#now that i look at it alongside the color pallete i wish i used more variation but i’ve never really done something like this before

[popurikat]

Trying to make sense of parts of Future (Mystery Skulls)

Since my last analysis went so well I thought I’d make this post as well, especially because Future really did confuse me and I know others might be lost as well; so lets discuss this together! It will be lengthy as I am basically spewing my thoughts out right on the videos immediate release date (there will be a read more option after my first thought to avoid long positng). Well first things first, I wanna address that I've been curious about what kind of spirit Arthur's arm could be (since I am not too well acquainted with any canon on its background part at least) and I think I have concluded that the closest thing to it could be is a Tenome; which is a Yochai that possesses a man's body and moves the eyes to the palms. "found lurking in cemeteries, hands outstretched, as if he has only recently lost his vision and is searching for something. Get close enough, and you’ll find out in quick succession that a) he’s not blind, but looking with eyes embedded in his hands, and b) what he’s looking for is a snack." (fyi, most of my mythos information is coming from Wiki just as a heads up)

And sure enough he found a great source for his hunger. Something he has been EYEING since the start. Which now leads me to my next points on the video...

At first watch I was convinced that each strand found on Mystery’s heart represented a singular soul bond, I thought that blue was for Vivi, Green was for the hand, pink for Lewis, purple for Shiro, Yellow for Lance, Orange for Arthur, and black and white were unknown. Which, didn’t settle right for me. SO I went in and re-watched the clip a couple more times and saw this:

Vivi’s (blue created after she got hurt) and Shiro’s (white created after she died) strands were connected to the strands located next to them. A start and an end. Mystery’s promise to Vivi to stay at her side for generations as he was spared upon prior defeat of Mushi. And then of course we have the promise of power and sustenance for Shrio as they held a symbiotic relationship for most of their lives that was only severed due to an interference. These double strands of fate are especially clearer in the scene with Shiro in Future. As the black strand gets clearer the more she gets injured or emotionally hurt, it eventually leads to the leak of the white strand on her death. Meaning; Black/white=Shiro; Purple/Pink=Lewis; Blue/Green: Vivi; and Orange/Yellow: Arthur. And why am I inclined to believe Lewis and Arthur are apart of Mystery’s heart? Well that's because those two were the only ones fully streaming before Vivi’s and Shiro’s appeared. We know that Arthur lost an arm to Mystery and discovered his identity (ergo losing most of his trust in him) insinuating both strands to arise early on of his color scheme, as well as with Lewis’ death occurring under the protection of Mystery when they were grouped and having his soul go restless/ in pain. It wouldn’t make sense to add family members or side characters not included in the mainline story to this grouping unless they would play an important role in the finale, which isn’t likely since we have only one more video left as Ben stated it was going to be a 5 video series. I am also inclined to believe each person has two strands because of Kitsune lore: “ Kitsune keep their promises and strive to repay any favor. Occasionally a kitsune attaches itself to a person or household. They follow their word of honor. They become self-destructive if they break a promise, and when someone else breaks a promise, they become deadly enemies.” Plus, It would make sense as to why in this short battle Mystery sprouted his last 3 tails when it came to Vivi and Shiro and how their connections affect his power. (more on this in a bit) But, furthermore; if anyone else notices, the Band-Aids on the heart are also remotely located on the sections of Vivi’s and Shiro’s strands specifically because for both, Mystery has vowed to protect them and has failed. 

Now then lets talk about a few things on Mystery’s ultimate form shall we? The final form of a Kitsune, its celestial form as shown here is called a Tenko. (yes I am aware of the Kumiho, but that is a fully evil, flesh eating, 9 tailed fox that specialize in illusions and well Mystery has never been portrayed as human). The Tenko makes even more sense when taken into consideration that Mystery’s third eye (typically a form of wisdom connected to overpowering the mortality of ones self) opens. So how was this done in such a short amount of time? “Kitsune do not accept aid from those who are not willing. they do not ask for help, and as such, most aid must come from another's initiative. Kitsune are emotional and very vengeful. Kitsune will lose their temper at the slightest provocation. Once someone has earned a kitsune's enmity, the kitsune will begin enacting revenge that can become quite extreme. On the other hand, those who have earned a kitsune's trust and loyalty will see a friendship that can last through many trials. Freedom is very important to the kitsune. They do not accept being forced into something they do not wish, and do not like being bound or trapped. Doing so weakens the kitsune.” Mystery as we know is very much controlled by his emotions, going head first into things constantly based on reaction and his inability to control his power under distress. His tails arose in the fight sequence every time he fulfilled his oath AND used 100% of his form/power. Therefore, his tails grew because he wasn’t holding back anymore, not his grievances, not his appearance, nor his hesitance in his evident distress of being bound to two entities that both required his aid.  My last note on these images comes from a tumblr user’s reverse audio clipping (https://nebulous-rain.tumblr.com/post/633555549749952512/ok-so-yknow-that-one-reversed-part-of-future). The rewind of the clip of Mystery’s transformation plays “When I’m With You”, which yes, cool a possible Easter egg to the next song! BUT what is this song about? Let me just bring up the first line of the song: “You got me hanging by a THREAD...I wish I could turn back time...I wish I could rewind life...” and before the chorus “I’m gonna make it right”. We know that this can refer to rectifying the wrongs of Lewis’ death, but more accurately to do so we need to defeat the evil inside this mutt that is pulling the strings of this whole fiasco. And this might just be the intro portion of the next mystery skulls mind you as we’ve also gotten many false starts with the previous two videos where hellbent used “every note” and future used “enemies” alongside the main song. BUT WE HAVE TWO YEARS ANYWAY, WHY BABBLE ON ABOUT THIS. LETS MOVE ON!

