high alert as a wan smile was directed her way and the other woman almost seemed to stagger. Kara pushed to her feet and would have gone to her, but Cat waved her off and shook her head, instead weaving through the tightly packed tables to finally sink into the booth opposite Kara with a tired sigh.

Nothing about Cat’s behavior was easing Kara’s fears. “You okay?” she asked worriedly as she retook her seat. She peered closely, studying the other woman carefully. There were dark circles under her eyes and she paler than normal. “You look awfully...tired...”

“I’m...” Cat began only to trail off and start over. “I’ll be fine.”

Which wasn’t exactly a denial there was a problem. Kara’s heartrate elevated and she took a long pull from her drink while Cat signaled a waitress.

“Your usual, Miss Grant?” she asked politely.

Cat’s complexion took on a faintly green tint and she shook her head. “A cola...the real thing, with sugar,” she clarified, “over crushed ice and maybe some pretzels...something salty.

If the waitress was surprised by the request, she didn’t let it show. “The bar has cola syrup and shaved ice, if you’d prefer.”

Cat nodded. “That would be perfect.”

Kara watched the waitress slip off, then peered at Cat with a worried frown. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Just a little queasy.” Cat massaged her temple slowly.

“Headache?”

“Something like that,” Cat said distantly and took out her phone, quick scrolling through her messages with unusual attention.

With every passing moment, Kara found herself getting more concerned. Cat wasn’t always the most publicly demonstrative person, but there was a sudden distance between them that she didn’t understand at all. Cat had been a little off for a couple of days, but not like this. “Have I done something?” the words were out of her mouth before she could call them back.

Cat’s chin snapped up and her brows drew into a frown. “No,” she said quickly. She shut her phone down and tossed it in her purse. “No, Kara, you haven’t done anything wrong...at all...” she clarified, her voice soft and serious. “It’s just...” she trailed off and took a deep breath. “There are some things going on right now...” Again the words petered out.

Her drink order arrived, delaying any further comment and leaving Kara even more jittery. She thought she’d finally found something real of her own, and her instincts were screaming a dozen different warnings that she might lose it and she wasn’t sure she could survive that..

“Thank you.” Cat nodded to waitress, took a pretzel and began delicately nibbling.

The waitress offered a sympathetic smile. “Been there, sweetie, let me know if I can get you anything else.”

Kara stared after the woman with a confused expression, something about her comment, as though she knew something Kara didn’t, set her teeth on edge. Her hand fisted where it sat the table and she shook ever so slightly. Stress. She didn’t handle uncertainty well. She stared down at the tight fist for a long moment, concentrating on relaxing the muscles, and opening her fingers.

The waitress left, but Cat remained quiet, nibbling on a pretzel and taking an occasional spoonful of the slushy in front of her. Her gaze was distant, her expression unreadable.

“Cat,” she said after several long moments of uncomfortable silence, “what’s wrong?”

The blonde blinked and shook herself, then peered at Kara as though just remembering she was there. “I’m sorry...I...” She swallowed hard. “I meant to do a better job of this...but I...I don’t quite know what to say...” she admitted.

Kara’s heart slammed against the inside of her ribs as the realization hit her that this was about to blow up like everything good in her life always seemed to. “Please, Cat...just tell me,” she begged.

Green eyes slid closed for a moment and Cat nodded. Another hard swallow made her throat bob. “I saw my doctor this morning...”

A very tiny step from panicking, Kara fisted her hands tightly and managed a stiff nod of understanding as a dozen hideous scenarios occurred all at once. In all of them Cat was sick or dying. None of her terror was eased by the way Cat closed her eyes and seemed to tremble, her expression full of what seemed like terror to Kara. “What...” was all she managed to ask before her voice cracked and failed her.

Cat took a deep breath.

Kara reached for her hand and would have enfolded it in a gentle grasp, but Cat carefully pulled her hand back, her expression twisted into a rictus of pain.

“I’m pregnant,” she whispered very softly.

Utterly paralyzed, Kara could only stare. The truth was so far off of what she expected, it took several seconds just to parse the meaning of the words.

