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writing-with-olive · 3 years

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The Stonewall Riots of 1969

1) Current State of Being (it was not good, fam, not good)

To set the scene, we’re in the late sixties. We’ve won the second World War, and suddenly everyone’s dealing with the fact that the patriotic frenzy America has been whipped into isn’t really having the same purpose it used to. Thing is, everyone’s still really heated along the basic lines of DEATH TO COMMUNISM AND ALSO COMMUNISTS. During the war, this was helpful. It created a sense of unity. But once the war was over, attention turned inward.

At this time, there was also research that queer people were "sex perverts" and a government report even came out saying

"The lack of emotional stability which is found in most sex perverts and the weakness of their moral fiber, makes them susceptible to the blandishments of the foreign espionage agent [...] the pervert is easy prey to the blackmailer.

This same report also cited a case of a gay man "who's homosexuality was used by the Russians [who were communist] to recruit him as a double agent before world war 1." Basically, the overall gist was that gay people were believed to either be communists now, or they would become communists because their brains were weaker.

Alrighty, but why were they easy prey? First, when it came to communism, they were just as susceptible as anyone else, but after steep laws against queer people were passed, blackmail became pretty real.

So... yeah, let's talk about a couple laws that were in place in the late sixties, shall we?

For the crime of sleeping with a consenting partner in the privacy of your own home you could face anything from:

A light fine

Five, ten or twenty years in prison

A life sentence

Electrical shock therapy

Castration

In addition, to target trans people, police had also dug out a law from the nineteenth century that was originally passed to supress angry tenant farmers who would don disguises and demonstrate against their landlords (law found in subsection 4 of section 240.35 of the New York Penal Code). The law stated that individuals could not wear more than three items of clothing that did not match their assigned gender at birth.If an officer thought you were breaking this law, they could arrest you and take you to a bathroom or similarly private location and have an officer who matched your presented gender either do a strip search or pat you down there to see if things matched.

Things got especially bad when New York realized they’d have to “clean up the place” in preperation for hosting the World Fair. In part, this meant a heavy crackdown on the gay community, and by extention, gay bars.

2) The Genovese Crime Family and Stonewall

At around this time, the Mob was starting to notice that gay bars were an excelent source of profit - since the prohibition era (1920-1933), limited access bars and speakeasies had popped up everywhere and since the gay community already couldn’t be themselves on the streets, they retreated to these more sheltered locations.

Three mafia members decided to open a gay bar because ohhh boy could you rake in some serious profit. Combined, the three of them put up $3500 to “renovate” the Stonewall Inn (which had gone through itterations of being a straight nightclub, straight bar, and gay restaurant in a sort of irregular cycle).

Renovations included building a stage to dance on, painting the walls black, and getting a jukebox. No running water, no fire exit, just the bare minimum. It certainly wasn’t legal.

When they opened (as a bottle club to get around pesky liquor laws), the bouncer would look through a little slat in the door and if you had a codeword or looked sufficiently gay, he’d let you in. You then had to sign up to be a part of the club (about a dollar) and write your name down on a sheet of paper. Of course, no one wrote down their real names.

The liquor in question was stolen, to begin with, and then heavily watered down with... questionably clean water, and then sold at about three times the original price in half-cleaned glasses (glasses were dunked in a bucket and then reused). Since none of the patrons really had high expectations anyway, they went with it. Needless to say, however, Stonewall was not a particularly nice place to be.

With all the money the trio raked in, a cut had to go to the Mafia man who controlled the district, and another cut went to paying of the notoriously corrupt 6th Precinct, to avoid getting the whole place shut down.

Because they were payed off, the police would only conduct their mandated raids early in the night before things got going, and on weekdays - this was when there weren’t a ton of people there, and it was easy to make it look like nothing was amiss.

3) The Raid (this is where shit gets real)

First of all, the thing is - no one knows why it happened. It just.... did.

On June 28th, 1969, at about 2am, the night was in full swing. The bar was crammed full of people dancing and drinking. The air was stuffy as usual and quite dark.

Then the bright flourescent lights come on - the signal that there was a raid and to seperate and to look less gay. The police came through, and called that they were making arrests. Everyone needed to line up against the wall and have their ID’s ready. Of course this was an issue, because just about everyone was legally not supposed to be at stonewall.

As the police began taking people outside, a crowd was going - raids at this time were... unusual to say the least. Some of the queens went into the back of the police cars without much of a fight - obviously they were terrified, but it didn’t look like there was much they could do.

One of them, however, and no one knows who for sure, was having none of this. Though Marsha Johnson and Sylvia Rivera have both been suggested as the starter of the riot, both have denied it, saying it was someone else. Storme DeLarverie, however, has both accepted and denied it was her. In an interview where she confirmed herself as the starter, she described her reaction, saying:

“The cop said ‘Move f****t’, thinking that I was a gay guy. I said, ‘I will not! And, don’t you dare touch me.’ With that, the cop shoved me and I instinctively punched him right in the face. He bled! He was then dropping to the ground - not me!”

She then turned to the crowd and yelled “why don’t you all do something?”

This was when things transformed. Objects started to fly. It was like someone had just punched a hole through the dam holding back the collective anger of the queer community.

A lot of the queer street kids, homeless, desperate, and with nothing to lose, were at the forefront of the fight, throwing anything from stones to pennies to bottles. Here’s the thing: no one really liked Stonewall - it wasn’t particularly nice or inviting or anything like that, but it was THEIRS and they were going to fight like hell for it.

Those being pulled out of the Inn started fighting back too - throwing what they could, kicking, punching, pushing back against the police. Marsha Johnson, a woman some have referred to as “basically a lesbian superhero” even climbed a telephone pole and threw an unidentified heavy object at a police car, shattering the window.

It was chaos and the crowd was still building. The flying objects didn’t stop, and it wasn’t like anyone had great aim - they were just as likely to hit a fellow protester - but there was a sense of comraderie and it made the police nervous. They were calling for reinforcements, but none were coming.

Finally, one of the police chiefs decided they had to retreat into Stonewall. They grabbed a few people as hostages and dissapeared inside, and barricaded the door. The inside of the Stonewall Inn was a wreck. The jukebox had been smashed. Same with the stage, the bathroom mirrors, and the cash register. Broken furniture was strewn on the floor.

Outside, the rioters had yanked a parking meter out of the ground and were trying to bash their way through the door, using it like a battering ram. Each thud made the officers even more nervous, and the captain, realizing things could turn from bad to horrific and deadly commanded his officers not to shoot unless he shot first. He went up to each one, commanding them individually by name, saying that if they shot without his direct sayso, they would be spend the rest of their police careers with only the worst possible jobs. To their credit, no one shot.

Outside, reinforcements finally arrived, armed in full riot gear - helmets, plastic shields, those club/baton things. They came forward in a full on phalanx. Then it started getting really ugly. People ended up lying on the sidewalk with blood coming from their heads or injured in other ways. The crowd started falling back, step by step. Finally, many of them ran.

But not to flee. Instead, they went all the way around the block and came up behind the reinforcement officers. Surprised that there was a new attack coming from behind, it was the police that began to loose the ground, and were forced to retreat back, back, back.

It was into the late, late hours of the night when the riots finally died down to nothing, the last of the crowd finally dispersed, exhausted.

4) The Next Day (aka a giant middle finger to the cops)

The shattered glass sparkled in the morning light the next day - a tribute to what had gone down the night before.

That night, the crowds around stonewall were huge. And it wasn’t just the queer community - the anti-war protesters and Black Panthers had joined in, standing against the even larger ranks of officers. The night before was a tipping point, but if momentum was to keep going, there needed to be sustained effort.

Inside, the Inn was back to normal. The Mafia had repaired the stage, gotten a new cash register, and even replaced the jukebox. It was if the efforts of the police had never even happened. Throughout the night, the queer community went in and out as though everything were totally normal - as if the police didn’t matter.

The riots were even worse than the night before, but the police couldn’t gain any ground.

Despite what was happening and the triumphs of the queer community, the press was a little less enthusiastic, aiming to diminish what had happened, taking the viewpoint of the police, or claiming the riots happened because of a celebrity’s death, and not the decades upon decades of oppression.

5) The Impact (how we got to today)

A year later, a lot of the Stonewall participants gathered to commemorate the movement. There were now several activism groups that had grown since the riots, but there needed a way to keep it growing - keep the flame from dying out.

One woman proposed that they have a march like the Civil Rights movement and Anti-war protesters were having. As soon as the question filled the space, there was unanimous consensus. Yes - they were to march.

It was terrifying. One member remembered fearing that only ten or so people would show up - that it was only going to make them into a laughingstock and nothing more. Indeed, many people had shown up with popcorn to “watch the f*gs” - it was seen almost as a show or performance.

But the moment was anything but. When the member looked back, in apprehension, what he saw wasn’t ten or the anticipated couple hundred people. No more than two thousand people had joined the parade. And not just the queer community - straight New Yorkers were there too. It was a moment of solidarity, and a demand for justice.

Every year since, there have been pride marches around the country, memorium to the community, and to the fight we’ve been fighting for a very long time, and to the patrons of Stonewall Inn who finally decided enough was enough.

6) Sources (because apparently trusting an unsourced tumblr posts is seen as an academic no-no)

(all in MLA because I just copy/pasted them from my research notes and also MLA feels official and all that)

Yardley, William. "Stormy DeLarverie, Early Leader in the Gay Rights Movement, Dies at 93." The New York Times, 29 May 2014, www.nytimes.com/2014/05/30/nyregion/storme-delarverie-early-leader-in-the-gay-rights-movement-dies-at-93.html?_r=0. Accessed 12 Apr. 2021.

Brown, Dalvin. "Marsha P. Johnson: Transgender Hero of Stonewall Riots Finally Gets Her Due." USA Today, 27 Mar. 2019, www.usatoday.com/story/news/investigations/2019/03/27/black-history-marsha-johnson-and-stonewall-riots/2353538002/. Accessed 12 Apr. 2021.

Burey, Jodi-Ann. "'It Wasn't No Damn Riot': Celebrating Stonewall Uprising Activist Storme DeLarverie." The Riveter, Feb. 2017, theriveter.co/voice/it-wasnt-no-damn-riot-celebrating-stonewall-uprising-activist-storme-delarverie/. Accessed 12 Apr. 2021.

Carter, David. Stonewall: The Riots That Sparked the Gay Revolution. 2nd ed., New York, St. Martin's Griffin, 2010.

Duberman, Martin B. Stonewall. New York, Plume, 1993.

Edsall, Nicholas C. Toward Stonewall: Homosexuality and Society in the Modern Western World. Charlottesville [Va.], U of Virginia P, 2003.

Kristi K. "Something like a Super Lesbian: Storme DeLarverie (In Memoriam)." The K Word, edited by Kristi K, 28 May 2014, thekword.com/2014/05/28/something-like-a-super-lesbian-storme-delarverie-in-memoriam/. Accessed 12 Apr. 2021.

---. "Something like a Super Lesbian: Storme DeLarverie (In Memoriam)." The K Word, edited by Kristi K, 28 May 2014, thekword.com/2014/05/28/something-like-a-super-lesbian-storme-delarverie-in-memoriam/. Accessed 12 Apr. 2021.

"The Stonewall You Know Is a Myth. And That's O.K. | NYT Celebrating Pride." YouTube, uploaded by The New York Times, 31 May 2019, www.youtube.com/watch?v=S7jnzOMxb14. Accessed 12 Apr. 2021.

(not in mla sorry) - PBS’s Stonewall Uprising (documentary)

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tagging: @veryunoriginal and @doggo038 because yall seemed pretty interested. Also my usual taglist: @candlemouse @bookdragonfanish @book-limerence

If you want to be added/removed from any of my taglists, let me know! taglists found pinned to the top of my blog :D

#queer history #lgbtq #stonewall riots #greenwich #pride parades #sources are at the bottom :D #sixth precinct #storme delarverie #marsha johnson #sylvia rivera #black panthers #anti-war protesters #american history #gay history #olive's writing vibes #guys if you could reblog this that would be awesome more people need to know queer history #yall are the best!

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warsofasoiaf · 2 years

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After all the stuff Glenn did in your playthrough, how high do you think he'd be ranked as a president? (Also which salon won in tomsk? They're my favorite unifyer by far).

Glenn would probably be thought of as one of the all-time greats, up there with Washington and Lincoln. The Mars Landing is obviously one hell of an accomplishment that would rank among the scientific marvels of a 20th century that had its fair share of them, but it's not just Mars. The SALT Accords help preserve the world from nuclear armageddon, the Iranian intervention and support of the Arab Democratic Republic out of Yemen would help solve the oil crisis (if that content had actually been implemented for the USA - as I understand it currently the Oil Crisis is only addressable as Germany, Italy, and Iberia). He successfully negotiated the Honolulu Accords (I timed it so it was one of the last foci I took before Glenn took office) and returned the Eisenhower Islands and Hawaii to American control without losing the Panama Canal Zone. I also took Glenn's anti-corruption foci and played it completely straight, not favoring NASA at all and going the "complete ban" route, and was able to establish Glenn's domestic legislation successfully, including social security and Medicare (without caving to drug companies).

Glenn's biggest detractors would probably be people who disapproved of his handling of the uranium mine handling. I seized them, which probably will eventually need to be undone as a temporary strategic measure following the SALT accords or be seen as unconstitutional. Followers of Michael Harrington would probably get annoyed that I didn't limit to a six-hour workday to compromise with the Democrats on the labor bill. Obviously, the Yock and Hall types will be furious at President Glenn, who not only united American society but addressed the issues that would have caused them to get elected in the first place. The bean counters probably would have gotten mad at Glenn when the Oil Crisis hit, but again, that's due to the lack of Oil Crisis content for USA - that permanent 8% increase is hard to overcome as far as budgets are concerned even if I was able to make sure my debt-to-income ratio stayed below 65%. Environmentalists too, would probably not like Glenn, since they were anti-nuclear power in the 1970's (and still have a strong anti-nuclear current today).

Tomsk is this playthrough united under the Dekabristy. Alas, they're not as cool as Sakharov's Modernisty, but that's to be expected. The Tomsk salons are imperfect pieces of a great whole - The Decemberists want to conserve and protect nature, the Modernists want to decriminalize homosexuality and provide education, the Humanists want to protect the working man (albeit at a cost of mass conscription), and the Bastilards look to establish healthcare to a population that badly needs it.

I've united Russia as most of the unifiers. While Tomsk is undoubtedly one of the more wholesome unifiers, I think Keremvero under Yuriy is probably my favorite one in Central Siberia because it combines wholesomeness and insanity in a very good way. How can a general going on a drug binge after his best friend betrays him, claiming to be a Rurikid, and establishing a decent Russia not a fun time? "King Rurik" not only sticks it to the Germans, but does so in absolute style. Same with WerBell, who is less wholesome but ten times more insane in a good way - he isn't the best unifier but he is clearly the biggest laugh riot. Given how much I love Metal Gear, making Mitchell WerBell III turn into Big Boss and Russia turn into Outer Heaven is just *chef's kiss* perfect.

Plenty of good unifiers though. Alexander Men is pretty cool. I think they're pulling Kosygin out of Komi, but he was a good unifier. Yeltsin was another good surprise candidate despite the hate he gets from the fans, and of course, Sablin is Wholesome 100 Big Chungus to the point that Trix shoots from his butthole.

Thanks for the question, Anon.

SomethingLikeALawyer, Hand of the King

#tno #the new order: last days of old europe #the new order

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thekillerssluts · 4 years

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Nostalgic For A Different Future: Arcade Fire's Will Butler On How His New Solo Album Finds Healing In Community

When Arcade Fire released their very first single, it came with a B-side that hit very close to home to brothers Win and Will Butler: a recording of a song called "My Buddy," credited to their grandfather, Alvino Rey. In fact, several generations of musicians line their family tree. While those historic echoes provide joy and solace for younger brother Will, the world tipping into pandemic and protests over racial injustice reinforced life’s darker cycles. On Butler’s second solo album, Generations (due Sept. 25 via Merge), he explores the ways in which we come together in community both because of and in spite of those ripples.

The video for early single "Surrender" represents that duality perfectly. The clip opens with studio footage of Butler’s band recording the jangly anthem, complete with call-and-response vocals and gospel falsetto. But much like 2020, things devolve quickly, with closed captioning-style subtitles mourning the deaths of Black men and women killed by police, calling for sweeping political change, and insisting on prison reform. Though written long ago, the album holds a special ability to tap into something boundless and timeless while simultaneously feeling entrenched in the tragic pain of the present.

Butler spoke with GRAMMY.com about the album’s similarities to Fyodor Dostoevsky, the ways in which songs take on new meaning over time, how Generations fits in with an upcoming Arcade Fire album and the healing power of community.

Did you have any hesitation about releasing the album in the midst of the pandemic?

I'm sad to not tour it. If I could wait four weeks and then tour the record... but that's not going to happen. It's actually kind of a good time to put out music. It feels morally good! People want music, so let's put out music. I've experienced that, where people put things out and it feels generous.

It truly does. You've compared this album to a novel and your debut before this to a collection of short stories. Is there a particular novelist that you feel would be in tune with your work? Do you take inspiration from fiction in that way?

It's not Dostoevsky. [Laughs.] But it is weirdly more inspired by Dostoevsky than it ought to be. It's the tumult of the 19th century, the next stage of the industrial revolution and the gearing up of socialism and anarchism. It feels related to the pre-revolutionary thing happening in Russia. [Laughs.] It's not a one-to-one comparison by any means, but it’s just the deeply human things happening in a context of the whirlwind.

Was there an experience that led you to the feeling that it was the right time to deliver such a politically driven album?

Partly, I went to grad school for public policy. I explicitly went as an artist wanting to know what's happening and why it's happening. I started the fall of 2016, which was a very bizarre time to be at a policy school. But I had a course with a professor named Leah Wright Rigueur, a young-ish professor, a Black woman, a historian. The course was essentially about race and riot in America. And since it was a policy school, the second-to-last week on the syllabus was talking about Hillary Clinton and the last week was talking about Donald Trump. It was a history class, but in an applied technical school, so it's like, "What are we doing with this history?"

We read the post-riot reports of Chicago in 1919 and the post-riot reports of the '60s, the Kerner Commission and after the Watts riots, and we read the DOJ reports after Ferguson and after Baltimore and Freddie Gray. And then Donald Trump got elected at the end of the semester. This course really trained my eyes at this moment of time, just being in that state of thinking about what's going on and why it's happening.

Right, and the album's title feels like it encapsulates not only the history that you were learning at the time but also your personal and familial ancestry.

Yes, very much so. My mom's a musician, and her parents were musicians. My grandmother grew up in a family band driving across the American West with her parents before there were even roads in the desert. Her dad got arrested a bunch of times for vagrancy or for not paying off loans. There's something very beautiful about being in the tradition of generations of musicians. That's a positive thing in this world. It's no coincidence that I'm a musician. There are, however, many more poisonous things that are also not coincidental that are rooted in both personal and political history. All of political history in America has been geared towards making each generation of my family's life better insofar as they're white men. It's been very good to my family, but that is as much of an undeniable generational heritage as music, which is this beautiful and faultless and glorious thing.

Do you see that musical tradition in your family as storytelling?

It's never been explicitly storytelling, though that is part of it. It's more about building community or building a society through entertainment. Entertainment is almost too light a word. My grandfather and grandmother did all these broadcasts during World War II, and some of it's jingoistic, some of it's incredibly moving, some of it's just dance music for people who don't want to think about the war for a minute. It's all these emotions, but still with this aim of trying to get us all in it together–which in a war context is fraught. But there's that element of always trying to make a family, make a community, learning how to bind us all together.

That reminds me of the call and response vocals you've got throughout the record. It has an especially gospel-y feeling on "Close My Eyes," which is such a clever way to paint a song about surrendering to something bigger than yourself, that communal feeling. What was the impetus for that narrative voice?

Part of it is just rooted in Smokey Robinson and the Miracles. [Laughs.] Years ago, someone mailed us the complete Motown singles on CD, just every single starting from day one. Even though there’s some garbage mixed in there, it just feels so human with those gang vocals and great singers that sometimes they just pulled off the street. You get the sense of humanity. Having backing vocals be so integral instead of just having my voice layered feels like having a community and feels very natural. It's hard for me to not just rely on that every third or fourth song. [Laughs.] It just feels like that's how it should be.

Those multi-part harmonies must be especially potent live in a room. Do you write in a way where you’re already picturing these songs live?

We played almost every one of these songs live before we recorded them. My solo band played "Surrender" live on the Policy tour for years. But even before we went into the studio last summer, I booked a weekend of shows. We did the Merge 30th Anniversary festival just to have us feel it live and have that communication. And then we went down to the basement to try to iron it out.