Hearts in this series have not been just for identifying the dead or for aesthetic purposes, they are the life force of each powerful legend. I am actually surprised to see Shiro have a heart as she started off as a creation from Mystery and therefore her lifeforce is just his blood and without it she is nothing. I am curious about her color pallet though, her heart is purple and pink. Lewis’ is gold/yellow with touches of orange. And Mystery’s is just red, but it has a mix of everyone’s essence within it to keep it tied and whole. Shiro’s could be colored this way in reference to Lewis’ aid to help find her creator; which would explain why Mystery surrounds himself by color as he required outside help and how Lewis’ heart is yellow in reference to how recently Arthur helped him remember his friends/hidden memories. One thing we have learned about hearts is that they can be broken repeatedly and can be ripped apart from the body, but they can be repaired too through resolution/hope. Lewis restored his heart in hellbent by using Vivi’s flower petals and finding hope that he will get revenge, only for his heart to be repaired again through Arthur’s touch. Shiro may have withered away, but her heart is essentially not broken, she’d need Mystery to restore it as it was flung into space (and that again relies on Mystery finding his sanity and finding it in himself to even bring her back). And as for Mystery himself, he’s gonna need the whole gang to reach out to him to extract the parasite within and restore balance. I really want to know more about the heart properties and how they give their users their powers as well Vivi is able to summon her strength through a material connection (bat) that function in its own way as the vessel a heart does since its connecting her to her ancestry.

NOW to finalize, I offer you two queries:

WHO IS ARTHURS HAND REACHING FOR!? I know it seems like Mystery, but that would be counter productive for the hand demon if he has Arthur interfering with his control. Is it still after Lewis as we’ve seen previous times where his arm acts up only in Lewis’ presence and when specifically other “magic” is at play? If so, is the goal to ward off Lewis and Vivi from defeating Mystery? Is Arthur gonna use the arm to find his own power as we’ve seen when he is able to momentarily cease control of it he kinda ruins anything electrical he touches and well, electricity is currently running rampant in there.

and lastly, I am really curious how touch sensitive hearts are, We know that even the smallest of brushes can detect memory/links to the person holding it (as seen with how Shiro managed to get soul flowers in hellbent), but the fact that Lewis was so in touch with the feeling of Arthur EVEN THOUGH ARTHUR GRABBED HIS HEART THROUGH HIS METAL HAND MIND YOU!, that he still managed to feel the disturbance instantly. So my question is, is the touch sensitivity reliant on how close someone is to someone? I would like to say yes cause when Shiro touched his heart he didn’t react instantly, he felt her rummaging his memories and was awoken, but he didn’t kick her butt by fully reforming until after she had long since stepped on his heart and then forced the memory of Mystery to arise. But yeah, its a nice little detail.

Either way, thanks for reading! Feel free to add on, comment, or even dm me about more Mystery Skulls information and theories! Love to hear them!

#Mystery Skulls #MSA #mystery skulls animated #future #MSA future #Mystery skulls animated future #Lewis #Lewis Pepper #arthur #arthur kingsmen #Vivi #vivi yukino #Shiro #Shiromori #??? #Arthur's arm #Mystery #theories #theory

[raeloganthesonic06fangirl]

I think I asked you this a while back before you watched the episode, and if you don't mind, I'd like to know what you thought of Poe! Also, what did you think of the Webby twist in the final episode? I know some people really didn't like it because they found it undermined the found family message of the show. Did you feel this way, being in a found family yourself?