While Kara froze, Cat started speaking in a rush, adrenaline making her pulse spike and her thoughts run out of control as she was beset by guilt and shame even though, objectively speaking, she knew she hadn’t done anything wrong. “I’m sorry,” she apologized too quickly. She couldn’t even look at Kara. “It happened before I met you...I didn’t cheat, I swear. I’ve always been irregular and I just didn’t realize how long it had been and please believe me, I haven’t even looked at anyone else since we started seeing each other.” She ran out of air and dragged in a breath as she was driven to try and explain. “It was at a media convention in Vegas...he’s someone I’ve known for years...and I...I didn’t know this would happen and I’m so sorry,” she said again.

Kara couldn’t think, couldn’t function. She thought of the way Cat had carefully pulled her hand free and saw it as a rejection. She was losing again. Cat had gotten pregnant by some man she knew and he’d probably sweep into the picture and take her and the baby away. “I-I j-just want you to know how much I’ve enjoyed our time together...” Kara babbled, so busy staring at her hands she didn’t see the way Cat flinched. “I’m really grateful I met you...”

Cat nodded. “I understand,” she exhaled. She gnawed on her lower lip. “I...uh...I hope the studio showing goes well for you. You’re an amazing artist and...and I hope everyone realizes that.” She pushed to her feet with effort.

Barely holding back a sob, Kara nodded. “I hope you two are very happy,” she said, her voice a ragged shadow of itself.

Cat pivoted back, brows drawn into a confused frown. “What?”

“You and the baby’s father...I want you to know I wish you both all the best. You deserve it,” Kara whispered, her voice increasingly rough.

Cat stared, head cocking to one side as she considered her lover. She shook her head a little dazedly. “He loathes me,” she said with a soft, bitter laugh. “Thinks I’m lying and this is all some plot I cooked up to snag him into my web.” She snorted disgustedly. “Like I’m some desperate, obsessive...” She fell silent and a tear spilled onto her cheek. “Never mind,” she muttered. “This isn’t your problem...” she whispered and spun away.

“Cat, wait,” Kara called out before she had time to think.

Her back to Kara, Cat froze, so she didn’t see the other woman rise or even realize she’d moved until she felt Kara step up behind her.

“What if I wanted to make it my problem?” Kara whispered almost inaudibly.

A tiny shudder worked its way through Cat and she exhaled a tiny sob. “I...” she managed to croak, then her voice seized up and she couldn’t say another word.

“I love you,” Kara confessed. “If you don’t want to be with me, that’s okay, but if you do, then this doesn’t have to end things.”

“I won’t give it away or get an abortion,” Cat insisted. “I’m a package deal now.”

“I get that,” Kara said quickly. “And I want you to know that I would never ask you to do something you didn’t want to...never.”

Cat pivoted to stare at Kara with a sad look. She was silent for a long moment, then finally, she spoke softly. “Kara, I’m going to have a baby...I can’t ask you to—”

“You’re not asking,” Kara insisted. She paused to try and clarify her thoughts before beginning again. “Being with you is the first time in my adult life that I’ve felt like I had someone. I don’t want to lose that—”

“And the baby?” Cat demanded, incredulous.

“I guess that depends on what you’re comfortable with, but I like kids,” Kara offered. “I...I was supposed to...” She trailed off, remembering the baby cousin she’d been sent to raise and protect because even as a child, the computers judged her able to care for him. She’d missed him so much. She shook that thought off as she realized Cat was staring. “I helped raise my baby sister,” she said, switching to a safer topic. She reached out and stroked Cat’s cheek tenderly. “This baby would be a part of you, which means I’d love it.”

Suddenly Cat was desperately and unsuccessfully fighting tears. “Kara, I—”

“I’ve always wanted kids...and I...I love you, and I’d take care of both of you if you trust me,” Kara invited. She knew enough about Cat’s life and family to realize that if the father wasn’t involved, there would be no one in her corner. “I’ve been alone before, Cat and I don’t want that for you.” She stroked her cheek again. “Let me be there for you.”