Speaking of "Surrender," that song took on an entire new life in the video. It starts out with videos of your band in the studio, but then quickly and powerfully gets replaced with messages mourning the deaths of George Floyd and Breanna Taylor and emphasizing the need for prison reform. You never know what life a song will have when you’re writing it.

That song is very nostalgic in a certain way. It’s looking towards the past, but not wishing to be in the past. It's wishing that we were in a different present because we had already chosen a different past. So when I was editing the video, I started it as a "making of" video. But the footage is from January of this year—five, six months old. There's this feeling of nostalgia, but also 2019 was not good enough to look back at. [Laughs.] 2019 was also horrible.

It's not like I want to go back to 2019. I want to play music with people. I want to be having fun with my friends. I want to be making a record. But I don't want it to be 2019. I'm nostalgic for a different future. And as I'm editing the video, there have been six weeks of protests of people trying to build something, and it just felt crazy to not acknowledge that. It was what people were focused on, at least the people around me.

Do you feel like you'll be infusing more overt social and political commentary into your music going ahead?

I think so. It's important that it's organic. It's part of the world I live in, part of my family and my friendships. Before the coronavirus hit, I was very much looking forward to touring and had vague plans to do town hall meetings and discussions. It felt like a rich time to do that around America, and around the world. I'm sad to not get to do that, but I think it will happen someday.

You produced the album yourself in your basement, so were you writing with the production choices already in mind or were you writing while in the studio?

I had the band come down and record for a week. And at the end of that first week, we had seven or eight songs that could be real. Some of them were clear. Some of them are simpler, like "Surrender." Others were trying to figure out where they would go. "I Don't Know What I Don’t Know" was more trial and error, trying something crazy. We'd turn everything off for two days and then come back to it and try something else. You try to be surprised by it.

I love revision. Well, I don't love it. I hate it. [Laughs.] I love the process of editing, of making a version of something and then finding something that's either better or worse. It's fun when you work with an editor that you trust, but when you're just doing it yourself, you drive yourself batty after some time. But I still love versioning it until it makes sense.

It feels like you're not too precious. You just want to service the song at the end of the day.

Yeah. I try to not be precious. I feel like the songs mostly came out with a fresh spirit. I didn't massage any of them too much. I'm very conversational in how I think of the world. Nothing is the final statement. You say something and then someone says something else and then you say something. And you have to finish what you're saying in order to hear what the other person says. So if that means putting it out into the world without rounding everything off, to me that feels right.

The record begins and ends on the same burning synth tone, like history ready to go around the loop again. What does that synth tone represent for you?

Not to get too mystical, but there's something about the bass that is so embodied. There's something about a really powerful bass that is fundamental, something that just gets to the core. I wanted that core to feel a little uneasy. It's not like the hit at the end of "A Day in the Life" where it’s this clear conclusion. It's a little bit gnarly. It's a little bit not in the right key for the song. It’s something disturbing at the very core of everything.

What has writing and producing this record taught you about yourself?

I found that while I still prize quickness and thoughtfulness and conversational life, this record took longer and took more effort than Policy. It was way less casual. It was not casual in a very good way. I realized this shouldn't be a casual undertaking—even though it can have lightness and humor and breezy elements. Even then, the whole undertaking can still be serious and grounded. It can even be quick without being casual. In the past, I've fallen into thinking, "Just do something first before you think about it too hard." But this was a reminder that you can do something more thoroughly.

Were you writing these songs while working on the next Arcade Fire album? Speaking about intention, how do you compartmentalize those two sides of your creativity?

Yeah, Arcade Fire is always very cyclical. We record for a year and a half, we tour for a year and a half, and then we're off for a year and a half. I was very conscious to do this in a moment when I wasn't distracted by something else. I wanted to focus on this.

I'm still figuring it all out. Right now I'm making a video for the song "Close My Eyes." I have children, two-year-old twins and an eight-year-old, so the spring was just complete family time—net positive, but total chaos. [Laughs.]

https://www.grammy.com/grammys/news/nostalgic-different-future-arcade-fires-will-butler-how-his-new-solo-album-finds

#Arcade Fire #will butler #interview #generations

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harlot-of-oblivion · 4 years

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What’s Your Pleasure?

You're hanging out at your favorite bar when Dante walks in and offers you a drink. There's just one problem though...you're a vampire and he's an infamous mercenary known for dealing with supernatural threats like you. But his charming grin and persistent flirting starts to stir an insatiable hunger, and you wonder if this handsome devil wouldn't mind being the drink he so kindly offered you.

I got a request for this awhile back and now it's finally finished! Hope you enjoy this late holiday gift of vampire spice! 😘

When most people think of vampires, they usually envision alluring pale creatures dressed all in black, enticing mortals from within their grandiose castles so they can slake their insatiable need for blood. And well, you cannot fault a couple of those points: you are pretty pale and no vampire in existence can sustain themselves without blood…but fuck that notion of always wearing black and living in decrepit castles. You much prefer the comfort of your brown leather coat, cowboy boots, and the rabble of a rowdy bar.

The smell of strong booze, along with the distinct stench of drunkards, never fails to bring a nostalgic smile to your face every time you walk into your favorite local watering hole. Times may have changed, but the enjoyment of excessive drinking certainly has not faded in the last century. You tip your brown gambler hat at the barkeep before taking your usual seat in the corner of the bar near the back. They know you are a regular here…they also know to leave you alone since you never order anything to eat or drink.

Fuck, I miss whiskey.

That is one crucial drawback about being a vampire that always gets on your nerves…well, there are many more debilitating costs. But hanging out at a bar just does not feel right without a bottle of liquor. You could always feed on one of the poor souls stumbling around the poor excuse of a pool table, but denizens such as yourself have to be careful of hunting in this city. A few mercenaries specializing in the supernatural work in this area, so your instincts say to lay low and stick to the shadows or the blood packs anytime you want a meal for the night.

A smirk curls on your lips as one of those mercenaries you have the good fortune of meeting comes to mind: Dante, The Legendary Devil Hunter and owner of the shop known as Devil May Cry. You remember the night he first entered this bar, how the very air about him instantly set you on edge. The patrons whispered about him being the Son of Sparda and that alone told you that he was just as dangerous as you are…which is why you thought for sure he was there to end your undead life.

What really kicked your paranoia into high gear was when he swaggered right up to your table with a cheeky grin, asking if the other chair at you table was taken and if he could join you for a drink. Not wanting to lose face, you let him sit with you that night…and a few more nights after that as well. You determined that if he really wanted to destroy you, he would have done so by now. And the more you chat with him, the more you got to know the laid-back mercenary.

After a while, you stopped being on high alert around him and started to appreciate his company. He is a riot of entertainment, quick witted and always willing to share one of many colorful stories about his exploits. It also does not hurt that you find him quite attractive. Something about that long red jacket really catches your eye every time he steps into the bar. The sway of his white hair when he combs his hand through it, the white stubble on his rugged face, and that constant glint of mischief in those striking blue eyes. All of that together is a sure-fire cocktail of desire…just add the scent of leather and the smoke of gunpowder as garnish to really stir the hunger for a taste of-

“Speak of the devil…” you mumble quietly to yourself as a familiar face walks through the door.

Dante scans the modest crowd until he spots you in the usual corner at the back of the bar. His lips turn into that captivating grin you have grown accustomed to every time you are around him. He nods at the barkeeper as he approaches your table, signature red jacket blowing slightly away to reveal a couple of impressive guns strapped to his back. The more insidious part of your nature always nags at you to be more vigilant every time you see those beauties, but you are able to suppress that annoying instinct just as he finally arrives at your table.

“Howdy, Darlin’.” Dante nods his head with a wink as he greets you, using the oh so charming nickname he gave you after spending a whole night imitating your unique accent.

“Evenin’, Cowboy,” you greet him right back with a small smirk, drawing out his own charming nickname as you tip your hat at him.

You push the only chair left at the table out for him with your foot. Dante sits down and scoots the chair closer to you. There is just barely enough room to breathe between you two, which reminds you to not face him fully or else he might notice that you do not have breath. A waitress comes over and places his usual drink, a whiskey neat, on the table before scurrying off.

Dante lifts the old-fashioned glass up to his lips and takes a sip. The hunger for his blood returns as you glance sideways at him as he swallows the dark brown liquid. You cannot stop your greedy eyes from traveling down his neck as his Adam’s apple bobs up and down in the most delicious way. Your subtle display of yearning does not get past Dante though; he puts down his glass and shoots you with a knowing smirk, leaning in closer as his mischievous gaze bores into you.

“What’s your pleasure?”

Aaaaand there it is.

That simple question is part of his usual greeting ever since he started coming in here more frequently. He always insists on buying you a drink even though you always decline. But the subtle teasing tone of his husky voice this time around has your eyes squinting in suspension.

Does he know? If so…is he still hunting me?

You push aside your wary thoughts as you tell him your usual response. “It’s nothing they serve here, Dante.”

Dante lets out an exaggerated sigh as he lazily leans back against his chair. “So! How’s your night been so far?” he inquiries, sticking to status quo of how most of your conversations start off, swirling the whiskey in his glass as he gives you his undivided attention.

“Eh,” you sigh with a shrug of your shoulders. “Watching them drunk idiots over there play pool without an 8 ball has been kinda entertaining,” you point out with a nod of your head towards the pool tables. The highly intoxicated group around the table are now crawling on the floor, presumably searching for the ball they need to actually finish the game. “But other than that,” you finish with a shake of your head while rolling your eyes. “It’s been borin’ as hell.”

“Hey now!” Dante loudly interjects. “I’ve been to hell,” he brags, pointing a finger at the drunken display unfolding before him. “And I can say, with all confidence, that it’s nowhere near as lame as that sad excuse of a pool game.”

“Hmm, I’ll take your word for it,” you concede with a tip of your hat in his direction.

Dante pulls you into the typical talks that happens on nights like this soon after he finishes off his first glass; it usually involves a lot banter, quips, and a heaping amount of storytelling about his most recent jobs. At some point, you both start ranting and raving about how those idiots can easily finish their game of pool. He never fails to make you feel like you are on the brink of tears as you laugh at his stupid jokes and cheesy one-liners.

That is one thing you miss since accepting your fate in this solitary life: letting loose and having fun for once instead of just constantly stewing in your own self-loathing. It is why you did not go to another bar after your first encounter with Dante. You are just so grateful for his rousing company and his unforeseen ability to somehow coax genuine laughter out of you.

“You know,” you begin as the inebriated group decides to use a tennis ball someone found in the bathroom to replace the missing pool ball. “If they weren’t as drunk as a fiddler’s clerk…they would’ve figured out by now that the damn 8 ball is still in one of the pockets.”

Dante chokes on his third glass of whiskey. “Whaaaaat?” He looks at over at you skeptically as you point to one side of the pool table with a glass panel where the pool balls collect at the end of every game. And there, at the very end of the closed panel, is the source of all the drunken group’s woes. He blinks for a moment before a hearty laugh bursts from his mouth, gloved hands waving wildly towards the missing 8 ball shining brightly in the artificial light of the lamp above the pool table.

If I still had a heartbeat…it would skip every time I hear that infectious laughter.

“Well, Darlin’,” he starts as soon as his boisterous laughter dies down. “What if I told you that people generally go to bars to get drunk?” Dante tilts his head as he peers down at you playfully. “Clearly, you missed the memo on that one,” he quips with a quirked brow as he dramatically swirls his whiskey.

“I did not miss a goddamn thing, Dante!” you sneer back in agitation. You make a point of looking around the entire bar before adding an afterthought. “And I don’t go here to get drunk…I like the atmosphere.”

“Riiiight,” Dante draws out as he takes a swig of his drink.

A moment of silence passes. “...it still doesn’t change the fact that they’re also as dull as dishwater,” you tack while watching the epitome of human ingenuity unfold before your eyes. Someone in the group has found a black marker, and they are now writing a big number 8 on the tennis ball. Dante snorts into glass and you cannot help but smile at the sound.

You both watch the haphazard pool game for a few more minutes, curious about whether or not a tennis ball will actually work as a good substitute. “Man,” you sigh longingly, “I miss playing pool.” Your finger taps on the table as you look up at Dante from under your hat. “Wouldn’t mind playing a game with you if they ever finish,” you offer with a smirk.

Dante stroke his scruffy chin in thought. “I can do ya one better,” he proclaims as his arm comes around and rests on the back of your chair, leaning in real close until you can make out his gleaming blue eyes that are usually hidden behind his unkempt hair. “I just got a new pool table for the shop.” You can smell the fine whiskey on his breath as he boldly stares down at your lips. “Wouldn’t mind breaking it in with you,” he counter offers with a devilish grin as his eyes dart back up to meet your gaze.

“A private game of pool with the famed devil hunter himself, huh?” you wonder aloud while mulling it over in your head. The constant paranoia that always hounds you rears its ugly head for a moment, but you are able to stomp it out before it makes you flee from the bar. Everything from feeling the closeness of his body to the way his eyes openly stare down at you as they spark with desire rekindles your previous hunger for the dangerous mercenary. It begs you to accept his tempting invitation, convincing your obsessive mind that you may finally find out if this irresistible devil tastes as good as he looks.

You never break eye contact as you lean up closer, pausing when you feel both of your noses barely brush each other. “Well, mark me as a damned sinner cos I’m gonna need forgiveness after I kick your ass!” you exclaim with a cocky smirk.

Dante’s devilish grin widens into full blown smile. “Alright, you’re on!” He turns away to down the rest of his whiskey in one gulp, signaling the barkeep to cut him off for the night before pointing a finger at you. “But don’t think I’ll take it easy on ya, Darlin’,” he warns as you scooch your chair away from the table.

“Wouldn’t even dream of it,” you chortle as you stand up and walk around the table, pausing when the now tennis 8 ball shoots through the air and bounces across the floor. You are about to comment on it when your keen sense of awareness detects the sudden presence of Dante pressing in close behind you. The scent of leather and smokey gunpowder is strong as it wafts up around you and effectively rattles all thoughts about that ridiculous pool game out of your mind.

“And maybe now I can finally have a drink with you.”

All of your attention immediately focusing on his warm lips brushing against the shell of your ear. The titillating timber of his voice sends shivers down your spine as you wonder once again if he really knows what you are. If he really does, then he’s making this one giddier than a school girl, you mentally avow as your head turns slowly to meet his eyes. The hunger deep inside you starts to simmer as you see that hint of desire in his eyes from earlier unabashedly shining now. Your eyes linger down and openly admire all the rugged contours of his face as you reply in low and sensual purr.

“Only if you’re lucky, Cowboy.”

You feel a sudden rush of heat blast by you in waves. Either someone turned up the thermostat or I just turned on the devil, you surmise as Dante smirks in approval. He leads you out of the bar, and just as you are about to ask if he has a ride…he literally pulls one straight out of his pocket. You tip your hat up so you can get a better view of what looks to be a fiendish motorcycle.

Dante just hops on like it is most natural thing in the world and gestures you to take a seat. “You better hold onto your hat if you don’t wanna lose it,” he informs as you swing your leg over and sit snugly behind his back. You lift one hand and grip your hat firmly while Dante takes your other hand and encircles it around his waist.

“Am I holding you down too?” you tease as your fingers trace the outline of his belt buckle.

“Sounds like someone's eager to play,” Dante teases back, revving his motorcycle a couple of times before taking off like a bat out of hell.

You zoom through the city at breakneck speed, hair whipping wildly in the wind as you clutch Dante’s waist. The thrill of riding dangerously fast through the city streets is similar to the rush of adrenaline you feel while riding a horse at full gallop. And much like those old days you take off your hat and let a howl of excitement. Your sensitive hearing picks up Dante’s rowdy laughter over the blistering wind and you cannot stop yourself from squeezing his waist tighter, pressing your body closer to his back as you enjoy the rest of the ride all the way to his shop.

The devilish motorcycle, which is called Cavaliere if you heard him correctly, comes to screeching halt in front of a building. The red neon light from the sign that reads Devil May Cry glows like a beacon in the night above the door. Dante lets you hop off first before following suit, storing his ride wherever the hell it keeps it. You follow him up the stairs and step into a very messy office. Old pizza boxes are strewn about the floor and stray magazines cover a desk while a rock music blares from a jukebox in one corner of the room.

Such a sight of disorder does not deter you though as you continue to follow him up another set of stairs. He opens a door which leads to the aforementioned pool table. You can tell by the plastic debris littering the floor and the large box in one corner that this pool table is indeed very new. Dante picks up some of the plastic that is in the way and throws it all into the box before heading over to a rack of pool cues. He grabs two cues and hands one over to you, pointing out a couple cubes of blue chalk as he starts to place all of the pool balls onto the table.

“You want solids or stripes?” he inquires as you pluck a cube of chalk from one corner of the pool table.

“I’ll take stripes,” you reply while rubbing your pool cue tip with the blue cube, blowing any excess chalk off before asking your own question. “Want me to flip a coin to see who breaks first?” He gives you an absentminded nod as he uses the triangle rack to assemble all the balls at the racking end of the table. You reach into your pants pocket and take out one of your old coins.

Dante’s brows shoot up as you take out a worn gold dollar coin. “Whoa!” he exclaims as he snatches his own pool cue. “That’s some coin you got there.”

“It’s my favorite coin,” you explain with a shrug of your shoulders, hoping that he pins you as a collector instead of a vampire that cannot let go of sentimental items from your past. “Heads or tails?” you ask, clenching your fist and positioning the coin between your thumb and forefinger.

“I’m a tails kind of guy,” Dante reveals confidently as he rubs his pool cue tip with a cube of chalk.

“Huh. Figured you’d like heads,” you remark as your eyes slide down his form suggestively.

“Oh, believe me,” he chuckles as he moseys on down to your side of the table and stands beside you. “I enjoy heads…” His words trail off for a moment as he leans back and makes a big show of checking out your ass. “…but nothing beats the view of tails.”

You roll your eyes at his crude attempt at flattery…which oddly enough works since it does make that feeling of giddiness bubble up in your stomach again. A naughty smirk pulls at your lips as you decide to really give this devil a good view. You bend down until your hands rest on the edge of the pool table, which pulls your leather coat away just enough to really show off every curve and crevice of your ass in your tight blue jeans.

With a flick of your thumb you flip the coin, and as it spins in the air you sensually sway your hips to the rock music playing downstairs. Dante hums in appreciation as you look over your shoulder and give him a flirty wink. He bites down on his clenched fist as you turn around, holding out your hand just in time for the coin to land right into your open palm. You quickly snap it over the top of your other hand and reveal the results of the coin toss.

“Looks like I break first, Cowboy,” you announce smugly, moving your hand closer to prove that the coin landed on heads.

Dante waves his hand with a flourish as he gives you a dramatic bow. “You may be going first, Darlin’…but I feel like a winner already,” he declares with a flick his wrist and presents you with a single red rose.

You quirk a brow at the romantic gesture, but still reach for the rose after you pocket the old coin. If he’s still hunting me…then it must be in another sense now, you deduce as you bring the lovely flower up to your nose for a sniff. Dante’s lips form that same captivating smile you remember back when you first met him.

Damn, he’s good, you mentally praise him as you feel the fierce pang of desirous hunger overwhelm your mind and body. You fasten the rose to your hat before making you way to the racking end of the table to break. As you line up the shot, you glance up at Dante and slowly lick your lips, giving him your best come hither stare while you draw back your pool cue and break the balls.

The pool balls scatter and one of your balls goes straight into a side pocket. You relish the lustful look in Dante’s eyes as you walk around and line up for another shot. And that is pretty much how it goes for a few turns: blatant stares and bawdy conversation as both of you drive each other crazy with all the pent-up tension hanging in the air. You make sure to take it easy on him, mostly because you want this game of seduction to last. Well, that and the fact that playing too perfectly might tip him off of your true nature. You actually suspect he sees through this though, but he never points it out as he succeeds in sinking two of his balls.

You are just about to sink your third ball when Dante lets out an exaggerated yawn. This distraction causes you to scratch as the stripped ball flies off the table. He does not even try to stifle his laugh and you stare daggers at him while retrieving the stray ball. You give it him since he gets to place it anywhere behind the foot spot before taking his turn.

“Wanna make this game more interesting?” Dante abruptly asks as he casually tosses the ball in his hand a couple of times.

You squint at him, leery of whatever crazy nonsense he has up his sleeve…but then again, you are rather curious. So, you throw caution to the wind and take the bait. “I’m listening.”

“Every time I sink one of my balls,” he begins as he saunters on over to the racking end of the pool table, “you have to take off one piece of clothing.”

Your entire face falls flat. “Really, Dante?”

Dante brandishes the stripped ball and places it randomly behind the foot spot. “I’ll also take off one piece of clothing every time you sink one of your balls,” he finishes with a lewd smirk.