Ever look at a character design, and 100%, the first thing that pops into your head is

And I mean that purely designwise, absolutely all about the aesthetic and color pallets and what exactly is the style of clothing and how they carry themselves. Like, my goodness, that is a good design, absolutely totally what I would expect the twin brother of Magica De Spell to look like, and he seems to carry the same swagger, my only complaint is that they waited until the penultimate episode to drop this detail, I would have been curious to see how they could have worked in maybe tying up that loose end for Magica at the end of the series there if this was part of her beef with Scrooge

As for the whole Webby thing, I actually rather enjoyed that reveal. It was completely unexpected, and was probably one of the few things in the series while watching it that I didn't figure out in advance, which was a breath of fresh air in that regard.

I find it weird though that people aren't as receptive of the whole clone thing when we literally have Lena be born from Magica's essence (and later basically the living form of magic born of friendship) and Boyd is a sweet sentient robot child. Like, what is it about Webby being a clone and being with her real family all along makes her place in the family any less important than Lena being adopted by the Sabrewings or Boyd being accepted by Gyro is basically his son alongside Lil Bulb?

Isn't the point of Found Family is finding a family? Webby found her family, and it's been there with her the whole time.

Also, fun thing to note, Webby and Lena's bond is pretty cool because it's basically a McDuck and De Spell defying all odds with that ancient family fued, and that's just that sweet sweet symbolism, I think.

I think maybe, just spitballing here, but, like, and I'm not pointing fingers or anything, but like... maybe part of the issue with this might be that in retrospect, it makes any Webby ship art with any of the triplets a bit squick in hindsight now that they are confirmed to be her cousins, but to be fair, the show runners did warn us against shipping the children romantically more than once, sooooo, that's on you guys. 👀

But yeah, I totally loved that Webby got her wish of being part of the McDuck clan.

#dt17 spoilers #ducktales spoilers #tagging just in case

[jack-fruit]

Paint the Stars

Hey gamers this fic is apart of my personal swap au which I also wrote this for. You really don't need to read that one to understand this one, but its short lol. All you need to know that's mentioned there is Aziraphale is a bat demon so like

-----

When the starmaker first learned to paint, he was going by Anthony. He had no reason to go by an alias, but he had grown rather fond of it after providing it to a rather polite demon. His decision to dip his fingers into what was the original sorry excuse for paint, however, had nothing to do with his name, but everything to do with his title.

He had hoped after the fiasco with Adam and Eve, She would allow him back into the expanse of space to make stars once again. She told him he had more to do on Earth, much to Anthony's chagrin. So he walked among man bitter and with hands itching to create.

They'd only been a few generations into humanity when a girl first found that mixing together egg yolk and red soil would make a substance that would trail bright and stick to the rock. She used it to make crude drawings, which Anthony watched, impressed.

It wasn't until there was a suitable array of colors avaliable that Anthony felt the tug of longing hard enough that he sheepishly approached a group painting across an expanse of cave walls and scooped up some of the yellow paint.

He created starbursts across stone and nebules across rock. He didn't have all the colors he wanted to work with, but the thrill of a challenge only spurred him on. He may have also been there to nudge the Egyptians in the right direction of finding blue paint, okay? Sue him- blue was one of his favorites.

-

It wasn't until around 300 BC that Anthony picked up a paintbrush. There had been other attempts at something similar before, but all the crude sticks and leaves could not capture the fine detail a brush of a fingertip could.

Anthony was perfectly content using his hands and fingers, just as he always had, but the man selling the brushes assured him they were intended for caligraphy. The angel picked up the thin bamboo with animal hair attatched to one end, and decided that perhaps a certain demon would get a kick out of it. After all, Az loved the written word, perhaps he would like a tool to help create it.

He had originally only meant to try it out. To make sure it worked as advertised, but as he dipped it into the ink that he'd purchased alongside it, he slowly realized things were not going to go as planned.

The gentle sweep of the brush across parchment was a sensation he liked almost as much as fingerpainting. And it kept his hands blessedly clean. He created a void in the paper, a sinkhole from which there was no return. He then got up, grabbed his paints, and wove a galaxy around it. He tucked the concept into the back of his mind, deciding to ask Her to let him abandon post for just a while to play around again.

-

He was going by Raphael when he realized that he could paint more than just space. He had been out in the cosmos for a few decades, having gotten the okay to return to where he belonged. He had ended up quite liking the brush idea, which is where the staff came from.