Cat Grant shattered. She fell into Kara’s arms and dissolved into ragged tears, exhaustion, stress and hormones overwhelming her normal self control. “I’m not like this,” she sobbed against Kara’s shoulder. “I’m not some weak, needy—”

“It’s okay,” Kara soothed. “We’re all weak and needy sometimes....” Then she did something she’d never done outside of the bedroom and carefully gathered her lover close, then swept her up into her arms in a bridal carry.

It was a testament to how stressed Cat was that she allowed it and simply wrapped her arms around Kara’s neck and buried her face in her shoulder.

“Don’t worry about the check,” the waitress advised with a wry smile as she held the door open for them. “Just make sure you look after each other.”

Cat managed a muffled response that registered as affirmative in tone even though there were no actual discernible words, and clung even more tightly.

Kara pressed the softest of kisses to her love’s forehead, then she looked up at the waitress with a grateful smile. “We will,” she assured her.

And through it all, they did...

End

#Supercat #Cat Grant #Kara Danvers #Supercat fanfiction #Supergirl fanfiction #PinkRabbitPro Writing

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adultfuntimes-blog · 7 years

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And so the debauchery begins...

I thought you were different…

Well, you thought wrong Asshole!

You know how you know when someone you meet online is super insecure and a waste of your time? You can’t! Or at least not until you have wasted some of your time in order to find out. However, if anyone has more insight here than I PLEASE share!

I recently met a man online and despite the minor red flag of him only having 1 profile photo, I engaged after receiving a message. And also despite the 1 minor red flag, it seemed to be going smooth and easier than some vetting I have done. I am learning to be much more direct and to the point, if that is even possible b/c I thought I was already “to direct” and not flirty enough, but online flirt and real life flirt are different…I think…let’s be real I have Never been good at the flirt. I digress, that is another post entirely.

Back to Mr. Minor Red Flag, who we will now refer to as Mr. RF for short. Mr. RF and I got straight to point of establishing this would be sexual only. We got real specific about some possible fun kink we would like to explore. He sent the now seemingly inevitable dick pic to verify to me, he does in fact have a penis, and get my approval on its image.

Which we will side bar here just for a moment: Dudes, your dicks aren’t attractive!!! I don’t need nor do I want a picture of it! I need, and very much want, you to use it properly! Size is only a problem if it is like microscopic, even then you have hands and a mouth don’t you?! I mean seriously, it is like, every time I can feel the anticipation on the other end of the dude waiting for me to say something complimentary about his ugly fucking cock. It’s so desperate and unattractive. So far, in my experience, there has only been one exception in this regard, but that is also another post entirely.

Ok, back on track. Mr. RF and I seem to be well on our way to fun consensual adult time! That is until I ask for a photo of Mr. RF from above the waste. Red flag #2 goes up. Mr. RF sends a photo of his face with this context; this is me from before I lost 28 lb.

Ok folks, let me describe the two TOTALLY different people I had now seen being advertised as Mr. RF. The original photo, I am still not even sure was a picture of him. The one and only photo on his online profile, was an average height, brown curly haired dude, albeit w/a hairline starting to recede, but big smile, looked to be having a drink at a bar. If I had to guess the weight of man in photo it was probably 160-175 and he claimed to be 38, but looked a bit younger. The before weight loss photo he now was sending was of a MUCH older guy who was wearing a ball cap and based on the cheeks was pretty overweight.

Ok, ok Mr. RF I will give benefit of doubt that you want to shock and awe me with your after weight loss photo. So I assume to take the bait and ask for a current pic, post 28 lb weight loss. Red Flag #3, he claims to “not take good photos” and attempts to talk me out of said request for one. Well now I am on high alert. Not only was he clearly not trying to wow me with a before and after photo op, he clearly is more confident in older self if that is the image he is sending me and current self is insecure in himself. Which it should be noted is mostly annoying because there was a whole conversation about confidence earlier and it being something I am looking for and turned on by. Mr. RF boasted a lot of confidence prior to being asked to acknowledge what his face looks like. To his credit Mr. RF finally does send a selfie and he is even older looking, bald (although he claims he had just shaved his head for a friend who has cancer...riiiight) and still very round cheeks, no smile.