You perk up at the intriguing prospect of literally stripping Dante for all he is worth. He’s really upping the stakes…why though? That damn paranoia tries to make you see reason, but your lust for the rugged devil currently waggling his eyebrows at you wins out in the end. It may be a foolish endeavor, you thought as tip your hat at the man who may very know that he has stirred the voracious appetite of a vampire.

But how can I refuse such a naughty wager with the devil?

“You better prepare yourself for the ass whoopin’ of a lifetime, Cowboy.”

Dante laughs. “Oh Darlin’…I wouldn’t mind getting my ass kicked by you,” he replies to your taunt as he lines up his shot. “Especially if we’re both naked while you do the ass kicking,” he adds before cracking his pool cue against one of his balls, sending it straight into a corner pocket. He crosses his arms and gives you an expectant look.

“Lucky shot,” you mutter as you remove your coat.

Both of you continue to play with higher stakes now. A few turns later, you finally sink your third ball and now you get to stare expectantly while batting your eyelashes at Dante. He beams at you confidently as he removes his red jacket with style. You smile in satisfaction as a little bit more of his skin is revealed, admiring his robust arms as he takes off his guns and puts them down on his jacket.

As you walk around the table and search for a good shot, Dante rakes his hands through his white hair, combing out a few tangles before taking out a hair tie from his pocket. He gathers up most of his unruly hair and ties it into a small ponytail. Your eyes trace his chiseled jawline as you fully appreciate his scruffy face in all its rugged glory. But what really gets your attention is his very…bare…neck.

Dante turns his head as he stretches out his arms. The simple gesture shows off a very prominent vein below the skin of his neck. Your vision instantly zooms in on that point, eyeing his neck with scrutiny as the desire coiling below your belt begins to be pulse in time with the vein. You feel the urge to strike shiver all the way up your spine as your fangs begin to tingle and ache for a bite. The need to feed is palpable now and you start to regret not sneaking a sip of the blood pack in your coat pocket as the haze of hunger starts to cloud your mind.

“You know, I might have to charge you for the meal if you keep staring at me like that.”

The sound of Dante’s rather salacious innuendo snaps you out of your lustful daze. You look up to see the sassy devil staring at you with a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. Your eyes narrow at him as you bend down and line up a shot. He’s gotta know, right? you wonder as you draw your pool cue back and crack the ball towards the side rail. It ricochets off the side rail and unerringly rolls across the table until it drops into a corner pocket. Now you are the one grinning like the cat who got the cream while Dante lets out an exaggerated sigh and takes off his gloves.

A couple of turns later, Dante sinks another one of his balls and you have to decide which piece of clothing will join your coat on the floor. Your hat would be the most obvious and tamest choice, but you want to get back at him for teasing you earlier. So, you unbutton your shirt, letting him have a peek of your green cotton bra as you reveal more and more of your skin. You arch your back a bit to really accentuate the curve of your breasts, which earns you a wolf whistle from Dante as you remove the shirt and toss it over towards your coat.

You give him a pleased grin. “Maybe it’s me who should charge admission, Cowboy.”

The spark of desire in Dante’s eyes begin to crackle as he shamelessly checks you out. He walks around the table to line up another shot, ardent gaze never breaking away from your body as he draws back his pool cue. None of his balls make it to any pockets, so it is your turn to take a shot. It only takes you a few seconds to line up a shot and skillfully sink one of your balls.

Dante rubs his chin in thought before resting his hands on his belt. He taps his fingers on his belt buckle, teasing you for a moment before hooking then under the hem of his grey shirt and pulling it up over his head. The heady hunger you reigned in earlier threatens to take over again as your brazen eyes trace every line and curve of his muscles. You especially enjoy the sprinkling of white hair on his chest. Your fingers itch for the chance to stroke every inch of his broad chest as you sink your fangs into-

“Something the matter, Darlin’?”

Once again, Dante’s playfully smug tone knocks you out your thoughts. He is leaning against the pool table with that self-satisfied grin again. “Pff! No!” you scoff before bending down low until your eyes are about level with the table. “Just wonderin’,” you tack on while carefully accessing which way to strike your ball.

Dante quirks an eyebrow. “About?”

You line your pool cue up for a shot. “Well, you know what they say about a cowboy with a large belt buckle…”

“Bold of you to assume that you’ll get the chance to find out.”

You crack a smile at Dante’s saucy remark as you take your shot, cursing softly when the ball stops just a few centimeters away from the targeted pocket. He chuckles softly as he steps around the table and stands next to you. “Shut up, Dante,” you grumble as he lines up and easily shoots his ball into a side pocket. “Ugh,” you sigh while bending down to remove your boots, earning you a deep grunt from the handsome devil currently biting his lower lip as he ogles your behind.

“Something the matter, Cowboy?” You smile as you repeat his playful question right back at him.

“No.” You hear him pause for a moment. “Just wonderin’,” he echoes your exact response to the playful question. You hear his own heavy boots move around behind you, probably trying to spot his next move on the table while you throw your boots over to the side.

“About?” you urge him to continue as you straighten back up, only to feel an intense heat warm your back as a pair of strong arms entrap you against the table. He leans down and whispers smoothly by your ear.

“What’s your pleasure, Darlin’?”

You feel those lips curl into what is most definitely a sinful smirk against your ear as he leans himself even closer to your body. The scent of leather and gunpowder is back and stronger than before as it turns your mind completely into mush. You subconsciously seek more of his body heat by leaning back into his chest. This causes you to feel the distinct outline of his strained cock press against your bottom. The distinct rhythm of his heartbeat drums in your ear and your insatiable hunger for this shameless devil rears back, getting ready to charge headlong through the last barrier of your control.

“Alright, look,” you begin before babbling on as you try desperately to wrangle in your desire. “We both know what I am. I know it, you obviously know it. Let’s just clear the air, shall we?” You turn around to face Dante, still trapped in between his arms as you gaze up into his now triumphant face.

“I’m a vampire,” you admit while staring him right in the eyes. “And you look,” you inhale deeply, “and smell fucking delicious,” you sigh in pleasure, letting your control slip a little as you bare your fangs. Dante continues to stare down at you, totally not blindsided by your confession. His eyes widen at the sight of your fangs as fascination melds harmoniously with the toothy grin on his face. You clear your throat and gather your thoughts before going on.

“Now, unless you’re being a big ol’ tease on purpose with the whole showing off the neck and chest thing…” Your hands gesture frantically at the culprit of your growing hunger. “Please stop tempting the bloodthirsty beast in the room, okay?” You cross your arms and puff up your chest, glaring at him predatorily as you give him one last warning. “Because if you don’t, I’m gonna have to take a chunk outta ya.”

Dante leans in close until both of your noses are almost touching, lively blue eyes never straying from your intense gaze. “Show me whatcha got, Darlin’,” he cajoles with a wink.

Your instincts snap into action as soon as you hear his flirtatious taunt. You are a blur of motion as you quickly pull Dante onto the pool table, sending a few of the pool balls flying off the table on impact. “Whoa!” he exclaims as you hop on top of him and straddle his hips. He lets out a husky chuckle as his hands begin to wander up your thighs. “You’re a lot stronger than you look, ya know?” he points out as he grabs a handful of your pert bottom.

The sight of such a dangerous man sprawled beneath you is positively sinful. Your fangs elongate in anticipation as you playfully tip your hat at him. “You ain’t seen nothing yet, Cowboy,” you purr lowly as you grind your hips against the impressive bulge in his leather pants.

Dante hisses as his hands squeeze your butt, thrusting up to meet your hips as you take off your hat. Your hands slowly slide up his chest as you hone in on the pulsating vein that caught your attention earlier, this time letting it beckon you to come closer, closer…until you are suddenly burying your face into the crook of his neck. You hear his heart beat faster as you scrap your fangs against the vein beneath his tender flesh. “And to finally answer your question,” you growl darkly against his neck.

“You’re my pleasure.”

You hiss softly as you sink your fangs into his neck. Dante grunts at your bite, but you are barely aware of your surroundings as soon as his devilish blood touches your tongue. Your hands begin to rub every inch of his chest of their own volition as you slake your needy thirst, savoring his unique red nectar with every pull of your lips. It tastes a little like caramel with a slight hint of cardamom, and…you moan in pleasure when you recognize the flavor of well-aged fine whiskey. The smooth smokiness of your once favorite drink evokes memories of a life long ago spent in bawdy saloons.

While you are lost in the taste of his hybrid blood, Dante carries on with his exploration of your body. His hands sensually stroke your back while his hips meet your every grinding thrust against his clothed erection. He hums in delight as his sneaky fingers find the clasp of your bra. It takes him no time at all to undo the pesky clasp and gently coax your arms down so he can completely remove it from your body. You whimper against his neck as the hair on his chest tickles your nipples.

“Mmm, sounds like I’m pretty tasty,” he murmurs sinfully by your ear, fingertips gliding over the sides of your breasts while the intense heat emanating from his body burns like a furnace.

You throw your head back from Dante’s neck and force yourself to sit upright on his hips. An ecstatic gasp bursts from your mouth as you gaze up at the ceiling, letting the high from feeding wash through you. You feel his succulent blood drip down your chin and smell its redolent scent in the air, setting your more wanton desires ablaze. His blood sprinkles onto your chest and atop of your breasts as you shift your gaze down to the delectable devil.

“Fuuuuuck,” Dante groans as you smack your lips at him.

The simmering desire gleaming in his eyes ignites as he pushes himself up and slams his lips against your bloody mouth. A gratifying moan rips though your throat as his wicked tongue wastes no time slipping through your teeth, poking and prodding every inch of your mouth like a man starved. You wrap your arms around his neck and deftly untie his ponytail before combing your fingers through his messy white locks.

Dante’s guttural purr thrums against your mouth as he begins to fondle your breasts, smearing the drops of blood as he teases your nipples. Both of your bodies rock against each other, working each other up until one of you inevitably cracks…which happens to be you. You are tired of just feeling what he has packing down below his belt buckle, so you use some of your blood to boost your speed before getting to work. You ignore Dante’s yelp of surprise at you move supernaturally fast, ripping off his boots, leather pants…

“Mmm, going commando, huh?” you tease with a raised brow, admiring the very generous length of his cock as you hastily remove your pants.

Dante chuckles as he scoots closer until he is sitting on the edge of the pool table. “Thought I might surprise you if you did happen to win our little game,” he explains, grasping his cock and giving it a few strokes as he watches you take off your green cotton panties.

“Tricky devil,” you quip back playfully, wiping some of the smeared blood off your chest and sucking it off your fingers as you strut over to stand in between his legs. Your other hand cups your slick center, fingers sliding between your slit as you slowly rub your clit. Dante’s mouth opens in a silent moan as he watches you play with yourself. You release your bloody fingers from your mouth with a pop and trail them up the inside of his thigh. His steady breath turns harsh and erratic as your teasing touch gets closer, closer…

“I can sense your blood…rushing to your cock,” you moan, baring your fangs as your wet fingers move faster against your nub. You bend down in a flash and lick the vein along the underside of his cock from base to tip, dangerously teasing him with one fang as it barely grazes his soft skin. He grunts and curses under his breath as his cock twitches against your tongue.

When you straighten back up Dante wraps his big arms around you. “Remember what I said earlier?” he recalls as he rubs your back. You tilt your head at him as you ponder what he is referring to. A raunchy grin pulls at the corners of his mouth as his eyes dart over to your hand, which is now gently caressing the underside of his cock. “I enjoy heads.” He slides his hands down and cups both of your ass cheeks. “But nothing beats the view of tails.”

Dante pulls you up on top of him again as he lies back down on the pool table. He grabs your hips and prompts you to turn around until you are face-to-face with his girthy cock. Your legs adjust themselves on either side of his head, lowering your hips until you feel his hot breath on your aching sex. Both of his hands knead your bottom thoroughly as gives your slit a tentative lick, making you whimper in need before fully dipping his tongue inside you.

You gasp out in euphoric pleasure as he wastes no time devouring every inch of your cunt. A deep rumbling hum resounds from between your legs as you begin to grind against his face. You rest one hand on his thigh for support while the other grabs his cock and begins to steadily stroke it in time with your hips. This only spurs Dante on, encouraging you to pick up the pace as he presses his face closer against you. His scruffy stubble scratches the inside of your thighs in the most maddening way and you feel yourself leak and drip all over his face as you moan in ecstasy.

But this is not your first time at the rodeo though, and you're not about to be out done so easily.

You lower your head and gradually take as much of him as you can into your mouth, using your hand to cover what you cannot reach at the base of his cock. Your head bobs up and down as you begin to suck him off, languidly dragging your fangs against his shaft on the upstroke and flicking the head with the tip of your tongue before sinking back down. This makes him moan and groan against you as he licks you with renewed vigor.

The corners of your mouth twitch around his cock as you suck him a couple more times before taking him out of your mouth with a satisfying pop, noting that his cock tastes just as delicious as his blood. Time to show the devil what it really means to flirt with danger, you decide as you eye a particular spot on the inside of his thigh. Your hand at the base of his cock continues to stroke him as you kiss a path down to his balls. You lightly nibble on them with your fangs for a moment before moving on towards his inner most thigh.

Dante twitches in your hand just as he pulls away from your slick sex with gasp. “Whoa! Easy there!” He pokes his head around your leg. You raise your head and look over your shoulder, batting your eyelashes at him innocently as you circle the head of his cock with your thumb. He shakes his head and gives you that charming smirk that always stirs your non beating heart. “You know I’m a pretty open-minded guy, but-”

“I’m just messin’ with ya, Dante,” you reassure him with a soft laugh. “Besides…” you trail off as your eyes flick down, letting the silence linger before finishing your thought. “That’s not where I want to feed.” Your eyes snap back up to meet his eyes, now gleaming with intense arousal as his brow raises in interest.

“There’s this vein in your thigh,” you elaborate while sliding your other hand still resting on his leg to the appropriate spot. “Close to the groin,” your fingertips brush along the vein delicately, feeling his cock spasm in your other hand at the touch. “That is particularly…juicy.”

An impish grin curls on your lips as you lick one of your fangs seductively. “I hear it feels really nice to the one being bitten, especially when you pleasure them while drinking their blood.” You emphasize the pleasure part by giving his cock a few hard strokes, which makes him bite his lower lip as he desperately thrusts up to meet your eager hand.

“Whaddya say, Cowboy?” you ask with an enticing glare.

“Jackpot!”

Dante does not hesitate to splay his thigh out onto the table, grinning from ear-to-ear as he presents that wonderful vein for your feasting eyes. You nuzzle the inside of his thigh, purring in pleasure as his talented tongue goes back to lapping your wet heat. The coveted vein pulses against your ravenous mouth as his cock twitches in your hand, no doubt in excitement and anticipation. Your fangs gently nip the skin over his vein, slipping into a rapturous stupor as you begin to jerk him off in earnest.

You pause for a moment, taking in the sounds and smells before indulging in what is quickly becoming one of your favorite vices. This moment will be engraved into your mind for centuries to come. You will never forget the tingling sensation that flows through your body as you sense his blood running through his veins. Dante groans impatiently as he grinds his hips up to meet every downward stroke of your hand. You smile at his enthusiasm and decide to stop teasing…and start pleasing.

A tender kiss, a soft hiss…and then you strike. As soon as you sink your fangs into his thigh, Dante groans loudly in relief, hips stilling for a moment while you gulp down a mouthful of his delectable nectar. Your grip on his cock tightens as you slide your hand all the way up the shaft. You swipe some drops of precum with your thumb and spread it around the head of his cock, feeling his soft skin harden at your erotic touch.

Dante’s hips start to fidget, silently urging you to go back to jerking him off as he begins to moan with abandon. His tongue slips down and rapidly flicks your clit, doing what feels like his damnedest to make you come before him. Your hand sets a fervent pace, stroking him in time with every deep draw of his intoxicating blood. It does not take long for his cock to become impossibly rock hard, slowly swelling in your hand as you gorge yourself on his blood with gusto. His throaty moans increase in volume when you pick up the pace, secretly trying to push him over the edge first.

But it seems Dante has other plans. You feel his mouth leave your dripping wet heat and replace his tongue with two of his fingers. He pumps them with fervor inside you as he nibbles the inside of your thigh with his teeth. A passionate moan escapes your throat while your cunt twitches around his fingers in anticipation.

“Mmm…you like that, Darlin’?” he murmurs gruffly against your skin. You sob and nod your head eagerly as your sopping wet core quivers around skillful fingers. He chuckles softly and teases you couple more times with his lips and teeth on your thigh, letting the tension build up inside you as it climbs higher and higher and higher…

Then, with no hesitation as all, Dante bites down hard on your inner thigh. You pull away from your luscious feast as a gratifying yelp of pain leaves your lips, but then a litany of enraptured moans fills the air as exquisite pleasure courses through your body. Your hips begin to hump against his relentless fingers, fanatically seeking release as your blood pours into his mouth. You hear him smack his lips and growl softly before licking and sucking your thigh with zeal.

“Oh fuck…Dante…” you manage to choke out as you stumble over the edge before your orgasm comes crashing down. His fingers continue to pump you for all your worth, prolonging your pleasure as you gush all over his hand. Your hunger begins to stir again when you feel his scruffy chin nuzzle your trembling thigh as he partakes of you. In a matter of seconds, your fangs are sinking back into his thigh and the hand still grasping his cock starts to jerk him off fervidly.

Dante groans harshly against your thigh, hips rocking up to meet your hand as you drink more of his blood. He becomes impossibly hard again before letting out a roar of satisfaction as you feel his seed surge up his cock in the palm of your hand, spurting out in hot ropes as his release rips through him. You feel drops of his cum sprinkle your back as you continue to stroke his cock, gradually slowing the pace when it starts to dribble down your hand.

Both of you writhe against each other for a while, riding the waves of blissful pleasure together before it sadly comes to an end. You detach your fangs and inspect the bite mark on his thigh before licking it clean. The wounds fully heal after a couple swipes of your tongue and you hum in contentment as you look back over your shoulder to see Dante lazily sucking your thigh. You shimmy your hips, trying to get his attention, but all he does is wiggle the fingers still embedded deeply inside you.

You groan and spasm around his slick fingers before leaning your hips away, shaking your head at Dante and giggling when he grunts in irritation. He sighs and gives his bite mark one last lick before letting you pull your hips away. You release his softening cock from your hand as you sit up on the pool table next to him. “Now that was one helluva rodeo,” you declare, grabbing your forgotten hat from one corner of the table and bringing it back to its rightful place on your head.

Dante laughs as he sits back up. “Yeah, it was,” he concurs as his hand cups your cheek. “Thanks for helping me break in the new table,” he murmurs with a bloody smirk, blue eyes glowing warmly as he leads you into a gentle kiss. You open your mouth and press your tongue forward, moaning softly as you taste your blood on his lips. His tongue quickly sneaks out and both of you lavish each other with slow passionate kisses for a moment before breaking away.

“So,” Dante begins as he stares deeply into your eyes. “How’s the drink?”

“I haven’t tasted anything like your blood for looooong time,” you divulge with a genuine smile, raising one hand up to his neck. “It’s been well over a century to be exact,” you add as you gently caress the spot where your bite mark should be, but the wounds have miraculously healed itself.

Dante tilts his head. “What do I taste like?”

“Like the finest fucking whiskey I’ve ever had,” you boldly confess with a happy sigh. “What about me?” You draw your hand away from his neck as you turn the question back to him. Dante’s mouth lifts into a toothy grin.

“Like strawberry ice cream!”

Your face goes deadpan as you blink in disbelief. “Really, Dante?”

“Yep!” His expression turns pensive as his voice drops down to that titillating timber again. “You taste niiiiice,” he compliments as he raises a hand and shows off the slickness of your orgasm on his fingers with a beckoning gesture. “And creamy…” He sucks and licks you off his fingers as those brilliant blue eyes glint with desire.

“Like the best damn strawberry sundae I’ve ever had,” he imparts with a genuine grin as soon as he is done cleaning you off his fingers. You swoon over his honest admission and fling your arms his neck, pulling him down for amorous kiss. Both of your tongues clash against each other while his hands roam over every slope and curve of your body, reigniting your insatiable need for his blood and lustful touch.

“Say,” Dante utters in between your heavy kisses, “are you a cowgirl?”

“I was when I could still breath,” you reveal while getting up on your knees.

“Oh shit!” Dante gasps as he draws his head back. “Really?” He gives you a look of astonishment as his eyes gaze down at you in awe.

You nearly bust a gut as his expression, but manage to just let a bark of laughter while nodding your head. “Yep! I was in fact a cowgirl if my attire wasn’t a big enough hint for ya,” you jest with a tip of your hat.