His staff was a long piece of carefully maintained bamboo that he was able to miracle from brush to staff with minimal effort. The staff worked a bit different from an actual paint brush, it didn't even have a proper brush end, really, but the angel would push his power through it in arcs and waves in ways he hadn't really been capable of before.

But he missed Earth, much as that fact irked him. He missed the browns and the greens and the greys. He missed the food and the wind and the sounds. Above all, he missed the sparkling darkness of a certain demon's gaze, which he would certainly never admit.

So he returned to earth and decided to give a new name a whirl. Raphael. When he told Az about it, he laughed, but did start calling him by the new name. It put something at ease in his chest, that approval.

Raphael had known that people painted things other than space, of course he did, but he never thought to do it himself until he saw a man painting a landscape.

"Mind if I join you?" Raphael had asked without thinking. The man looked at him, curious, but nodded his consent and offered Raphael the paints he was using. All earth tones, nothing like the angel liked to work with.

Withholding a sigh, Raphael decided to paint the same landscape. It was more challenging then the colorful and shapeless bursts he was used to, but it was easy enough to get. Sharp bursts of brown-green, yellow spikes of grass, grey-brown bark. It was the same concept, the pallete was just different, the angles a bit sharper.

"What are you doing?" Raphael jumped and whirled to face the fanged grin of his adversary. The original painter and his canvas had vanished.

"Why are you here?" The angel tried very hard not to sound pleased.

"I asked first, Starmaker," Az said, taking his brush from him and narrowing his eyes at the carvings on it. "Are these snakes?"

"Snakes are cool," Raphael hissed, turning back to his painting. "And I'm painting, now you."

"Oh just spreading some chaos here, michief there."

"Which I will inevitably thwart," Raphael noted. "You know, maybe-"

"No! No we are not..." Az's voice dropped to a harsh whisper, "we are not teaming up Ant- Raphael."

"Antraphael?" The angel teased momentarily, before his expression turned thoughtful. "That sounds like an angel I knew- a principality. Wonder what happened to him...haven't heard from him in ages."

"Doesn't matter," Az snapped, aggrivated. "I know what heaven is like. They find out you're helping the enemy and you know what they'll do? They'll toss you out, and thats if you're lucky!"

Raphael's brushstroke shot up, ruining the entire painting.

"Let's go get drinks," he grumbled, waving the project away. It would be years before he would finally rediscover, fix, and finish the damn piece.

-

The name didn't last, of course it didn't. Anthony knew Az was really quite uncomfortable with the name Raphael, despite his insistance of it being fine. The closest the angel got to an answer was 'reminds me too much of someone else. Not you.'

So he was Anthony again when he realized how truly and utterly fucked he was. It was the 19th century, and realism- true realism- was coming into style. The more detailed and real looking a painting looked, the better. And for the first time since paint had been invented, Anthony couldn't master a style of art.

Of course, he would eventually, but at the present everything he painted looked cheap and fake. The concept of shading was new to him, nothing cast shadows in space and his landscapes were more stylized than anything. Along with that, still life was a bit drab to him- lots of looking and staring at inanimate objects doing nothing and feeling nothing for hours.

In contrast, portraits had the opposite issue. The subject was too squirmy, and the constant annoyance and boredom that flared up would effect his brushwork.

Plants were a good compromise, just alive enough to entertain him, but not squirmy enough to distract him. He spent hours trailing greenery across his canvases, adding bursts of color where flowers decided to plant themselves.

He ended up surrounding himself with plants, expresing his annoyance if they began to wilt, which would quickly make them perk up once more. He accidently scared the plants, he thought, what with all his frustrated yelling and the torn canvases strewn across the floor, but it did lead to them looking exquisite. He'd be lying if said he hadn't been hamming up the dramaticness that came with destroying his less than perfect works.

Az had come over once, sitting properly in a plain, stiff wooden chair he summoned while Anthony sprawled out across his own sofa. Az was looking at a half finished painting of a plant.

"Do you ever paint anything other than plants?" Az asked suddenly. Anthony sat up and followed his gaze.

"Space."

"Other than space and plants."

"Like what?"

"People?"

Anthony snorted and fell back against the cushions, "nah, people move too much."

"Oh," Az said. The two fell quiet for a few minutes before Az spoke again. "Well if you like, I could...you know, model for you. If it would help."

"I- you- what?" Anthony sputtered. The demon scowled at him.

"Mind out of the gutter, Anthony. It's simply that...look I can hold much more still than any human could, I would be an easy model to start with to get the human-esque form down."

Anthony was quiet in his consideration. Much as he loathe to admit it, it did make sense. And as much as he loved painting plants and stars, he did want to branch out, if only to prove he could. He was a stubborn bastard that way.