Grrr! Now Mr. RF has put me in the awkward position of having to tell him that this face is not one that will turn me on and not say the other thing I am thinking, which is that I assume the body that goes with it probably won’t either.

Now to clarify, my opinion on Mr. RF’s looks should not mean anything other than he is not MY type. It doesn’t mean he is unattractive, ugly, fat or any of the other negative connotations that we all put on ourselves upon rejection. This is where the title of our piece comes into play. After sending the photo he immediately texts “ …….” And a further sec later “still interested???” Well dude, actually I am not and for many reasons, your looks being only 1 of those. We have reached an annoying yet, I have a feeling, all too common dilemma. How to be honest in the nicest way possible, knowing any way you slice it, rejection sucks. First, I respectfully say that it seems like his online photo is either an older one or a totally different person and unfortunately I am not attracted to the man he seems to be currently. His response is “wow, I thought you were different.”

Are you fucking kidding me dude?! Different than what? You don’t know shit about me outside of what I REALLY look like and some of the things I enjoy about sex. What about that information made you think I would be the type of person who would not care that you TOTALLY presented a VERY unrealistic picture of yourself and that when I met you in person I would just fuck you anyway?! What about that information made you think I was the type of person who would prefer an older, heavier and bald version of the person I engaged in online convo with? Not to mention the fact that YOU specifically asked in that online convo, what is your type and I said, attractive, fit and tall. Which then you claimed to be since you had recently lost a lot of weight.

I’ll tell you what I think you thought you knew about me. I think you don’t view yourself as a very good looking dude and because of this insecurity you use an old, or I still believe fake, photo to attract women you find attractive. I think we both know I am an attractive human and I think you thought you might be able to get me to meet up with you without having to reveal your face first and that this was your shot because just maybe I wouldn’t say no in person or you could “wow” me with your personality. I think I confirmed your insecurity with my rejection so you then tried to guilt me into engaging with you by saying the terrible phrase “I thought you were different than that.” Again I ask, different than what sir? An honest human being?

Again, I will reiterate that my opinion on your looks is nothing more than that. Everyone has a type, which is simply a collection of their opinions of the things in other humans that turns them on. They are usually wide in range and variety. Using myself as a frame of reference; I like men, I like women, but I like them taller than me, in good shape but no need for muscles I just like someone who takes good enough care of themselves you would say they are within an avg BMI, I like all hair and skin colors. I crave intelligence and passion. I like politics and if you can debate me without being a dick or being patronizing, that fucking turns my engine on! I could go on for another page or more about things that can turn me on, but then I would be turned on and well that makes it hard to focus. So back on message. This does not make them right or wrong or in any way a universal standard for anything. And just to clear up any confusion, I have totally been rejected, know how it feels and can empathize with that experience on many levels. I have put it out there and been turned down and every time it stings, but not in a long ass time have I taken it personally. Like I said earlier, I know I am attractive human because that is my opinion and the only one that matters in that regard. I do understand I am lucky to have been born with an a symmetrical face and fabulous hair, #blessed. This has allowed me to have been lucky to not have to struggle too hard with insecurity, despite being a woman in our body shaming, gender binary enforcing society. However, I won’t lie to you or pity fuck you in order for you to not have to deal with yours. I mean a secure confident man doesn’t use a fake or old photo, a confident man doesn’t let some random chick he just met online determine his value in any way.

And we will sum up our journey with Mr. RF with the last few texts.

Mr. RF: I have to use a fake photo online because I am married.

Me: (remember that nuance I spoke of in Mr. 25, he was not married and claimed to not be lying to his SI, not the case here) Well there is yet another detail you left out, I don’t want to get caught up in a sitch like that. Good luck.

Mr. RF: you wouldn’t get caught

I chose to not further respond as I thought the ‘Good luck’ implied I already was looking for no further response.

Get some real balls Mr. RF, if you are unhappily married fucking get divorced, if you want to get laid don’t be deceitful about what you look like cause like it or not people have types and it isn’t cool to pull a bait and switch. I mean come on dude; I thought you were different than that? J

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