His jaw drops as he shakes his head in amazement. You chuckle at his silent admiration as you lean in close to his ear. “I believe your next line was gonna be,” you whisper, trailing your hand down his chest and over his abs. “Because I can see you riding me…amiright?” He takes stuttering breath as your fingers brush along the length of his reinvigorated cock. Dante quickly recovers from his shock, quirking an eyebrow as he shoots you with the charming smirk that always spells out trouble in all the right ways.

“Ready for round two?”

You grin and wiggle your brow at him before straddling his hips as quick as a flash. “Now, you saddle on up, Cowboy,” you boast playfully, pushing him back down to the table before adjusting your hat with dramatic flair. “I’m about to take you for a wild ride.”

As Dante grabs your hips, you start to warm up to the idea of not walking the endless night alone. You howl in amusement when he bounces you against his twitching cock with enthusiasm. He gives your ass a playful slap and as his eyes gaze up at you with searing admiration he gleefully exclaims:

“Giddy up!”

A warm smile creeps up on your face and you cannot help but feel beholden to the devil-may-care mercenary. There was a void in your lonesome existence until Dante waltzed across the bar and right into your life. He made you laugh with his care-free attitude and awful pick-up lines. And now, you are looking forward to having another tantalizing drink with the renowned devil hunter as you mount his cock and have the best damn ride of your undead life.

Read on Ao3

My Masterlist if you want more ❤

Tagging: @exsultry @bettybattaglia @drusoona @dvdenlioon @daemongal @ceruleanworld @tehrevving @veenus-ow @shadowbearing @thenightgazer @queenmuzz @a-midsummer-nights-odyssey

#dante #dante x reader #devil may cry #dmc5 #vampire prompt #request #vampire bites #strip pool with a lot of flirting #what's your pleasure?#cowgirl vampire reader #yeah you read that tag right #so saddle on up #because its gonna be one helluva ride in this rodeo #harlot writes #vampire spice #blood

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whatawriterwields · 5 years

Text

Not the Only Ones

The call came first to an office worker. She was hunched, itchy-eyed, over a wide, white desk, tapping out numbers onto a clear, shimmering screen - some mind-numbing report about miracle outputs for the second quarter being below average. She’d been working for hours without a break, and her shoulders ached, complaining of how long it had been since she’d released her wings, and all she wanted in the universe was the chance to go home and take a nap.

The call came and she groaned, turning her attention to the rippling white tablet at the corner of her desk - great, another task, that would put her five minutes farther from finishing this report. She’d been getting more calls than usual, these days. Heaven was busier than it usually was. The bosses didn’t tell the lowly office angels what the celestial armies were up to, but word did tend to spread, and the word lately had been that they were gearing up for something big.

“This is Heaven, Miracle Records Department 63D,” she said, putting on her most polite voice, trying not to convey her exhaustion. “How may I help you?”

The voice on the other end was low and hoarse. The kind of voice you might expect some insidious reptile to possess. Its owner did not introduce himself. “It’s me.”

Read on Ao3

The angel froze. “What -”

“I’ve just heard word from Lord Beelzebub.” The voice, which was already little more than a croak, went hushed and pitched with excitement. “They told us - this is insane, but - they said the War is over!”

She gaped down at the tablet. “What?”

“Big battle’s off. The Antichrist faced down Satan and sent him back to Hell. His friends killed the Four Horsepeople. And you remember that demon I was telling you about? Crowley?”

“Yeah, I remember -”

“He and your bloke Aziraphale got Beelzebub and Gabriel to stand down.”

She couldn’t believe it. This must be some kind of joke. “They got Gabriel to -”

“Look, I don’t know all the details, but here’s the point, all right?” The demon’s voice had grown louder, stronger, like he was beginning to process and believe the news all over again. “The point is the war’s off. They don’t want us fighting anymore. There’s going to be -” he choked off, as though he couldn’t say it, as though he was overwhelmed.

The angel dropped her tablet. It plummeted and shattered on the glassy floor. The sound was deafening in the humming silence of Heaven’s office space, and a dozen or more angels looked up, throwing her looks that ranged from quizzical to irritated.

“What was that for?” said the angel seated next to her.

She pushed her chair back slowly, straightening and planting her feet beneath her. Thirty or more eyes now followed her as she stood.

“It’s over,” she said. “The War is over.”

The eyes - blue and brown and green, and every one bloodshot with overwork - widened as one.

“Peace,” she said, forcing out the word her best friend hadn’t managed to say, hadn’t managed to articulate. “It’s peacetime again.”

The angel next to her was on his feet faster than she could blink. “What are you talking about? Who told you? How did you -”

“I got a call from Hell.”

The other angel folded his arms. “Could be a trick, then. How are we supposed to trust -”

“I know him. The demon who called.” The words rolled off her tongue with no effort; it had been three thousand years since she’d met him, and she’d never once gained the courage to admit it aloud. Certainly not to a roomful of angels, a full half of whom were now paying rapt attention, who had turned away from their work. She stepped back and stared around, feeling her skin begin to tingle with numbness as it crashed over her, peacetime, peacetime, after six thousand years as it began to sink in.

And then she saw one angel turn back to his desk, and pick up his own tablet, and tap out three digits, one right after the other. She recognized the number. She’d dialed it many a time herself, in furtive moments away from her endless hours entering data into a machine.

Everyone watched him put the tablet to his ear. Everyone watched him gasp out “It’s me,” and then, a moment later, “they say the War’s off.”

Everyone heard the wild whoop that came from the other end, though they were separated from the source of it by a million light years and a feud as old as time itself.

The room was plunged into chaos. Angels sprang from their desks, some reaching to make calls of their own, others simply disentangling themselves from their desks, even overturning their chairs for good measure - most sprinting toward the door on feet lighter than they’d felt them in centuries. They spilled out into the hallway, pushing and shoving each other, but there was no annoyance left - every workspace grudge forgiven in the blink of an eye, and they laughed at the tangle of limbs as they all struggled to be the first person out. They blocked a group of angels in uniform who had been striding down the hall.

“Is it true?” someone demanded of the little group. “Peace? Is it -”

“It’s true.” The soldier who answered was stiff, curt, but no one missed the suppressed smile in his voice. “Peace.”

Someone darted forward and yanked open the next door on the hall, shouting within at a seemingly endless row of workers bent over filing cabinets, sorting through stacks of yellowing records. “Hey! You lot! The war’s off!”

Silence, disbelief. Another angel ran for the next door and shouted the same message to the next room, and then voices began to rise, confused questions, dumbstruck hope. It couldn’t be real, surely, not after so long, not so easily? Not off the courage of a couple of rogue agents and a handful of children - surely it was too good to be true.

But the news continued to spread with the electric speed reserved for news so long-anticipated it had settled into some collective neural network. News no one had ever dared voice a wish for, and yet, and yet…

“The War is over!”

“It’s over!”

Heaven was coming alive.

In the darkest depths of Hell, among rank and lightless cubicles, a similar cry was rising. A sea of faces that had been sagging with boredom, seeming in the process of rotting off their skulls, had blinked back suddenly to attention when a bat had swooped down from the ceiling and cried fighting’s done, work’s done! They exchanged disbelieving glances first, but their disbelief was gotten over quicker than that of the angels - and in another moment someone had risen and grabbed the dirty typewriter he’d been working on and hurled it to the floor.

“Good riddance!” he called to the bat as it swooped away.

“They aren’t serious,” said someone else. “It can’t be -”

“You heard the bat.” Another demon, a grin spreading over his face, rose as well. He was holding an enormous stack of carefully sorted files. He stared at them for a moment, then stared around, and then with a wild look he clicked the fingers of one hand and the whole stack burst into flames.

“Good riddance!”

The room was laughing now. It was ugly laughter, but there was no malice in it, not even as other delighted-looking workers began to overturn their desks and smash through their cubicles. No, if any angels had been around they might have been shocked by the feelings running through the space. And they might have been more shocked if they saw what some were beginning to do in the celebratory frenzy - because, decidedly undemonically, downright scandalously, they were starting to hug each other.

“I don’t believe it.”

“Does this mean -”

“We don’t have to -”

“No more temptation records, no more filing -”

“No more keeping tabs -”

“My angel’s going to be so excited!”

The demon who said it clapped a hand over her mouth a second after, but half a dozen other demons were already dialing up their own angels, and no one paid her any mind. Demons that had known angels before the Fall, and demons who had gotten to know angels over six thousand years of endless, endless gearing up for battle, friends and best friends and lovers began calling Upstairs with tears in their eyes.

“Have you heard?”

“They’ve let you off work up there, too?”

“Yes! Yes! We’re free!”

Hell descended quickly into a gleeful destruction spree. Records from sixty centuries of mind-numbing office work came crashing down, up in flames and down to rubble. A group of three demons upended the old fax machine in the corner that was never working properly. Bodies streamed into the slightly better-lit hallways, leaving trails of debris in their wake, and when they were packed together something even stranger than hugging began to take place. Without music, without any conception of rhythm at all, and without the slightest hint of skill, they began to dance.

To dance, incredible as it may sound, with each other. Still reaching out their arms to fellow souls, unrestrained, for the first time in so long. Their eyes still afire with hope. It was real. Peacetime.

___

Somewhere in the ether, a demon and an angel watched in silence.

“This wasn’t how I thought this would go, at all,” said Gabriel.

Beelzebub swallowed. “Yeah, I… didn’t think they were this miserable. I mean, demons are supposed to be miserable, but -”

“I know what you mean.”

The two of them exchanged a glance, then stared back down at their dancing, laughing, rioting troops. They watched as the first demons began to appear in Heaven, in twos and threes, asking to see specific angels, and let through the hallways with no questions asked - and, even stranger, angels popping down into Hell, smiling sunny smiles, snickering at the posters on the walls that Beelzebub had worked so hard on.

“Well,” said Gabriel at last, “this is going to be an interesting week at the office.”

“Tell me about it.”

___

Somewhere on Earth, without any awareness of the goings-on in Heaven and Hell, without any awareness of anything beyond each other and the pleasure of being close, an angel and a demon lay curled up together on a couch.

“I think we should open up a bottle of wine, a little later,” said Aziraphale. “Something really special. To celebrate.”

“Couldn’t agree more.” Crowley grinned. “We deserve it.”

Aziraphale smiled and kissed Crowley’s cheek, which was positioned delightfully close to his lips, almost an invitation. An offering. An implicit this is yours, another entry in the list of a thousand I love yous. Aziraphale was still getting used to that.

“I think we did something good,” said Crowley. “I think - Aziraphale, I really think we might have saved everything.”

Aziraphale didn’t feel compelled to remind Crowley that last time he’d been accused of being good, he’d slammed him up against a wall. All water under the bridge. Instead he snuggled closer into Crowley’s warm arms.

“I think so, too,” he said.

“Mmm.”

“Crowley?”

Crowley turned his head to gaze down at Aziraphale. His smile was soft, fond. “Yeah?”

“Thank you. For staying.”

“Oh, angel.” Crowley held him tighter. “It’s all been worth it.” He kissed the top of Aziraphale’s head, not knowing that somewhere high, high above them, at that moment, over a hundred angels and demons were reuniting with loved ones they thought they’d lost forever. Not knowing that far below, demons were tearing holes in the office ceiling to let in light from the world above. Not knowing anything except that this place, and this time, and this kiss felt somehow exactly right.

“It has, really,” said Aziraphale. “I think so too.”

#good omens #good omens fanfic #ineffable husbands #ineffable husbands fanfic #crowley x aziraphale #this one is a little out of the ordinary #hope you enjoy #robin writes fanfic

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arcticdementor · 3 years

Link

In the wake of Trump’s election, Brexit, and the growth of anti-EU populism, the placid doctrines of establishment politics are now being remade. But perhaps more significant is the absolute and utter collapse of Western self-declared “anti-establishment” politics: the “socialist” left has proven to be one of the earliest casualties. The cresting wave of left-wing populism turned out to be illusionary; as it receded, its only lasting legacy was bitter acrimony, rotting political hopes, failed analyses, and stranded careers in academia and the NGO-world.

This is not to say that “the left” has lost. Only the romantic narodism of the 21st century left has truly died: the belief that “the people,” or “the working class,” can be relied upon in the political struggle. One need only consider the riots going on even now in the US, or the one of the many institutional revolutions playing out (at foundations, newspaper editorial boards, and academia), to recognize that the movement is still in good health. But after the disappointments of late-2019 and mid-2020, those revolutions will no longer maintain any pretense of being waged by the people. They won’t even pretend to be waged for them.

…

The left may prefer to talk about a supposed “precarization,” of the college educated, and the right may be more comfortable talking about ”useless college degrees,” but neither side denies the facts on the ground: that for some time now, the West has been using a massive expansion of higher education to create a new class of functionaries—”knowledge-workers” and would-be managers—in numbers far in excess of what the labor market can or could absorb. Yet, it is only just now that we are seeing, with clear eyes, that this class of people (which, again, nobody denies the existence of) might begin acting as a class.

…

Rather than try to pin the blame on American television, or even social media, it behooves us to recognize that the conditions for this new “Springtime of the Managers” are just as ripe in London and Berlin as they are in Portland and New York City. What we have now on the left and right—on both sides of the Atlantic—is an open and bitter class war. It is a conflict between a growing cadre of imperial lords and the peasantry they hope to subjugate; between the managers and petty nobility of the much-prophesied “knowledge economy” and those they aim to manage.

Just as few took the existence of this class of people seriously, no one took the existence of this class war seriously until recently. The left was forced to outright deny it because they were already on the side against the working classes, and any acknowledgment of that fact would destroy their legitimacy. What is East Germany, without Communism? Nothing; it is merely part of greater Germany. The left faced a similar dilemma, and so the charade, emptied of all class conflicts in favor of “cultural” ones, had to be maintained.

Meanwhile, a minority of left intellectuals have already begun jettisoning ideological ties to a people it no longer belonged to or recognized. In the UK, thinkers like Paul Mason diligently sought to replace workers with young (educated) people who have a smartphone as the natural constituency of the left. In the US, Nathan J. Robinson, the publisher of Current Affairs magazine, pleaded for the left to finally abandon Marxism and historical materialism in favor of couching its arguments in moral terms. These characters were, almost without exception, mocked and ridiculed. But time has vindicated them. It is now clear that they took heat not because they suggested a new and different strategy, but because they were advancing the end to the left’s doublespeak and doublethink. The left had long since abandoned the workers; Mason and Robinson were merely preparing the ideological contingency plan for when the workers would abandon the left, as has now well and truly happened.

In the leadup to the 2020 election, the right faced a different dilemma. For them, the class conflict they refused to recognize was internal. The Democrats, having fully consolidated its new political coalition between petty managers, Silicon Valley grandees, and a dwindling base of minority clients, could not only defeat the likes of Bernie Sanders, but also reabsorb all of the hammer and sickle-brandishing “revolutionary communists” back into the machine. Unfortunately for the GOP—as with the Tories in Britain and the Sweden Democrats or Rassemblent Nationale in Europe—the consolidation of “the ascendant” into center-left parties has left them stuck with the political leftovers: an entirely ad-hoc coalition consisting of disgruntled heartland workers, small business owners, and big business also-rans. For this reason, and in part due to the intellectual legacy of the Cold War, talk of actual class conflict comes at a very high risk for the right. Trying to unite the competing interests that make up the extant and potential base of the Republican party is nigh impossible. The Democrats—and the Western left in general—talk about culture rather than political economy because they know the makeup of their coalition, who their enemies are, and what their plan is. Republicans—and the Western right in general—talk about culture rather than politics because they know none of these things.

…

As a political cause, Black Lives Matter seems to thrive just as well among the surplus managers of Dublin as it does in San Francisco—never mind the complete incompatibility of the Irish situation with the American. Sweden, for example, never had a plantation economy nor a period of formal or informal Jim Crow rule. But this in no way impacted the formation of a Black Panther movement in immigrant-dominated suburbs. At first blush, the children of immigrants to Sweden—predominantly of Middle-Eastern descent—cosplaying as 60s-era Afro-American freedom fighters reads as a hilarious anachronism. But there is an institutional logic behind it: Sweden already has a state-funded patronage network geared towards “community organizers” in particular, but also the surplus professional class in general.

Behind most declarations of proletarian solidarity or racial justice, one tends to find repeated and urgent demands for the state to simply create more jobs. How do we solve the thorny issues of racial justice? By diverting more federal and state money to employing the various temporarily embarrassed aspiring commissars currently stocking the shelves at Target, of course! While the language of economic redistribution today maintains a veneer of proletarian radicalism (often eagerly assisted by various red-baiters on the right, as seen during the fairly anemic “Joe Biden will usher in SOCIALISM” run-up to the 2020 election), only the truly credulous could believe that demands for the state to directly and indirectly employ more and more college graduates—creating as many ideological commissariats as necessary to rescue them from the ignominy of having to work at Starbucks—merely represents some innocuous side effect of the political project as a whole.

A full accounting of the scope of the Swedish patronage machine is neither possible nor necessary in this essay, but it does serve as a valuable example. Most of the country’s patronage machine actually predates the class that currently subsists on it. The “one percent rule” which states that at least one percent of the budget allotted to new buildings or infrastructure must be paid to artists for the express purpose of creating art, is just one example. The Swedish Inheritance Fund, (Allmänna Arvsfonden) was established as far back as 1928, when the country abolished the automatic inheritance rights of cousins and other distant relatives in the absence of a written will or close family. Originally, the intention was that the state would use this newly “orphaned” money to fund the care of orphanages and related causes. The fund’s mission has expanded over time to the point where it now funds a great variety of overtly ideological causes—often with next to no oversight. As such, the fund has become controversial, especially in the eyes of the Swedish right.

The various incarnations of the “one percent rule” or the Inheritance Fund only scratch at the surface. On every level—state, regional, and municipal—myriad grants, privileges, subsidies and direct cash transfers are available, aimed at a heterogenous group of race hustlers, artists, activists, and academics. It hardly needs to be said that cultural minority status, or fluency in the shifting language of wokeness, is a strict and unavoidable requirement for those seeking to access these resources. The state also pays the salaries of many Swedish journalists, either directly (through the various public service channels) or indirectly, through massive distribution subsidies. Are you perchance a radical syndicalist on a holy quest to crush the capitalist value-form while also grinding the running dogs staffing the reactionary Swedish state into dust? Have no fear, that state will gladly subsidize both your salary and cost of distribution for your newspaper urging the workers to destroy capitalism! Even as larger and larger parts of Sweden succumb to deindustrialization and lack of opportunity, this money tap will keep flowing.

All of this is to say that there is a very real, non-ideological endpoint for many of the fervent demands coming from the Red Guards of the American cultural revolution. The state can take it upon itself to create and sustain an ever increasing number of jobs for the surplus elite generated by our universities. Moreover, even systems that were originally not intended to serve as patronage machines for surplus managers—such as a state fund for orphans—can easily be repurposed into a job creation program controlled by woke guild rules. Again, to reiterate: very few of our institutions that are now notorious as liberal-hegemonic patronage machines were created for that purpose; they were colonized. American conservatives should thus be very careful in their quips about “socialist Sweden,” given their own immediate future.

…

The left populist project is very much a project of social democracy for young professionals. Joe Biden’s electoral victory—such as it is—would have been impossible without the immense class solidarity and sense of purpose uniting the supposedly “ascendant” or “reality-based” half of America. (Drunk on victory, there is already talk of drawing up lists of people who in any way abetted the old regime.) They no longer feel any need to hide their power, or their plans for the future.

Broadly speaking, these surplus managers have two complementary goals: the above-discussed expansion of the social-democratic state, and the establishment of formal and informal guild protections and structures within the newly-expanded or pre-existing professional fields they hope to inhabit. Some characterize this secondary goal as one of ideological domination of the workplace, but this confuses the means with the ends. Put plainly, the ideas that are getting people fired today are not only empty of content, they are also constantly and arbitrarily changing. Compared to the often murderous totalitarianism of, say, a crusading religious fanatic, there is a distinct lack of object permanence at play here. The religious fanatic, obsessed with forcing everyone to bend to the True Faith, chooses his doctrine once and then sticks to it. But in the world of the woke, doctrine is ever-changing, and the commissars of today will gleefully sign your proscription sentence for holding opinions they themselves held only yesterday.

Yet, in this cultural revolution, the fickleness of its dominant ideas is an essential feature, not a bug. The point of this “totalitarianism” is not to force everyone to think correct thoughts at the risk of getting fired; it is to get them fired. Full stop. Like the medieval guilds of old Europe, surplus managers are threatened by the existence of a mass of people willing to do any job within their ambit that cannot be comfortably accommodated without inviting the pauperization of their entire profession. For the medieval guilds, guaranteeing that only a select few who could actually hope to become carpenters or glove makers had nothing to do with improving the economic efficiency of the towns, but rather to secure the living standards and social status of those carpenters and glove makers already in practice.

Guilds, unlike unions, are institutions meant to inflate scarcity. It is hard to imagine an American auto workers union threatening strike action in order to forestall Ford or GM from producing more cars. After all, more cars means more workers, means more potential union members, means more power for the union. The specific political opinions of any one worker does not factor into the basic arithmetic. For a guild, however, the arithmetic of power is very much concerned with the ability to discipline its own members, as well as raise barriers of entry into the workplace via social, cultural, or other grounds. For the union, having more members is (almost) always just a good thing. For the guild, it is a nightmare scenario. (Of course, exceptions exist. In some narrow vocations, unions maintain scarcity through licensing requirements and other means. But even then, the interests at play are economic, managing qualified labor scarcity for the benefit of its members.)

It is significant that the figure of “the boss” is imagined by these surplus managers as being evil not because he is a capitalist, but because his myopic profit motive or outdated personal morality is an obstruction to the creation of committees staffed by employees for the purpose of firing and disciplining other employees. Today, one can even be a millionaire capitalist while maintaining a properly anti-capitalist, revolutionary outlook, denouncing other companies that refuse to discipline their workers for ideological commitments.

…

To illustrate the hopelessness of any conservative or right-wing project which aims to somehow “shift the debate,” consider the way those same efforts played out on the left before the election. Take the case of Jacobin magazine’s recent article entitled, “Trying to Get Workers Fired Is the Wrong Way to Fight Racism.” Within minutes of its being published to Twitter, the article was inundated with angry and shocked reactions from mostly self-identifying socialists. The idea that bosses shouldn’t be trusted with the power to arbitrarily dismiss workers over allegations of racism produced a firestorm of controversy among the people who, we are supposed to believe, represent the vanguard that will lead those same workers into a revolution against those same bosses.

If this is just a modern expression of “Marxism,” then it has certainly come a long way.

…

Just as the Boston Tea Party looms large in the minds of Americans, the entrance of the black ships into Edo bay occupies a place of importance in the Japanese historical memory. It is seen as the moment in which the simmering social and political contradictions irrevocably boiled over. Neither the British monarchy nor the Japanese shogunate recognized what was happening until well after the point of no return. The fight against Trump has already forced such massive changes that the old social compact no longer exists. Silicon Valley has merged with the larger progressive machine, taking it upon themselves to guide (if not outright control) political discourse, picking political winners in a completely open and blatant manner.

The old order that was constituted in the US in the 90s depended on the separation not of church and state, but of the separation of civil servants, technical expertise, and scientific empiricism from politics. Without it, end-of-history liberalism lacks any legitimating mechanism. But it is precisely this separation that has just been destroyed; often violently and publicly. The election—with its artfully coordinated media blitz, the monumental failure of institutional polling (again), and the sudden about-face on the existence of electoral interference, is just the final swing of the knife against what remains of post-war Western liberalism.

This is not some trifling ideological point. The last year has seen very large institutional changes in the real world—huge cash transfers from business to various progressive NGOs, the embrace of political education in government institutions as a matter of course (briefly and ultimately meekly resisted by Trump’s executive order, now poised to return stronger than ever). On top of that, the US has seen a series of rolling purges of politically unreliable people from all positions of importance within academia, journalism, and similar sectors. Are those people going to suddenly be rehired now that Trump is gone, no harm, no foul? Will the alliances forged between progressive liberal causes and big business be voided, and all that money returned?

Even so, it is very much in doubt that many people actually want to go back. All these new alliances, all of these new technical and social instruments of political control and discipline, are far too useful for anyone to willingly give up. You can hear it clearly coming from congresswoman Alexandra Ocasia-Cortez: the tune for the future seems to be a mix of revenge and reeducation, not restoration. But since the deplorables are unlikely to whip themselves in penance, the reeducators will have to be trained, deployed, and (one would assume) amply paid for their work.

The class war is here. It will not go away on its own. After 2020, not even the staunchest anti-communist or “traditional conservative” on the right should indulge fantasies to the contrary. Donald Trump, whatever else one may say of him, was not defeated by ideas, but by a society-spanning managerial omerta, organized by a stunningly impressive (and frankly, terrifying) class alliance working together in total discipline.

In an era of elite overproduction, the only realistic means of sustaining the unsustainable elite’s social status and standard of living is by increasing the exploitation of the rest of the population; demands, taxes, and tithes levied against the two-thirds of America that does not attend college by the one-third that does. And so more institutions will be built, more money will be transferred from the undeserving poor to their educated superiors. Our media personalities, academics, and experts will continue the work of inventing new crimes for their gardeners, gig workers, and unemployed countrymen to commit, so that they might maintain this process of looting and extortion.

Those of us outside this coalition of the ascendant—whatever else we may lack in commonality—are now called upon to realize one very basic point: regardless of whether you call yourself a national conservative, a one-nation Tory, a part of Blue Labour, or a labor populist, this class war cannot only be analyzed and complained about. It must be vigorously prosecuted and won. It is one thing to debunk the “Marxism” of the surplus managers, but another thing entirely to strike against the structures of their guild privilege, dismantle their networks of patronage and access, and defund and marginalize their institutions and money pipelines.

The battle lines of the class war have been drawn. For those of us who would fight against this miserable vision of the future, it is high time we proclaimed our own Sonnō jōi. Only then can we hope to restore some semblance of dignity. Only then can we hope to halt the creeping rot that is eating us from within.

#malcom kyeyune #the bellows #class warfare #professional managerial class #read the whole thing

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bondsmagii · 5 years

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If it's not too personal, could you talk a bit about your experiences growing up in Northern Ireland with the civil war and the cultural differences between the north and the republic etc? I have Irish ancestry but none of the Irish part of my family is alive and I'm trying really hard to reconnect with that part of my blood and pay homage to it, so hearing about the experiences of someone who's lived it would mean so, so much to me.

I can try but I can’t promise it’ll make any sense; it’s a highly nuanced situation and I experienced it as one person living in one time period and the whole thing is just a huge mess but! I’ll try and keep it as succinct as possible lmao (good luck to me).

basically the most simplified version of the issue is thus:

Britain, being Britain, takes over Ireland, because of course they do

nasty bastards about it

Irish people are understandably pissed and there’s about 800 years of conflict

Britain keeps sending British people over there to settle (mostly from Scotland originally) to up British numbers and get those bastard Irish Catholics out of the idea they can like, live in their own country

things escalate

rebellions happen

Big Rebellion happens (the 1916 Easter Rising)

the Irish War of Independence happens and Britain is finally like OK we’ll chat (centuries later)

My Man Michael Collins goes over the London and negotiates a treaty

Ireland is given independence but not the six north-eastern-most counties; these countries are the Republic of Ireland and Northern Ireland respectively

(you’ll sometimes see Protestants calling Northern Ireland “Ulster” but they’re wrong because Ulster is a province and has nine counties not six)

(Catholics tend to avoid using “Northern Ireland” and will call it “the North of Ireland”, “the Six Counties”, or if they’re really political “the Occupied Six Counties”)

some other stuff happened that I won’t get into here because I’ll just bitch about Eamon de Valera for eight hours (if you want to see me bitching I did so here)

the North of Ireland was partitioned as such because of its huge number of British-identifying Protestants descending from the people who had moved over; they wished to remain British and so the North is still a part of the UK today

Irish-identifying Catholics in the North were understandably pissed about this because they wanted their whole country back but were now stuck across a land border with neighbours who didn’t particularly like them and whom they did not particularly like

this escalated into a civil war known as The Troubles (because we’re really great at understating things) where thousands of people died in a bloody conflict mostly contained in the North

(aside from occasional skirmishes and people using the border as a way to escape conviction, the Republic didn’t really have much to do with this war)

it was Bad Times and the North was eventually occupied by British soldiers who set up bases and patrolled the streets and backed up the police for several decades, which only further escalated things

many years of shootings and bombings and beatings and terror ensued

this is about the point where I come in and start trying to grow up there, fun times

I’ll put the rest under a cut because wow this is already very long and I haven’t even touched on what it was like to grow up there lmao

detailed accounts of living in a literal warzone under the cut, so beware.

Civil War Funtimes

growing up in a warzone like the one I grew up in was wack as hell because it’s not… acknowledged as a civil war at all. like the rest of the UK kind of just forget it ever happened or they don’t know about it at all, and like as much as I don’t like to admit it the North is UK soil and the idea that thousands of people could be killing one another in the fucking UK is just phenomenal to me. when I talk about my experiences growing up and don’t specify the country, people hear what I went through and assume I grew up in Bosnia or Chechnya or something. it was that bad.

the strange thing is, as unpleasant as it was, while I was growing up there it was totally normal. it was scary sometimes, when coming into direct contact with things, but a lot of the time it was just inconvenient. I remember being stuck in traffic on the motorway going into Belfast and it was hot and we had no water and we were there for hours and we were moaning and complaining and finally when we were allowed to move again it turned out there was a bomb up ahead and the Army had been called in to diffuse it, but at the time it wasn’t about The Bomb but more about I’m Hot and Thirsty and Several Hours Are Gone From The Time I Had To Run Errands In Belfast. it was only when I moved away from the North and lived a more normal life that I looked back and began processing fully how fucked up it was to live there.

I’m Catholic, so right off the bat I kind of got the shitty end of the stick. both sides were bad, don’t get me wrong, but Protestants had the backing of the police and the British Army and it’s been confirmed that both organisations backed Protestant paramilitary death squads; i.e., helped gangs of Protestant terrorists murder Catholics and get away with it. they also committed a lot more atrocities of their own, including opening fire on unarmed civilians, so it’s kind of a shitty deal when the two organisations sent in to protect everyone align with one side of the civil war and don’t give a shit if you’re getting beaten to death in front of them or something. I remember one time my friends and I were chased by a gang of people who found out we were Catholic somehow, and they were throwing lit fireworks at us in full view of the police, who did nothing. we were 15.

how did they know we were Catholic? there’s a million ways to tell. growing up there sort of required knowing what I call the sectarian geography of the country. certain places were Catholic, and certain places were Protestant. saying you were from a certain town or village could confirm your religion to a potential enemy. in large cities, especially Belfast, saying the street you were from could out you. I had to be careful what side of the road I walked on, and there were streets I couldn’t exit from if I was going into the city centre for fear that someone would see and wait for me. likewise, names could be used to identify you. my friends and I had several different names we’d give depending on what area we were in or the name or accent of the person talking to us. it’s subtle things, too – I mean obviously you’re Catholic if your name is Seamus or Sean or Eamon and obviously you’re Protestant if you’re called William or Billy but it wasn’t always as obvious as that. it was safer to be subtle. if I’m in a Catholic area and want to use a fake name for whatever reason, I’m Joseph McCarthy. if I cross the street to a Protestant area, I’d be better off as James McAllister. all of us learned this growing up, and there were so many nuances I can’t even remember a lot of them now. I know should I ever visit Belfast again it’ll all come back, and so will the subtle shifts in my accent depending on where I am. but to think I knew all this at 12, 13, 14 years old? and it was the difference between life and death, quite literally? I have no idea how I dealt with the stress.

making it into the city was only half of the battle, anyway. violence could erupt at any moment, and bomb scares were known to happen. I’ve been in a number of riots which almost always escalated from a peaceful protest, because of Army and police presence being unwelcome or unfairly biased. during such riots people could and did die: the police and Army used rubber bullets because they’re apparently “less deadly”, but many people, including small children caught in the crossfire, were killed by them. often there was added danger from the IRA (Irish Republican Army; the main Catholic paramilitary force) who would show up to take shots at the police and soldiers, meaning that civilians were very often caught in the no-man’s land between offensive and defensive fire. this was not occasional pistol fire, either: both sides were armed with semi- or fully-automatic weapons. again, this is on streets legally in the UK.

bombs were also a threat, though most of the time they were just threats to create panic and disruption. however, it was occasionally real: I once found a bomb myself, in a newly opened supermarket that was packed during its first week. it was hidden on the shelving and around its outside, nails and ball bearings had been taped to use as shrapnel. I remember going quickly to tell the store manager and him pulling the fire alarm so people didn’t panic too much. everyone went out into the car park and it was only when the bomb squad arrived that people realised. a humorous note to this story is that my parents lost me in the chaos, and found me talking animatedly to several police officers and a member of the bomb squad, in his full protective gear. I was 13, and I’m sure they were wondering just what kind of trouble I’d got myself into in the 20 minutes I’d been out of their sight.

finally, a lot of people died. I mean, a lot. thousands, in a country with a population of only one eighth the size of London alone. every single person in that country knew someone who had died or been injured during the fighting. it’s a very close-knit country; both sides of the conflict have a strong community spirit and towns and districts are often very close, with many people knowing everyone if not by name then by sight. when you take several thousand people and have them killed violently, their death will be felt through fifty to one hundred of their friends, families, neighbours, colleagues, etc. in a country so small, that reverberates and quickly takes in everyone. many people knew several of the dead; older people might know dozens. many more would have witnessed something. my friend group were no different. it’s been over a decade and I still can’t talk about it in any detail, but all I’ll say is that I lost a friend of mine when I was 15, and it was a very violent, drawn-out death at the hands of a mob of adults. he was my age. the reason for it was because he was Catholic. being the same age as him made it a very strange experience. even now, on my birthday, I think about the fact that he would be my age if he had lived. he’s frozen in time, and the rest of us have grown up and moved on, and it’s so unfair it makes me feel sick.

as for the culture,

(forgive the abrupt ending, but to be honest that part of things always exhausts my emotions when talking about what it was like to live like that.)

I’m sorry that this is a wholly depressing account, but it was a warzone; I get the feeling that’s to be expected. what I can say is that despite everything, I miss living there dearly. despite how horrible it could be, the country is beautiful and a vast majority of the people I met and grew up with were wonderful. I miss it a lot. I miss the landscapes, I miss all the places I used to go to lose myself. I miss the forests and the waterfalls, I miss the Causeway Coast, I miss turning the bend on the motorway and seeing Belfast nestled in its valley with the sea on one side and Cave Hill on the other. I miss the little villages, I miss getting lost in the fields and the trees and the trails, I miss the tiny little pubs and the small harbours and drinking by the lough with my friends. I miss the food, and I miss all the little quirks in the way we talked, and I miss walking down the street or going into a shop and having my friends’ parents recognise me and act like they’re all my mothers (“ach, how’ve you been? lookit you! I can’t believe it. you used to be so wee!” – no matter if they’d seen me a week ago, I was always wee then and taller now).

I was lucky enough that my friends and I were much more open-minded; members of the new generation who were getting sick to death of all the fighting. there were both Catholics and Protestants in our friend group, and sometimes the only thing that got us through was making dark jokes and poking fun at one another. I miss that, too – living away from the country and knowing no other people from there makes reconciling what happened very difficult. even now I have an innate connection with people when we hear one another’s accents. we’ll start chatting like old friends, and it’s wonderful, because religion doesn’t come up at all. we’ll ask where each other is from, and usually we’ll have heard of it, and then we’ll probably start bitching about the weather or the roadworks that are still there eight years later or something. sometimes we’ll even start making a few dark jokes of our own, and it’s always a relief to laugh. it loosens something in the chest. I don’t think there’s a group of people more resilient than those from the North. we’ve seen some shit, and we still manage to live through it and laugh about it. I remember one time in school, when we were about 16, me and my fellow Catholics were going to skip school for St Patrick’s Day (we never got given the day off, honestly) and our Protestant friends were jealous, and we invited them along and they were jokingly saying that nah, they couldn’t, it’s a Catholic celebration, it wouldn’t be right, etc, and finally one of them was like “we’ll come to St Paddy’s Day if you skip school and come with us on St Proddy’s Day” and we were like “what the fuck is St Proddy’s Day” and he was like “idk it’s like St Paddy’s Day but for Protestants” and I was like “alright when is it” and everyone decided it was the day after St Patrick’s Day so our entire group skipped school for a two-day drinking fest. to be honest it’s stuff like that I remember more than the fighting.

I didn’t get to go to the Republic as much as I wanted to, but despite the border I find the culture is just as warm, just as welcoming, and the sense of humour is brilliant across the board. Irish/Northern Irish culture, no matter what you want to call it, is just very familial. it’s warm. everyone is genuinely interested in everyone, everyone is genuinely there for a laugh (craic, as we’d say – pronounced “crack”. common greeting is “what’s the craic?”). it’s a nice place to be. you come from a culture known across the world for its friendliness and its love of fun, but as depressing as some of this information is, I hope you realise that you also come from a very resilient people. despite everything I love the place and I hope to go back one day, when I’m ready to do so. and the best part is that despite everything, I know I’ll be welcome.

#about me #this is so long and i wrote it more as conversational prose sorry if it's incoherent!!!#ireland #anon #asks

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lubdubsworld · 5 years

Text

A change of Heart.( Taehyungx OC)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Three days later, I was dragging myself back to my room , early in the morning. it had been a hectic few days but there had been a breakthrough the previous day and some of the doctors had managed to isolate the particular strain of virus that seemed resistant to attack the particular gene related to lycanthropy. A virus that spared humans and targeted werewolves was unheard of and almost all werewolf extremist groups were gearing up in protest, claiming that the government had engineered the virus as some sort of twisted biological warfare weapon.

I didn’t want to think too much about the details of it.

I was more worried about the three young pups, struggling to breath in the NICU. They’d caught the virus from their mothers who were also deathly ill.

My room was located off campus, down a narrow pathway and a few yard into the surrounding woods. it was a cabin of sorts, with a built in bath and kitchen and a spacious living/dining/bedroom space. it was still dark outside, as i trudged wearily across the damp foliage, my shoes squishing into the wet earth and leaving muddy streaks on the white surface.

“What were doing out this late?” Taehyung’s voice caught me off guard and i felt my heart leap into my throat in surprise.

“Oh, Christ...” i whispered, clutching my bag tightly as i tried to push down on the panic. Taehyung looked unimpressed as he stared at me.

“well?” He demanded, when i ignored him and moved to open the door to my cabin.

I sighed, exhausted.

“Can i help you?” i said wearily.

He stared at me for a second.

“I have a proposition for you.” He said , voice a little stilted , teeth worrying his lips as he stared at his shoes. If I didn’t know for a fact that this man was richer than 90% of the people in my country and pretty much the definition of powerful, i would almost think he was nervous.

I didn’t respond, waiting for him to continue.

“My daughter....she...” He sighed.” She’s taken a real shine to you. She refuses to stay with any of her usual babysitters and insists that unless I invite you over for dinner, she will not in anyway listen to me.”

He looked like the words tasted bitter on his tongue.

I stared at him.

“And?” i prompted.

He glanced at the cabin.

“I told you to quit your job. Why are you still here?” He asked, eyes narrowing.

“Oh wow. it’s almost as if you don’t have any say in what i do with my life, Mr. Kim...isn’t that shocking?” i smiled brightly, already turning around to open the door.

i yelped when his hand shot out, gripping my wrist hard. I whimpered and his hold loosened, but he didn’t let go .

“Nobody wants you here, Mirae ssi...” He gritted out. “ You and your kind are the reason we’ve been subjugated and oppressed for centuries, and I’ll be damned if I let you people infiltrate the once place that is supposed to be a safe haven for wolves everywhere....”

His eyes flashed red, lips twisted with burning anger and I tried to pull my hand out of his grip.

“And yet....you want me to have dinner with your baby daughter...” i snapped and his eyes narrowed.

“She’s a child. She doesn’t know any better. And i don’t want you to have dinner with her... i want you to come over and tell her that you’re never coming back here because you don’t fucking belong here in the first place....” He snarled.

i shook my head.

“i’ve done nothing to harm your species. I’m only trying to help...i know your anger is justified but you’re taking it out on the wrong person...”

I yelped when he let me go, but only to step in closer, both hands closing around my arms and pushing me up against the side of the building. i flinched, when the old wood pressed against my skin, the harsh rub of splinters evident through my thin blouse.

He was taller than me by almost a foot and I turned away, heart pounding as he ducked his head, nudging my cheeks a little.

“Am I? “ He whispered softly.” You’re not welcome here and yet, you can’t seem to want to leave. So what’s the catch? Did some rough old wolf catch your fancy....You wanna find out what its like to fuck an animal, sweetheart?” He huffed out a breath that was sickly sweet and warm against my neck.

“What are you-?” I flinched when he growled and pressed in closer, this time his body pushing me into the wall.

“I know that most of you women think that fucking a werewolf is the ultimate fantasy. A forbidden fruit. A sick little fetish. Isn’t that what we are to you?” He drawled and despite the almost seductive tenor of his tone i could hear the undercurrent of fury behind it.

“You’re being unfai-” I stopped breathing as he snarled , teeth closing over my throat , just shy of actually sinking in. i shut my eyes , my fingers clenching into fists as i willed myself not to burst into tears. I’d never been more terrified in my life.

“Am I? I’ve lived in this preserve all my life , Yoon Mi Rae ssi... Not one wolf has propositioned to me or behaved in an unseemly way but every time i visit your mainland..” He made a noise of disgust.” Your women throw themselves at me like flies.”

i’m not one of them!!, i thought miserably.

“Let me go.” I shuddered out, voice barely a whisper and he chuckled, pulling away a bit. I stayed still as he stepped back fully, moving away and staring at me.

“Quit the job and get off the island. This isn’t the place for you. ” He said sharply.

“Tell your daughter i said hi. And that I’m glad she’s nothing like her rude , obnoxious father!!! ” i snapped, because apparently, i was suicidal.

Taehyung stopped to throw me a glare before turning on his heel and stalking away. i watched him disappear into the night before slowly sinking to the forest floor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“.... do you think that humans in the preserve are in some way contributing to the deterioration of the community?”

Taehyung took a deep breath.

“i think, every community needs to reach within itself and build and find its own stability. Wolves have been suppressed and denied opportunities for centuries. Most of the time, the excuse is that we aren’t meant to mingle with humans because of our dangerous attributes. By that logic, there’s really no reason why there should be humans employed at the preserve. But mostly, I think there are several qualified wolves who could take up the three posts currently held by himans at the research center alone. If you don’t want us in your space, you need to at least let us take control of our own....”

The interviewer nodded, making notes. “understandable. What about the current strain of influenza going around... It seems to be targeting lycanthropes in particular. “

Taehyung nodded.

“it’s quite unfortunate. Most of the affected cases are young pups. Humans themselves act as carriers without displaying any symptoms, so there’s another reason, humans ought to be kept away from the preserve. At least till this whole thing is resolved....”

“There’s talk about this strain of flu being man-made...” The interviewer said softly.

Taehyung shrugged.

“i don’t have any proof for such claims” He said quickly but next to him Seo Joon piped up.

“ Well, if certain factions of the human race did decide to develop some deadly viral strain as some kind of biological weapon against my people....well....it wouldn't be the first time would it?”

The crowd went into a frenzy, muttering excitedly and Tahyung flinched. He didn’t want people to start attacking each other. Seo Joon wasn’t a pacifist like him. The dude wanted a full fledged war. Taehyung wanted no part of his aggressive attack.

He stayed quiet for the rest of the interview while Seo joon rallied about how humans were responsible for the deterioration of the preserve.

When the program ended and he began to leave the studio, he found Jimin waiting for him near the door.

“That was a bad idea.” His friend said quietly.

Taehyung sighed.

“Seo Joon is one the most respected men out there. i can’t antagonize him. At least till i win....”

“There are violent factions everywhere Tae... do you really want to fuel a full out war between us and the humans?”

Taehyung brushed aside his concerns.

“i just want them out of the preserve. And most of them have left. There’s still just a few foolish stragglers. In a way i hope this motivates them to leave. ”

His mind flashed back to her..

To those, wild brown eyes, whiskey deep and scared, her fear so tangible and real that it had appealed to ever base instinct in him. the wolf in him had preened at the idea of being feared....

And the way her silky smooth hair looked as it flowed over shoulders, the pale, fragile perfection of her body, the smooth unblemished skin that had felt like silk under his lips. How tempting it had been, pressing her up against that wall, that insatiable urge to just sink his teeth in and bite and turn and claim....

He shook his head to clear that thought. He wasn’t attracted to her as a person. it was just the way she seemed to carry herself, like the perfect prey....

“i still think that idiot should have worded that better.” Jimin shook his head.

Taehyung shrugged. He didn’t want to talk about Seo Joon.

“Let’s go get something to eat. Drinks on me.” He smiled, slinging a hand over his friend’s shoulder.

Jimin sighed but acquiesced, letting him lead him to the glittering black Bugatti near the parking lot.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a little past one in the morning when Taehyung finally reached the pier, ready to take his personal boat to the island when he noticed the commotion near the loading dock.

He felt his eyes widen, when he saw a couple of humans, looking frazzled and upset as they climbed out of the ferry.

“what’s going on?” He asked his skipper urgently and the man looked up from where he was lifting the anchor.

“There’s been some sort of riot on the island, sir. some of the wolves got together and tried to attack the humans in the research center.” He said casually.

Taehyung felt his heart leap into his throat.

“What?” He croaked.

“Yeah, they got all of them off i think. The wolves are nearly feral with anger out there. Something about the research people being the reason the kids were sick in the first place...that they were the ones who brought them to the preserve in the first place...”

Oh fuck.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She wasn’t there.

Taehyung went through the two halls where all the humans from the preserve were sitting. once. Twice. And then again.

They were all wet and shivering, clutching their meager possessions and looking lost but he couldn’t focus on any of them. He tried to catch her scent, that soft buttery smell of cinnamon and lavender... but it wasn’t there.

She wasn’t there.

He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to bring himself to think.

Seo Joon. He had to call Seo joon.

“Hello...” Seo Joon sounded groggy.

“Mirae’s still on the island.” He choked out.

Seo Joon groaned.

“Who?” He croaked.

“Yoon Mi Rae....that tech from the research center.”

Seo joon scoffed.

“That little lab rat? Didn’t she get on the ferry that was carting all the rest of the vermin back to the mainland?” Seo Joon sounded bored.

“She isn’t here, Seo joon..this is your fault. You shouldn’t have talked that shit on TV..... you need to go find her and make sure she’s safe...I’m coming over...” Taehyung snapped.

Seo Joon made a noise of impatience.

“I’m sleeping Tae. And besides, if she stayed behind, she’s probably been ripped to shreds by now. Serves the little bitch right.”

Taehyung felt the blood freeze in his veins.

“Seo joon, we can’t let a human get hurt under our watch.” He said shakily.

“Really? why the fuck not... it isn’t like they have any qualms about hurting our kind. its her own damn fault, coming here and acting like she’s fucking mother Teresa...I hope they fucking ravaged her. Should be a nice message to any other fool that wants to come traipsing into our land..”

Taehyung realized he couldn’t speak sense to the man. He hung up quickly, calling for him chuffeur. There was not enough time to take the boat...

“Lee?” He said sharply. “ I’m gonna need the chopper.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He found her in her cabin, tied up and tossed in a corner while some of the betas shifted around the entrance. They had been growling and gnashing their teeth when he had arrived but some kind of restraint had kept them from actually killing her.

But they hadn’t left her unscathed.

Taehyung tried not to let his claws pop, his eyes taking in the way she looked.

Her clothes were torn off and she had clearly been sleeping when they’d broken into the cabin , dressed as she was in a tattered white t shirt , plain white panties and mismatched socks. Her jaw was bruised, a trickle of blood dried down her chin. Her left eyes was swollen shut and her breathing was ragged and came in short, painful little rasps and it clearly hurt her which meant that she definitely had a few broken ribs.

Fuck. Fuck.

“This wasn’t right.” He said sharply and the betas cowered.

“She’s the reason the pups are sick...” one of the men said and the others mumbled their assent.

“Where is the proof?” Taehyung snapped.” We do not mete out punishments when there is no proof. We’re better than that.”

The betas shifted guiltily and the stench of wolfsbane made him sigh. They were mostly drunk.

“Get out of here. The whole lot of you and get ready to get carted off to prison tomorrow when she presses charges.”

He watched them leave, waiting for the last wolf to leave before turning to her.

She was staring at him with her one good eye.

“You gonna...” She began and then stopped, shutting her eyes in pain. “ tell me you told me so...”

She was clearly in agony, the putrid stench of her pain filled the room and Taehyung couldn’t breathe.

“you need to get to the hospital.” He muttered, frozen in place. She sighed.

“Can’t... Don’t want anyone...to know.”

He stared at her.

“Mi rae...”

“itll make things worse....for your kind.... “ She rasped out. “ Won’t press charges...”

He couldn’t believe her.

“You’re willing to not press charges...?” He said slowly.

She sighed and nodded a little.

“Please help me.”She said softly and his heart lurched.

He moved quickly, crouching next to her and popping his claw to cut through the ropes binding her. She fell into his chest at once, crying out in pain when he gripped her arms to steady her.

“It’s okay... I got you...” He said softly, loosening his hold and cradling her in his arms. She blinked at him.

“i don’t have anyone.” She said suddenly.

“What?”

“Family. i don’t have anyone.... You need... You need to let me stay with you. Till i get better...Can’t let anyone know....what happened....” She whispered.

He was nodding before the words even registered. Staring into her eyes, he felt like he could have agreed to any damn thing she’d ask him.

She nodded and then closed her eyes.

“i’m gonna sleep now.” She said weakly.

And then went limp in his arms.

Fuck.

#taehyung smut #taehyung fics #bts fics #bts smut #bts werewolf #werewolf au #bts v #v fics #kim taehyung #bts kim taetae #taehyung werewolf #bts taehyung #taehyung x reader #taehyung fic

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wintermutal · 4 years

Note

D, E, and Q for the writing ask 👁👁

end of the year writing meme

D. Any drawings or pictures that had a big influence on your writing?

i have aesthetic blogs for some of my characters, where i keep like, random shit that i associate with them, but in terms of general aesthetic probably john divola’s Dogs Chasing my Car in the Desert. i love that set of pieces.

E. Who’s your favorite main character you’ve written?

idk if an antagonist counts as a main character, but Dr. Dean Eiler is my fave person to write. he’s just awful. just literally terrible. he’s so incredibly insecure and immature that he’s incapable of seeing himself as anything but the victim in any situation, hes entitled as fuck, he has a traumatic backstory and thinks that excuses his behavior, and he cares so much about appearance over integrity that he’ll act like an entirely different person in front of people he knows could say something bad about him. overall he either genuinely believes what he’s doing is like, The Good And Correct Thing To Do or desperately finds a way to twist it so he can believe what hes doing is justified.

its like. oh god. hes literally a manchild. fun to write in the awful victor vale sort of way.

Q. Quote three bits of writing you read his year. Can be your writing, or not.

okay. man. this ones gonna be long.

this past year i spent a lot of time on scp stuff, so two of these three scenes are gonna be that; the first being the last time (probably ever) i wrote gears, and the second being a climax scene from my broken masquerade project. the third is a scene from something i wrote during nanowrimo, which is part of the exposition of my original story. im gonna post all this under a cut, because this shit is longer than i remember it being.

notes in italics. scenes in normal text.

in late spring i wrote a piece about all the people a foundation report has to go through in the broken masquerade universe to get put into the database. primarily, it was about the concept of everything in the SCP database being written anonymously, by ghostwriters hired by the foundation specifically to put together the reports, and how the foundation was like, a city of ghosts or w/e because the flesh and bone of it was anonymous. never published it because it was supposed to be at the end of my other big masquerade piece as the epilogue. more than that, though, i think this scene from it is notable because it was the last time i ever wrote gears, and i wrote him a lot differently than i would have when i was younger. this is a bit longer.

Gears heavily disproved of how Harrold had written the Starfish report. It wasn’t on a basis of skill— as someone who had written more than his fair share of reports, he found his technical descriptions of the disintegration of Site-56 and the resulting riot completely satisfactory— but rather on how Harrold had written about the SCPs themselves. He didn’t like how he’d called Miles by his name instead of his number (and his accession number at that; Gears loathed the new numbering system with a passion he did not express). He didn’t like how Site-56 had let Miles go outside in the first place. He didn’t like how they’d given him books. He didn’t like that they’d let him complete a high school equivalent in containment; he viewed that that was outside the Foundation’s responsibilities to provide him an education. He didn’t like that they hadn’t done more testing, and how they had given him the opportunity to move down from lockdown to a more relaxed procedure. The list went on.

All of these things, Gears thought bitterly, were things he would have never allowed back when he was the head of research at Site-19. He was a true Foundation hard liner, one of the last of his kind; one of the old horsemen who’d cracked down and worked, worked ruthlessly, tirelessly towards purely scientific gain. In modern Foundation terms, his policy had only become more conservative as he aged. He held a considerable amount of power in both the ethics committee and the 05 counsel, but both were still harshly divided on whether or not they agreed with the conclusions of his near half-century of Foundation experience.

In a lot of ways, he was the face of the Foundation. He was the grandfather. He was respected. But he also was one of the cruelest men many younger Foundation administrators would ever meet. He was quiet and polite in his mannerisms— of course, he was known for his stoicism, which had stuck with him into his old age and formed much of the outer shell of his notoriety— but what Charlie considered ‘cold’ was what many others considered ‘cruel’. There were plenty of Foundation administrators who still agreed with what he had to say and lined up behind him at every vote, but much of it was spurred either by intimidation or by the assumption that he simply knew what he was doing.

And in his mind, Gears did know what he was doing. He opposed every miniscule vote on every kind of policy in favor of humanitarianism. He’d sat down in his chair at the head of the council meetings and said in his emotionless tone that he didn’t believe in keeping D-Class around, for instance; that it was more scientifically accurate for them to be purged at the end of each month, a policy that hadn’t been in place since the late 1940s. He conducted himself with a pristine poise when asserting that he believed what was done in Korea was in the Foundation’s best interests, which was always seen as a rather cruel answer in regards to the civilians who had died.

Central Committee legend went that he hadn’t always been this ruthless. Jack Bright, 05-6, the only other person older than Charlie and far more progressive than him in his policy, claimed that there was a time when Gears had been softer than this. That he had been kinder. Not much kinder, but not outright bitter and stagnant like he was.

But that was a time far before Korea, and long before his promotion to 05.

So Charlie, looking at the Starfish report at his desk in Geneva, came to the conclusion that what was needed to remedy this situation was Foundation hard-linership. He believed that the Foundation had gotten too slack on the leash. He wrote up the gag order with the speed of a Foundation ghostwriter, albit hindered by the painful arthritis in his hands. He signed it electronically, again with much more difficulty then he considered permissible in terms of efficiency. And then he sent it out. And sat back in his wheelchair with the riot report in front of him. And thought for a while.

People had been joking for decades that Charles Gears would die at his desk. To Gears the real surprise was in the fact that he didn’t die in a lab in the basement of Site-19, in the deep Siberian dark where he’d run his laboratory with that cold stoic cruelty that shocked Foundation newcomers. His desk in Geneva faced a large bay window. In an incredible twist of irony— some would call it mercy— Charles Gears died in the light not an hour after writing the gag order. All he had to do was doze off.

___________________________________

next one is also from my old scp story. specifically, this would be part of the climax. glad i got this ask because it made me look over it again, and i want to modify this for my original stuff because it’s good as hell, but the original is very foundation-specific. also, this is the au where draven is awful. like, everyone is awful, but you know.

“You’re not the only one with a tragic backstory, you know,” Eiler called over his shoulder. “My father was a college professor. Taught classics, of all things. He was also one hell of an alcoholic…”

Miles heard a metal cabinet ram shut with a loud BANG. Something fell into the washbasin and thudded like dead weight. “When I was ten, he got into a drunk driving accident. They took him to the hospital and had him in with a shrink-” his voice suddenly was sharper against the tile and metal of the room, facing towards him now, “-and the shrink told him, ‘you know, it seems like your problems are ingrained in your identity, sir. Your personality, if you will. If you can find a core for yourself, some sort of foundation instead of resorting to whatever this is, you might do a lot better for yourself’”.

There was the sound of polished black dress shoes turning swiftly, then clacking like hooves on the polished white laminate, walking back towards the chair. “Well! My father never liked unsolicited advice from strangers to begin with, but that got to him. He waited damn near six months to get out of there, and in that time he decided exactly what kind of core he wanted.”

And then he was in his line of vision, smiling placidly like he always had. Miles squirmed against the leather restraints, and he disappeared again, reammerging with the careful insertion of an IV needle into the inside of his right elbow. Miles sucked in a breath. His gloved hands were exceedingly cold.

“He came home. Can’t you believe?” Eiler continued, circling back around to the front of the chair, then ripping the sterile plastic from a syringe. “He passed all the psychiatric evaluations from thereon out. Detoxed, even…” Eiler trailed off. The vial of liquid was so small Miles couldn’t make out the color until it was being pulled, millimeter by millimeter, up into the needle and the syringe beyond. Eiler tapped it carefully against the side of the glass tube, then held the plunger between his teeth and began to roll the sleeves of his pressed white dress shirt up to the elbow. In the sharp clinical light, the pale undersides of his forearms were littered with straight wisps of scars, lined like the braces of a railroad track.

“I really should have thought to do this beforehand,” he spoke around the syringe, then finished buttoning the cusps and removed it, holding it delicately in his right hand. “I apologize. Can’t be good clinical practice to hold it like that. But as I was saying.”

Before Miles had a moment to brace himself, the needle was in one of the pale blue veins of his left hand. He instinctively jerked what wasn’t pinned under a wrist restraint; without a moment’s hesitation, Eiler slammed his fingers under the tip of the tan armrest and held them there, forcing his palm down cool and steady, emptying the remainder of the contents into back of his grip. With his body pinned down, it was easier for Miles to realize he was trembling. The substance burned in a way that wasn’t explicitly painful, but left a sort of numbness in its wake that made a pit open in his stomach.

“He came home from the hospital. And detox. He told me about the shrink,” Eiler pulled the syringe out and walked somewhere behind him to dispose of it. Miles realized, vaguely, that although Eiler’s hands were gone, his own was still gripping the chair tightly, as if he was willing whatever it was to stop the inch-by-inch creeping of heat up his arm.

And then Eiler reappeared, now in the form of a hand around his lower jaw, bracing him forwards against the forehead restraint. Miles met his eyes, cool and calm; and then he drifted them down to Eiler’s throat, and realized with a sense of detached horror that he had loosened his tie.

“You know what he said?” Eiler muttered.

Miles could not respond. Whatever it was had travelled up to his neck now, creeping down his torso, coursing through his capillaries. He had never wanted something to stop more in his entire life. He had never wanted something to be a nightmare more.

“'If I’m going to build a foundation, I’m going to build it from the wreckage of you,’” Eiler whispered. And then smiled. And then took his hand away.

Miles swallowed. There was a vague awareness of the jumpsuit zipper pressing against his windpipe, gently, softly, present. Eiler stepped back.

“And then he did.”

The reality cycler roared to life. It occured to Miles that he was going to die.

———-

[x] Doberman Executioner

Flashes. Miles sees flashes from the machine to his right, then feels them behind him eyes, popping in the front of his skull, then ricocheting pain, and then Draven stands on a cold overhead catwalk and looks down on the crowd below and is afraid.

In. Out. Benjamin Kondraki fades from his mind and Alto Clef sets in, telling him he does not have to feel to shoot, and he does not have to think to finish a job. That’s how he killed all those kids, he thinks. He just was, and then they weren’t.

His body relaxes. The warmth in his chest is the feeling one gets with certainty, stability, a meaning. He remembers a time when he could think while doing these jobs, when his morals lined up with his soul and certainties. Not anymore. His job has changed since Korea. Now, his job is simply to be.

And Draven Kondraki would be.

———-

Although Miles does not physically hear the loud cracking sound he hears it mentally, like an electric shock, like something has wormed into one ear and whipped itself against bone. He feels tranquilized all at once; static on his tongue, invading his mouth, burning his teeth. Thinking becomes a struggle. There are small black dots at the edges of his vision and he slumps in the restraints slightly, then hauls himself upwards, pushes his back into the chair, groggily begs himself not to pass out, although it feels less like he wants to pass out and more like he wants to shrink his soul away and fall into a sleep as dark and smooth as the Marianas Trench.

He wants to sleep. Eiler woke him up, he remembers. He’s been so tired lately. He wants to go back to sleep…

And then there is a hand around his jaw, pushing him back against the headrest, tilting up upwards…yes, up to the moths in the overhead lights.

“There are no dogs in the deep dark,” the figure says, the shadow, the white tooth tiles of god, “That’s one high. And now we go low…”

———-

A single shot from the overhead catwalk. The girl’s head explodes into unrecognition. A memory from when he was eight surfaces, vaguely, in the back of his mind: his father saying humans take a tenth of a second to react to anything. Draven applies this tenth of a second. He drops the sniper rifle and starts to run as the crowd is recoiling, and as he runs he hears the sounds of more shots from the wings, from inside the crowd, from the imposters that have invaded this space with such precision.

———-

“There are no sharks in the water,” says a voice. It’s his father’s. They are looking out over the shale beach, the dark sea, the churning tide. Seagulls wheel and cry above them. His father says, “Do you hear me, Miles? There are no sharks in the water.”

Miles says, “Yes there are,” and the vision disappears, up, back up, back to the chair where he is not certain Eiler said ‘sharks’ or 'water’, and he is not certain of much at all, or even if the dark shadow outlined along the wall beyond his television static vision is anyone he knows, and then he is up again; another crack, this one louder; a nip of electricity at his tongue. His head is pushed back again. The palm of a hand is on his windpipe, inches above the zipper on his collar. The hume change is faster this time. He wants to beg and his jaw will not move.

“…And high again,” Eiler says. His train track forearms. Miles realizes in his peripheral that he’s sweating profusely through his jumpsuit, that it’s running down his face and dripping from the tip of his nose. “You see how this works? There’s a process here, Miles—” and the rest is drowned out by the buzzing of the hume field and the high, sharp crack of reality in his ears…

———-

[DRAVEN AGAIN]

———-

He’s holding him on the precipice of a steep cliff, dust and blue sky and noone to hear him scream. Eiler leans in.

“There is no broken masquerade, Miles,” he said, “There was no Korea. Do you hear me, Miles? You’ve been tricked. Lied to. I need you to listen to me.” A tightening around his throat. Hot tears in his eyes. “This is the best you’ll ever get, you see? There is no life for you outside of here. Now I want you to say it with me…”

A low, animal whine chokes up from his throat, thick with terror.

“Say it with me, now. 'There is no revolution because there is no broken masquerade’.”

“Please stop,” he sobs, “Please stop…”

———-

Draven wanted this to stop.

___________________________________

i wrote this one during nanowrimo. yes, miles and eiler here are modified versions of the miles and eiler in the scene above, but with different dynamics because i was just playing with stuff.

“There is no one in the cockpit,” Eiler growled. “This is an automated train.”

They were sitting at the table, a flashlight between them. The bleeding from Eiler’s temple had stopped, but they both had concluded he had a concussion after he’d pressed a hand to his forehead to check the wound, only to be hit with sharp pain and a blurred image instead of the typical biopathic visual.

“You’re saying we’re the only ones here?” Miles asked. He’d assumed there were people in other cabins, staff or something, at least someone running the train to begin with.

“I never said that,” Eiler said. “There’s one other person on board.”

“…Is she okay?” Miles asked. Eiler dug in his pocket for his cigarettes, working by the LED light.

“She should be fine. They drugged her to hell and back at the capitol, she’s on a drip and a catheter…” The flick of a lighter. Eiler had a cigarette in his mouth, now, balancing between his lips. “The hospital car has a backup generator.”

“She’s a prisoner.”

The lighter came to life, illuminating Eiler in the deep dark, creeping from the outside in in the same way sand always made it’s way inside his mother’s home. “You sound awfully surprised for someone sitting on a train going to a prison.”

“We should check on her,” Miles said. The older man took a drag on the cigarette and exhaled; with the heating shut off, the warmth of it left Miles frightened. It was colder outside here than he’d ever experienced outside at the capitol.

“More than that,” Eiler said, “we should wake her up. Pass me my cane, would you?” It was on the floor several feet away; as Miles got it, he pushed himself to his feet, visibly steadying himself on the wall.

“I don’t see why we need to wake her up. She’s a prisoner, right?” Miles handed him the cane, and Eiler balanced his cigarette back between his lips as he pulled an emergency lever, bright red and hidden in the wall beside the back door; it slid back to reveal a gangway through a storage car, loaded with crates and equipment.

“You know that blackout a few days ago?” he asked, limping over the threshold.”

Miles shuddered, remembering the bypass machine, the flickering lights, the nightmare it had been. “I do.”

“She caused it. Only perpetuator. She’s a technopath. Take the flashlight, will you?”

“Wait. She?” Miles took the flashlight and followed, walking along the narrow pathway through the storage car, following closely behind. Eiler’s cigarette glowed through the encroaching dark.

“You’re surprised by that, too? How boring is your life that you think that’s interesting?”

“Technopathy is a Y-linked gene, right? That’s why all technopaths are male—”

“—No, all technopaths you’ve met are male. The Y-linked hypothesis hasn’t been proven. The margin is skewed in the male direction, but a good quarter of technopaths are female. Probably more, seeing as technopaths are less… rigorous about everything than we are.”

“The X-linked biopathy hypothesis has been proven, though.”

“The X-linked biopathy hypothesis is wrong, too. It’s passed through the mitochondrial DNA, which is passed from the mother’s side.”

“You have no evidence for that.”

“And you do? How old are you, twelve?”

“I’m eighteen,” Miles said, shining the flashlight on the lever by the back door of the car. “and we learned both those phenomenons in medical school.”

Eiler yanked on the lever, and the next gangway door came open: the next car was medical surplus, vaccines in styrofoam containers, biohazard bags. “Rule one of the biological sciences,” he said, narrowly avoiding fluid leaking from a broken surplus of saline, “Researchers can’t make up their goddamn minds about any shit less than fifteen years old. Easier to just slap a hypothesis in a textbook, and the people who actually care will dig in and find that it’s more complicated then the goddamn lecture slides said it was.”

“And you’ve been keeping up with all this.”

“Of course. And I’m assuming you’re interested, too, since it wouldn’t be your first foray into research. Tell me, how much of agreeing to be my personal prisoner is due to the fact you heard about a freakish disease outbreak at the very prison you’d be going to?”

“That’s different.”

Miles almost ran into Eiler when he stopped to look at him, his cigarette starting to ash. “You worked at the Moray lab, right? Plague control. Dr. Wilde mentioned it.”

“I ran samples at the Moray lab. They gave me what they didn’t want to do themselves and I sat and did it. I got paid minimum wage. I was the equivalent of a dishwasher. Have you considered that I’m being sent to prison because I was sentenced to prison, but you thought that would put my training to waste?”

Eiler paused, exhaled smoke again, and turned to continue down the aisle. “Most eighteen year olds would be far more upset about going to prison, is all I’m saying.”

“So you think I’m going because I want to catch a strange disease I can die from in four days?”

“Oh, Miles,” Eiler said, “I never mentioned the disease took four days.”

Miles fell silent. Eiler smiled in the dark.

“A lot of my staff died over the summer. Most of them were too busy dying an agonizing, bloody death to be scientifically interested in what they were dying from. The way I see it, at least when it happens to you, you’ll be able to look inside yourself and tell me what’s happening.” He glanced behind him again, taking out a keyring to release a lock on the lever of the third car, “In non-pathics, the sense of hearing is the last thing to go. In pathics, it’s the sensation of casting that goes last. Might as well put it to good use. Might be a little painful though, what with the catastrophic bleeding and all. ”

The lock dropped open. The door slid away, revealing a sterile car with a tile floor and flood lights illuminating the cabin. It looked empty aside from a single gurney, midway up the left side, hung with tubes and wires. Eiler sighed.

“Alright,” he said, “let’s hope she doesn’t kill us.”

#Anonymous #man this is a lot #scp things are in the au where everyone is awful and everyone suffers so like. thats that on that #idk yall know what ur getting into at this point prob but #abuse ment /#think that probably covers all thats in there actually #draven kondraki #gears #writing #vandal.txt

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momo-de-avis · 5 years

Text

Wordtober Day 4: Freeze

[This one is a bit longer than the others, mind you.]

My dearest Nieve,

Have you ever imagined what does the world look like when it freezes completely?

It’s something that has never really crossed my mind, curiously enough. Just a concept I never thought of. I saw this movie a while ago, a suggestion by an old boyfriend I think, about a man who had that power. Though not quite… he didn’t freeze the world, he froze time. And there was this voyeuristic element to it, because he was an artist and he enjoyed the peace and quiet of drawing the, I think he called it, ‘intervals of time’, and he went about lifting women’s shirts and painting their breasts, or pulling down their pants—it was a very skewed concept of sexual deviancy, if you ask me. Either way, it was framed around this notion of ‘guy just wants to appreciate women’s bodies so he freezes time’, because maybe the director was too much of a coward to call his fantasies ‘sexual assault’. I hated the movie, truth be told. My ex loved it, though. I wondered why, but never asked. To each his own, I suppose. And then I never thought about it again.

Now, let me tell you a story.

Last Friday, I didn’t really want to leave home at all. It was raining, really cold, and there were a few episodes on The Good Wife I wanted to catch up on. But… Jun was insistent on it. And you know how I am. A good, supporting friend. Plus, I might have been a little lonely. Ever since my flatmates moved out, living on my own, I have been missing that ruckus of two people shouting at each other over a lost game of Trivial Pursuit, or something. So, without them, most of the time, all I had was Julianna Marguiles.

Worst of all, it was Black Friday. And I hate Black Fridays. How the crowd goes ravenous for things, for materialistic things they will just throw away in five years’ time, how they all go animalistic on themselves for a price inflated for the sole purpose of being lowered drastically, with appeasing numbers like ‘50’ or ‘70’, splashed in red or yellow to make it all the more alluring, it just—it transcends me, honestly. I get the whole opportunity thing, of buying something you need on the advent of a big sale, but really? Really? You know what I mean. Those people, punching each other over a coffee machine, or a hair straightener, the majority of them don’t need it. It’s a greedy spur-of-the-moment thing. I try to understand it, really, but I can’t.

So, Jun really wanted to go to Black Friday last week, and I said, okay. I was willing to put up with an event I detested if only I was rewarded with some warm coffee or tea at a cosy shop and some nice catching up. It couldn’t have been too complicated, I thought.

Yet it was… far more than I can describe.

We got there at ten, and the crowd was already raging. If by crowd you imagine just a swarm of people wafting by violently like ants before winter, you’re severely down-playing it. Curiously enough, I noticed there was something new to the place. We went to the local mall, of course, but Jun wanted a new pair of skates, so our obvious destination was the sports store. And there, strangely enough, between Adidas and Nike displays, was a banner. It shined bright in blue and it was written with white letters that, for some reason, seemed to dance.

‘Special Show Today at 11 by Aleneus the Magnificent.’

I laughed, of course. What kind of nerd would name himself that? What bloody LARPing, D&D, con attendee idiot would bother to name himself something straight out of a default Runescape character? And who the bloody hell was Aleneus the Magnificent? I thought: some trashed, bankrupted clown, at the end of his career, who was about to set up a kiddie show in the middle of the sports store. Maybe the manager had thought it would ease the frantic crowd and just take a moment and enjoy a card trick by some weirdo wearing a cape and pulling colourful scarves out of his sleeve.

I mean, this bothered me more than tit-spying lunatic from time-freezing movie.

The air inside reeked of body odour, absolutely unbreathable, and everywhere people ran and clashed against one another. Exactly what you’d expect of Black Friday, I suppose. I saw an older woman, clad in pink and the ugliest pair of crocs I have ever seen, entering a shouting contest with a suburban mum over one of those pairs of child sneakers that lights up at every step. Two guys—one muscly, clearly in the right store for him—and the other slender thought intimidatingly tall—reached over for the same pair of shorts and proceeded to try and conquer it through a game of tug-of-war. The shorts lost, in the end, being ripped at the centre, and nobody even bothered to call a worker or anything, they just tossed it aside into the pile of already discarded items. A group of teenagers started a brawl over a couple of pairs of Nikes, and it escalated to punches and scratching, until one of them bled slightly from the nose and security had to be called in.

Security had to be called in a lot, but the poor fellas waddled through the sea of rage, barely able to move, with warning shouts like you’d hear at a riot. Disperse! Disperse! Insane, I tell you. These poor chaps just marched on, at one point pushing people aside with swift enough force for a corridor to form, though even they weren’t spared the angry screams of customers just dying to get their hands on a 70% discount over some football team’s jersey. Even me, not being one for cops in general, I felt bad.

Now, imagine the poor workers, there. The sea of clothes scattered about, rising up to mountains of products either trashed under a brawl or left forgotten by some middle-aged, self-entitled office worker, who couldn’t even spare a second to fold a t-shirt back into place, just made you angry on sight. You’d see shoes being kicked around, boxes tumbled over, shoelaces spilling out like swarms of snakes, hangers thrown over their shoulders, footballs and basketballs thumping the floors loudly as one petulant child insisted they must try it out before deciding, only to kick it away and watch it hit a rack of sweaters and then the head of another angry customer who would turn back and scream, but got no answer.

I just wanted to get out of there, but Jun was set on getting a pair of skates, since the wheels on hers were too worn out and the boot was starting to come off, or something. So she spotted a pair on a rack, black, hot-pink and purple, and went straight for it. Though when her hand hit the boot, another came flying. This other person had, of course, been a tad too late, and I could vow for Jun’s first arrival, but that usually doesn’t matter to Black Friday attendees. With a violent tug, she plucked the skate out of Jun’s hand and then shoved her hard. She nearly fell, had she not bumped into my chest—but she was having none of it, of course. Even I was ready to throw hands. I mean, the face on that woman… Blistering self-entitlement, believe me.

This stranger—a woman that looked about her age, early twenties maybe, and quite fit—began to turn around, when Jun caught a grip of her ponytail and gave her a shove. Her neck almost snapped, and there was a cry, though in the midst of angry bellows, I couldn’t tell exactly if she had been that hurt. But in that moment, I began to panic, as the woman turned around with eyes glinting in fury and one hand raised. Now, I had not signed up for a fight, and the prospect of it sincerely scared the soul out of me.

Then, the speakers growled. Like someone was trying to use them but either a microphone or an old phone got too close and it wheezed and groaned and pierced all our ears. Everyone flinched—me included—like the sound shattered all our brains. Skaters fell on the ground forgotten, as did almost anything anyone was holding at all. And for a split second, everything was so silent I was starting to believe they did bring in riot gear and they were beginning to… disperse the crowd, I guess. It was just peaceful for one second a half.

It passed, and in the far end, between the sea of heads that jumped right back to tussling against each other for a new backpack, a figure appeared. Something cold then grabbed hold of me. He was a slender man, cartoonishly dressed in a top hat and a cape, and I suppose a typical magician’s outfit, modelled after some 19th century caricature—high-waisted pants and bland, white shirt, as you have. Ready to entertain a bunch of middle-schoolers with some cheap tricks. He smiled, too. And it was his smile that was disconcerting.

Nobody paid mind to him, naturally, but I was enticed. I was even ignoring Jun’s tussle with the woman over the pair of skates, and something drew me in. I walked. Amidst the ravenous tumble of bodies fighting each other, I pushed everyone away and walked ahead.

Have you ever felt you were doing something against your will? Your body is moving, but there’s a screaming voice inside your head that tells you to stop, yet you can’t answer to it. You just keep moving and moving, and the more you fight it, the more suffocating it becomes.

It’s frightening at first. But once you let it settle, it becomes… easy. Like walking up an escalator. It takes you where you need to go, not where you want to be. And to be taken where we need to be can be dreadful, but once you reach the destination, it becomes… comforting.

You might be wondering, at this point, Nieve—why am I writing to you? Why am I telling you this?

Oh, you will see.

The man raised his eyes from the crowd, and against all my expectations, found mine. I suddenly felt bad for all my prior misconceptions, upon reading his name—which, by all accounts, is quite ridiculous—because he was nothing like the stereotypical image I had composed in my mind. Something danced around him. Like the air rearranged itself, particles clashing against one another and atoms rubbing together to rearrange reality, but so faint, so slight, you could barely see it. And I was the only one paying attention to it. A soft vibrancy, like when you hear the humming of a television in another room before actually knowing it’s turned on.

I stopped, and his smile turned into a grin. Between the dimples of his amusement, something sombre fell, and I must admit, it was then I felt terror. Gripping, paralyzing terror. He leaned forward, his eyes now so close to mine I felt every muscle in my body contracting and tensing up, like the lid of a box smacking shut, and I looked into his deep, purple eyes. I remember thinking it was quite the unnatural colour.

He tilted his head and murmured: “Would you like to freeze the world over?”

I realize now he must have summoned me because, in the middle of this inane rumble happening inside a sports store, of people gnawing at each other like wild animals over a pair of sneakers or a new tennis racket, I was the only one grounded enough to pay attention. Because I didn’t want to be there at all. And he knew. Until that moment, I was quite shaken, terrified even, but then it felt like the truest, most honest beckoning amidst the rise of the Apocalypse. Like the archangel Michael handed me the sword of silver himself to decide upon the mortal souls who should enter Heaven. And besides, the confusion was brewing a headache in me. I just wanted everyone to be silent for a moment.

So I answered honestly: “Yes.”

He drew away, tipped his hat and cast one paralyzing glance over the crowd, and the world… froze. It just… stopped.

I cannot express to you, Nieve, how beautiful a sight it is to see a world frozen like God hit the pause button. Maybe tit-spying peeping Tom from the movie was onto something, because I have never before experienced such peace in my life.

Just try to imagine it. Chaos coming to a halt around you, all the sounds of the world sucked out of existence, and there’s only absence The people that, just before—minutes before—existed in a revolution of egoism, fighting and screaming and shouting over owning things, buying things, purchasing things, and things, and more things—suddenly turned into statues. I felt a queen amidst the blind.

I trudged down the cluttered aisles, stepping on discarded clothes and broken hangers, plastic cracking beneath my soles and fabrics caught into my fingers and hairs, and watched: hissing growls frozen mid-scream, clenched fists hoisted in interrupted challenges, even a couple of fingers gripping the hairs of one another. I touched the arm of a woman whose face was cast into stony anger, eyebrows pushed together in ravenous hatred, and she didn’t move.

The magician, or what was he, appeared next to me, calmly placed a hand on my shoulder and said: “Try hurting her.”

I should have fought it, I know, but I was far too curious to deny the opportunity. If one could freeze the entire world over like this, just to bring a moment’s peace, and watch the carved animosity of these brutes clashing over materialism, what else could one do with it? I mean, it’s wrong to do it, to take advantage of someone’s body who’s stuck into a liminal space between life and non-existence. I know that, I’m not a monster. But so is so many of the things these people were doing. You just had to look at the workers and cashiers there to understand it. And who’s to say they don’t deserve a little pain?

The magician produced an ice pick from his pocket; his hand touched mine softly—and, oh, I cannot express to you how cold those fingers were—and placed it gently on my palm. “Try hurting her,” he said again. The voice was tuneful, like a chirping bird, and I almost want to say it carried something charming with it, perhaps an enchantment of sorts (at least, he had the clothes to go along with it). But I’d be lying. I wasn’t moving against my own free will, anymore. I was too curious, and this world was too silent for me to let it go back to that irritable cacophony of screams and aggression from just seconds before.

So I did. I picked up the ice pick and pressed it gently against her puffy white skin; I felt the surface of her arm sink below the sharp tip as it pressed on deep into the flesh until the cold blade hit her bone and a silky thread of red sprouted from the puncture wound. She didn’t move; yet as I looked up at her face, I saw a tear sliding down her eye. Like a wax figure that somehow contained a soul inside of it, and upon the alien touch felt every pain a human could, only twice as hard. I thought I was enacting some proper punishment, I won’t deny. I saw that woman hit a kid with an empty box. It was an accident, but maybe if she hadn’t been so concentrated on shoving aside all and any who got to her precious ugly sneakers first, she wouldn’t have hurt a child—would she?

Do you want to know what I did next, Nieve? To each and every one of them? Because I did things. I simply relished in this immense power I was still unsure where it came from. So I did things.

Alright, I won’t tell you all of it. But I’ll tell you part of it. The muscly guy who played a game of tug-of-war and threw the ripped shorts apart, I poked his eyes out—oh, yes, both of them. That’ll teach him to watch where he throws things, next time. And the slender, tall man he fought—I pierced both his hands and feet. The woman with the ugly crocs? Who smacked three people that I could see with a plastic hanger? I broke every single one of her fingers and watched her tears run silently down her pale, reddish skin. The group of teenagers who had started a brawl? The one stuffing watches in his pockets—well, I stuffed socks down his throat—one, two, three, and four, and five, and six, until his trachea was so filled with cloth his eyes swelled and burst into red as he suffocated. At one point, I even stole money from a few of them and filled the pockets of every single one of the workers there. I think they deserved it.

There were more, but these, I think, are enough to paint the picture. Perhaps I’m more of a pervert than tit-spying freak from the movie.

I asked the magician then, after I had my fun, who had this amazing power. I certainly thought it had to be him, because he had called upon me, he had summoned me. But imagine my astonishment when he leaned into my ear and whispered: “You.” I asked how—how could it be possible, and why hadn’t I just… discovered it before. He simply said: “I gave it to you.”

We walked back to the doorway. Outside, the mall was packed full with people walking up and down the corridors, not minding the hell I had frozen over. As if they didn’t even acknowledge the existence of that store.

“You can do it again,” he said. “Whenever you like.”

I did, a few times, of curiosity, just to see how it works. And every single time, I watched their bodies turn rigid and stony, their muscles constrained by that burning wish of wanting to move, but utterly unable to. And me, their God, deciding what to do upon them as their lives hung suspended before my power.

Though I’m not as greedy as I might sound. I didn’t do anything, this time.

When I was done, the magician chuckled briefly, tipped his hat again and said: “Use it wisely.” I watched him away, sliding through the passing customers, and in between the silhouettes, he disappeared. A flicker of reality, gone within a second. Maybe that’s all he had been.

I think about just what he was often, you know. Maybe he was an agent of chaos, a trickster of some sort. Maybe he was a god, playing a prank on mankind by leaving this gift of immense power in the midst of chaos, waiting to see who would be worthy of possessing it. And he chose me.

When I turned my back to the sports store and walked home, the screams began. I can still hear them, Nieve. I can still hear those bellows of panic filled with just enough of a flutter of confusion as they wondered: where did all that pain come from?

Did you see the news article they published about it? ‘Black Friday Turned Bloody’. They just accepted, with no further ado, that these morons plucked each other’s eyes out and broke each other’s fingers over shorts and sneakers! There were a few mentions of something the press labelled ‘paranormal’, but the police just chalked it all up under ‘trauma’ or something. I mean, who cares, at this point?

I did leave Jun there, for pity’s sake. I didn’t want to hurt her, she’s nice, I like her. You, on the other hand, is quite the different story.

I’m sure, by now, you’ve figured out where I’m going with this. I mean, you’re one monumental bitch, but you’re not daft. Certainly, you remember—don’t you? We used to be friends when we were kids, in year nine, really close too. Until you decided you were too good for me. Oh, far too good for poor, ugly Suranne, with her thick hairs and bushy brows, and all that. Remember how it all ended? That day you invited me over for a study group at your house, only for me to find out it was a set-up?

I still have the scars on my body. They never really went away, and I’ve been forced to look at them every single day of my life since. Worst of all was erasing the mental scars you left me. Leaving school and some good years of therapy just didn’t seem enough. I think I found the right therapy, though. Freezing the world over can be chilling for others, but for me it’s just… peaceful.

But do try to remember, Nieve—how I cried that day and begged you to stop punching me, or how much I screamed when you pressed a burning hot rod against my skin to, and I quote you, ‘brand me like the cow I was’. Please, remember every single instance of pain you inflicted on me—the cuts, the pinches, the poking needles, the slaps—because, in no time, you will be the one feeling them. I will freeze the world—your world—and I will make it last three times more than it did for me, and you will feel every inch of horrifying, excruciating, humiliating pain I felt. And it will go on for so long your frozen body will try to wither and jerk itself free from me and nothing will happen, because that screaming, bristling terror you will feel will be all locked up inside that head of yours like in a panic room. No one will hear your thoughts, and no one will know your pain, and once you wake up, no one will hear your cries for help because I will make sure you will have no tongue for a plea.

You might think it a petty thing, to be given this power and then decide to use it in a quest for revenge, and one that’s over ten years old, but you know what? I’m not really one for heroism, anyway—never was. This world is far too big and complicated for me to go out and just become a vigilante or something. And I just… don’t care like that.

Then again, you did bring this on yourself.

So, please—do remember that day and keep the sordid details in mind because… I am coming for you, Nieve.

From your former best friend,

Suranne.

P.S.: I just remembered the name of the movie! It’s called Cashback, though it’s just dreadfully boring and too voyeuristic for me. Well, but—you know. Men.

Past Challenges:

Wordtober Day 1: Ring

Wordtober Day 2: Mindless

Wordtober Day 3: Bait

#wordtober #writing #my writing #creative writing #fiction #my wordtober

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rebuiltbionicle · 5 years

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Lihiga

A beautiful lush paradise, Lihiga was an island in the northeast of the northern dome the eastern island chain. It was the homeland of another of Mata Nui’s various species and experienced a great catastrophe in its time but was able to persevere.

Like all islands, Lihiga’s foundation was laid by the Great Beings and the island itself built by the Matoran. It was located in the Great Spirit Robot’s shoulder joint. Gunk that filled up in the joint would be removed by automated cleaning and expelled into the dome where it would be found and put to use by the Matoran society. It was constructed as a fairly waterlogged island, covered in swamp and rainforest, with mountains at the centre.

It was left with a population of Matoran on the surface and a population of Aryihi in the water. The gunk being cleaned from Mata Nui’s joints arrived from vents as natural formations, was collected by the Aryihi and traded to the Matoran. “Gunk” could mean metal, rock, or just dirt, and the two civilisations found a use for both. As Mata Nui began making their own species, the aquatic Pagaka found their way to Lihiga and set up their own villages there. Due to the swamps, rivers, and lakes throughout Lihiga, the interaction between air and water breathers was greater than any other island, where they did more than just hurl materials at each other one the beaches.

Mata Nui didn’t want the realms of the surface and the water to remain separate and barely intersecting. On Lihiga, Mata Nui created a new species that could breathe both in air and in water. These people were physcially immense, with a similar body plan to the Napa species but given new features based on some of the aquatic Rahi the Great Beings had left looming in the depths of the ocean before handing Rahi creation to the Makuta. These new beings were the Batruten, and as Mata Nui had wished, they began spreading across the universe following the Pagaka immigration. On Lihiga, they set up their own town in the swamp lakes.

During the rise of the Barraki, Lihiga was a point of major contention between Pridak and Ehlek. Pridak had conquered the rest of the eastern chain and the other islands in Lihiga’s dome. Lihiga surrendered to his might without bloodshed, but it came under surprise attack from Ehlek’s aquatic armies beneath the sea. The Pagaka of Lihiga saw themselves as being better off ruled by one of their own, and joined up with Ehlek to expel Pridak’s forces. The Batruten were also won over by Ehlek. Pridak had fought other Barraki and native uprisings, but a both at the same time in one place was new to him. As the Barraki ceased fighting and coalesced into the League, Pridak conceded Lihiga to Ehlek.

The rule of the League was disappointingly brutal to the Lihigans, and they were glad when the Barraki were deposed. They did have to contend with the fighting of the lesser barraki, but once they threw their local Batruten overlord off the mountain they rallied to defend themselves from further incursions. Some decades later, after the Matoran Civil War, Makuta Uqueren was assigned to watch over the island.

Lihiga lived in peace and contentment for centuries, until a dreadful incident would change the shape of the island forever. A Batruten named Nocturn, already known as a troublemaker, became involved in a physical altercation. In a fit of rage he struck the ground in a very certain position. The force of his strike broke one of the system responsible for the vents bringing the gunk from the GSR’s joints to the island. The vents went into overdrive and an event the universe interpreted as volcanic tore the island in two. A massive portion of the population died in the tidal waves or drowned in the mud and sediment.

The Kestora in the Maze of Shadows fixed the vents and Lihiga stabilised, now as two islands a fair distance from each other. Survivors and refugees tentative went to build their old lives and bring Lihiga back to its former glory. They notably insisted on calling both islands Lihiga as a singular land. The sea that separated them had a chute system of the Metru Nui design built to quicken travel. Makuta Uqueren helped reconstruct the ecosystem until both fragments were nearly indistinguishable from before the disaster. Nocturn went missing; he was taken by the Order of Mata Nui to the Pit.

Once everything was rebuilt life went back to normal in Lihiga. The dividing sea became attractive to the aquatic species, but they chose to remain near their original habitats to continue the integration between surface and water dwellers that made Lihiga so notable. The island was at peace again for millennia.

When the Great Cataclysm struck, the Lihigans panicked and believed the “seismic” troubles that destroyed their island was back. They began to evacuate, though the quake was only a one-off event and they quickly realised it was a universe-wide event. They precariously stayed on their islands, rebuilding the damage done by the quake. The ecosystem began to die off without the dome’s lightstone and the beautiful land began to die out. The return of the light with Mata Nui’s reawakening and replacement of Makuta allowed it to start regrowing, though it had suffered greatly.

Under the Reign of Shadows, Lihiga was occupied by the Rahkshi. The wilderness of the islands, recovering from the darkness, was declared too easy to escape into and hide in. The Visorak Horde attacked the island and mutated all the Rahi they could find, turning the island into a festering mess of Hordika mutations, forcing the inhabitants to huddle even closer into walled off cities and depend on the Rahkshi for protection. When the call came to evacuate the universe, a very sudden riot managed to dislodge the occupation long enough for the people to evacuate. Lihiga was disassembled with the rest of the Matoran Universe, though it had to be cleaned of mutations before it was safe to do so.

...

Lihiga was dominated by what can be broadly referred to as Bo, Le, and Ga Wahi. Rainforest and swamp dominated the bulk of the island, with the only plains being at the foot of the mountain. The mountain was snow capped, and melting ice formed rivers. Rivers passed down from the mountain and fed the swamps and lakes. The coasts are covered in mangroves, and giant lily pads litter the littoral area. These lily pads existed in the lakes too. The seas around the island were fairly shallow, and the waters pristine enough for the floor to be visible. It was abundant in either kelp forests or coral reefs. All these biomes were heavily damaged but successfully rebuilt after the catastrophe, except for the mountain.

The first inhabitants of the Lihiga were Matoran and Aryihi. The Matoran were of the plantlife, air, and water elements. The Bo-Matoran had their villages in the rainforest, on the forest floor, as well as a few other settlements at the foot of the mountain. The Le-Matoran built their villages in the rainforests just under the canopy, as well as a settlement enjoying the altitude of the mountain. The Ga-Matoran had the most villages (but an equal population) following the flow of water from the mountain through the lakes and swamps out to sea. The Aryihi were of the plantlife, air, and rahi elements. The Bo-Aryihi lived amongst the kelp forests, the Le-Aryihi near the shore and in the lakes and swamp, and the Me-Aryihi lived near the coral. Lihiga also became home to a population of Pagaka, who built their own town in a deep water cove, but also were found among the Ayihi’s villages.

Lihiga became the homeland of one of Mata Nui’s new species: The Batruten. This beings were immense, with the hope they could help with heavy lifting duties under the water. They could live both on land and in the ocean, breathing with both gills and lungs. Mata Nui drew their design of various aquatic rahi the Great Beings left in the universe, including a luminescent structure, tentacles, and an ability to regrow lost limbs. Despite their hulking appearance they were known for (generally) being very gentle people, spreading across the seas to spread understand between the land and sea. The development of breathing gear to allow water-dwellers on land and land-dwellers underwater made them redundant as ambassadors, but the Batruten didn’t mind; they were the ones who developed the technology. On Lihiga, Batruten could be found in nearly every settlement except the Le-Koros, and had their own town in one of the lakes.

#bionicle #bionicle rebuilt #locations #I recognise how unprofessional gunk is but I'm not changing it #I feel sorry for Nocturn frankly. I'm sure he didn't mean to destroy an island. Eternity in the pit is a bit much

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jorjdsfeadle-blog · 4 years

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mainly as regards to international terrorism

worldwide tensions between Islam and the West. Striking examples of this style encompass Kabir Khan's New York (2008), Karan Johar's My Name is Khan (2010), Rensil D'Silva's Kurbaan (2009) and Apoorva Lakhia's Mission Istanbul, to name a few. Films like Anil Sharma's Ab Tumhare Hawale Watam Sathiyo (2004) and Subhash Ghai's Black and White (2008) consciousness on terrorist problems in the Indian subcontinent itself. The latter films have continued inside the subculture of pre 9-11 terrorist movies like Vidhu Vinod Chopra's Mission Kashmir (2000), Mani Ratnam's Dil Se (1998) and Bombay (1995). Ratnam's Bombay treated the devastating Hindu and Moslem riots in 1991, which value over a one thousand lives. Study in Canada after Graduation Chopra's Mission Kashmir dealt with a situation of neighborhood terrorist activity inside the Kashmir location sponsored by global terrorist cells operating from Afghanistan. In this manner the terrorist style is not a wholly new style in Bollywood, nor is terrorism an strange phenomenon in the day to day sports of the Indian subcontinent (the maximum current and brutal terrorist assault was the Mumbai bloodbath in 2008). What makes the current spate of terrorist movies thrilling is that they have entered the global sphere and have emerge as component and parcel of a transnational talk between East and West and Islam and the opposite.

To make the terrorist style extra palatable, Bollywood has traditionally spiced up the violence and suspense with the hallmark Bollywood music and dance interludes and sentimental romantic exchanges among the hero and heroine. Mission Kashmir is infamous for its swish dances and stirring emotional exchanges between the primary protagonists, played out on the violent backdrop of terrorism in Kashmir. Mani Ratnam's Bombay likewise mixes up the maximum brutal scenes of Hindu and Moslem hatred and violence with scrumptious comedy and a forbidden love affair between a pious Moslem woman and a boy from a highly positioned Shaivite Hindu circle of relatives. His father is the trustee of the village temple and each the family patriarchs are violently opposed to the youngsters marrying out of doors their caste and non secular community.

Karan Johar's My Name is Khan

Following inside the Bollywood lifestyle of blending genres (known inside the enterprise because the masala or highly spiced recipe movie), Karan Johar's My Name is Khan blends comedy and romance with the political hot potato of post Sep 11 bigotry and racial hatred inside the US. The film's theme of ultra-nationalist extremism culminates in the senseless killing of a younger Indian boy Sam or Sameer, who's overwhelmed to dying with the aid of youths within the soccer ground, in part due to the adopting of his stepfather's name Khan. Overflowing gushes of emotion and coronary heart stirring romantic songs, inclusive of the integration of the 1960's counter tradition anthem "We Shall Overcome" (sung in both Hindi and English), arise at some point of the film to both lighten the tension and to exemplify the presence of light and hope in a global darkened with the aid of the bitter shadow of world terrorism. The truth that the imperative protagonist Rizvan Khan is a pious Moslem, and politically impartial to the hysteria of the debate, is considerable. Brought up by using his mom that there aren't any constant labels including Hindu and Moslem, however best good and bad human beings, Rizvan Khan freely practises his religion with identical love and admire for all other races and creeds, simplest differentiating among what is within the hearts and minds of humans, now not to what religion they profess, or to what race, culture and nationality they belong.

My Name is Khan is also considerable for Bollywood fanatics in that it reunites the most important heart throb couple of Hindi cinema from preceding decades, Kajol and Shah Rukh Khan. The duo was previously paired in of Karan Johar's in advance blockbusters Kuch Kuch Hota Hai (1995) and Kabhi Kushi Kabhie Gham (2001). Both of these movies had been sentimental gushy romances, literally overflowing with juicy outpourings of emotion and feeling; a phenomenon which is termed rasa in India. The song and dance sequences were also very elaborately staged and blended a stability of the traditional Indian music and dance forms (Hindustani tune and traditional folk dances) in addition to contemporary Western forms. This ensured the movies' immense reputation in both India and diaspora countries like Canada, the USA and the UK.

Karan Johar continues to utilise the Bollywood masala formula in My Name is Khan, exploiting a sentimental and once in a while drawn out love affair between the autistic hero Rizvan Khan and his eventual Hindu spouse Mandira, a proprietor of a a hit hair dressing salon in San Francisco (the "town of love" which symbolizes the 1960s counter lifestyle motion exploited through Johar inside the "We Shall Overcome" sequence). In the preliminary scenes of the movie, America is portrayed because the land of freedom and opportunity, the nation wherein all races and religions are given the opportunity to move forward and gain prosperity and happiness in a way that is visible to be nearly not possible in a rustic like conventional India, buffeted as it's miles with caste and non secular prejudices and between half of and two thirds of its population living in poverty.

For overseas nationals or NRI's (non-resident Indians), however, Sept. 11 radically adjustments this formulation and shatters the American dream nurtured for decades by using an Indian diaspora which has merged its Indian cultural roots with American beliefs of person freedom and patron prosperity. According to Johar's film, this is now the plight of the Khans who, instead of persevering with to act as fully included contributors of the mainstream community, now find themselves at the outer edge of a post-9-11"us and them" rhetoric, fuelled through an ultra-nationalist Republican President, who perceives the sector in black and white realities, that have little to do with the ordinary lives of the average character. It isn't any accident that it's miles the newly elected President Barack Obama (played by means of his appearance alike Christopher B. Duncan) who greets Rizvan Khan on the quit of the film and applauds him for his faith in God and his humanity and perseverance. For Karan Johar, Obama's election is symbolic of the "us and them" divisions within the US psyche being delivered to a close in conjunction with the restoration of the innate beliefs for which the American Republic and its people stand.

Before the nation's divisions are healed, however, the Khan's revel in intense non-public hardships due to their ethnicity. These hardships culminate within the tragic death in their teenage son Sameer, overwhelmed to death in the school playing field by way of racist youths. In her grief, Sameer's mother Mandira blames her husband Rizvan, accusing him of the truth that if she and her son had not taken the call of Khan, he would now not be dead. She then tells him that the handiest way he can make amends for this stigma of being a Khan and, by means of implication a Moslem, is to fulfill the United States President (at the time it's miles George W. Bush) and to inform him that: "My Name is Khan and I am now not a Terrorist." This easy phrase turns into a form of mantra throughout the film, powerfully confronting the viewer's post-September 11 prejudices by way of refusing to link the two standards of Islam and terrorism together: i.E. My call is Khan, therefore I am a Moslem, however on the identical time just because I am a Moslem, does this mean that I am a terrorist? Unhappily, for the duration of the hysteria that followed inside the wake of September 11 for many Westerners the two terms, Moslem and terrorist became quite plenty synonymous.

This is a movie consequently which, in contrast to its predecessors, isn't always simplest aimed at teaching Indians and West Asians (it broke all data in Pakistan), however is also geared toward teaching and enlightening Westerners. This it does in a completely diffused and didactic way, no longer simplest thru its exploitation of acquainted West Asian icons, however additionally thru its exploration of issues and photographs established to the USA and the West: the 1960s counter way of life, the plight of the coloured people in the South and references to the civil rights movement through the film's subject matter tune "We Shall Overcome." This well-known anti-establishment song from Sixties when sung in Hindi via a religious Moslem in a black gospel church offers the target audience an nearly surreal feeling of each merging and, at the equal time transcending, national, racial and socio-spiritual cultural borders: a direction to global brotherhood and solidarity which has been courageously expounded via of the 20th century's brilliant non secular leaders, India's Mahatma Gandhi and America's Martin Luther King.

Karan Johar therefore attracts upon both the Western ideals of liberty and individualism, as well as propounding the roots of West Asian non secular piety and communal solidarity. By doing this My Name is Khan proposes an alternate version of worldwide brotherhood and transnational identities and exchanges. This new worldwide model for Johar is one that attracts its notion and ideals from the grass roots level- from the terrible coloureds of Georgia, from the socially ostracised Moslems, and from the autistic and mentally handicapped. All of them are an integral a part of this international humanity and in the end the parent of Shah Rukh Khan, the most important megastar in the worldwide forum today (such as Hollywood), speaks for all of them, when he says my call is Khan and I am not a terrorist, now not an outcaste and now not a hazard to the US or the crucial values which it seeks to export to the relaxation of the sector. Rather, as pious Moslems, those like Rizvan Khan have some thing of value to contribute to america and the West, and while the ones in strength allow them to do so, the vital values which have made the US excellent can no longer most effective be maintained however extended and broadened. On the other hand, ultranationalist extremist practises will handiest create increasingly hatred and division, in order that even the ones who have assimilated the American Dream will grow to come to be its maximum sworn enemies. This is the main topic of Kabir Khan's New York, which I will briefly discuss in part of this article.

Kabir Khan's New York

Although now not as a hit on the box workplace as Karan Johar's blockbuster, Kabir Khan's New York is possibly an even more exciting example of the transnational trend in the Bollywood terrorist genre. Released in 2008, New York makes a speciality of the lives of three brand new young Indians analyzing at New York State University together. The usual Bollywood masala romance dominates the first 1/2 of the movie, specializing in a sentimental love triangle between Maya (Katrina Kaif), Sameer or Sam (John Abrahams) and Omar (Neil Mukesh). Both Katrina Kaif and John Abrahams, in addition to Irrfan Khan (gambling the FBi agent Roshan) are properly installed stars in Bollywood (Irrfan Khan also starred as the policeman who interrogates the primary protagonist in Slumdog Millionaire). And the presence of these stars, along with the solid musical score and the dramatic love triangle situation, assured the film's success despite its debatable subject. Significantly, Sam and Maya fall in love and shatter Omar's emotional world at around the same time as the two hijacked passenger planes are driven into the Twin Towers. As with My Name is Khan, real pictures of the terrorist attack at the World Trade Centre is utilised in the film.

From this factor onwards, a film which has been mainly concentrated upon a sentimental love conflict between three friends now becomes a political indictment of the Bush administration's post-9/11 terrorist policies. Sam, as part of the FBI's nationwide hunt for terror suspects, is arrested, incarcerated and tortured. These tortures are graphically depicted within the film and are apparently primarily based on actual life debts of harmless victims, who have been illegally arrested and incarcerated for no other purpose than their having the wrong ethnic historical past and spiritual persuasion. During the final credits a grim word to this impact informs the visitors of the records that: "In the days following 9-11 greater than 1200 guys of overseas origin within the US had been illegally abducted, detained and tortured for as lengthy as three years. The government did not discover proof linking a unmarried one among them to the 11th of September assault.

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