"Fine," he grumbled. "Just...stay there, then," he launched himself off the couch and collected his paints.

"Now?" Az asked, and when Anthony turned to face him, his dark eyes were curious and wide and just...beautiful.

"I- er- that okay?" Anthony asked, taking his brush and twirling it in his fingers. Az nodded; Anthony nodded back in reply. The angel turned his easel towards the demon and, with a slow breath, began to paint.

He had always found Az remarkable- with his intelligent eyes, his soft, slightly singed curls, the curve of his delicate pink lips...

He was practically in a trance, looking more at Az then his canvas. It felt like no time at all before he had finished enough for Az to move if he wished. The demon cracked his neck at an inhuman angle, then stood to look over Anthony's shoulder.

"Oh...Anthony," his breath ghosted across his ear and he had to surpress a shiver, "this is perfect, how have you been having trouble?"

Slowly, Anthony tipped his head back. He let his curls brush against Az's shoulder as he did so, and when he looked to the left he could see how close the demon really was. With his eyes that reminded him so much of his night sky that it hurt.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

"S'not done, still time to mess up," he said over his mounting panic. Az laughed that soft laugh of his and grinned, revealing those delicate little fangs perfect for-

Anthony's entire brain ripped like a canvas in a desprate attempt to get that image out of his head. In the meantime, Az had pulled away and offered him an apologetic farewell. Anthony was still sewing his brain back together when the door closed firmly behind him. He was still stitching his sanity back into place as he found himself setting up a new canvas. He was still lost in a daze as he found himself wondering how many years it would take to draw Az perfectly from memory.

-

The first time he wrote out the name "Anthony J. Crowley" had been on the deed to his studio. A studio he had not planned on getting at all, but when a giddy bat demon bounced up to him only about 60 or so years after the whole gay crisis thing Anthony had no choice but to follow. He wasn't sure if the blindfold made him more or less eager, if he was being honest.

"Watch your step!"

"I can't see, idiot, there's a blindfold over my face."

"Stop sassing me or I'll gag you, starmaker."

"Kinky."

"No!"

Anthony laughed, feeling a warm flutter in his chest as Az very firm stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Then, he removed the blindfold.

"Tada!"

"A...building?" Anthony raised an incredulous eyebrow at the demon.

"It's for your studio!" Az enthused.

"My-?"

"I originally bought it thinking about making a bookshop out of it, but then I realized thst would require me to, um, you know, sell my books? And so I thought instead I'd give it to you. I've already found a quaint little cottage for my books And I to stay, so I have no need for it, obviously-"

"Azzy..."

"No need to thank me, you're just taking it off my hands," the demon pushed on, shoving a deed into Anthony's hands and then bolting like the devil himself was after him. Anthony looked at the deed, then at the building.

It could use some paint...

-

1967, he'd been going by Crowley for 25 years as far as close friends were concerned. Well, close friend. After tonight, though...

He leaned heavily against the door to his studio, against the painted grasses and flowers that stretched across its surface, growing towards glow and the dark stars. Against his chest, Crowley clutched a jar containing a single, wild spark of hellfire. Uncontrollable, untamable, and all Az's.

'What, not going to offer me a lift?" Crowley had quietly asked, sitting behind Az on his motorbike.

Crowley moved as if he were walking through the thickest of oil paints. He entered his room, set the jar on his desk, then returned to the studio itself. Half finished projects were littered everywhere. Crowley looked at them and felt empty.

A soft, pained laugh. 'I know I go too slow for you, Crowley...' Then, the most heatbroken admission, 'I am... quite unsure if I will ever be capable of catching up with you.'

Crowley's whole body began to shake. Hands balled into fists, and then he screamed. He grabbed a wooden stool that Az could often be caught sitting on and threw it right into one of his paintings. It splintered and ripped and Crowley felt good.

He tore paintings from the wall, shattered frames against the floor. He ripped apart each brushstroke, each secret hope. He only stopped when he tore his paintbrush off the chain around his throat and tried to snap it. Lucky for him, past Crowley had enchanted it to be basically invincible, so his efforts simply drained him. He let it expand into his staff so he could lean heavily on it as sobs wracked him. He was angry, he was heartbroken, and he had never felt less holy.

-

In the years leading up to the apocalypse, Crowley hadn't been painting much. Any attempts to bring his brush to the canvas were hindered by the fact that the world was ending, and that in less than eleven years all these things he was making would be destroyed. Again.

He thought maybe after everything, after escaping heaven and hell, he would be able to paint avain. Yet, as he sat with a sketchbook in his lap in Az's livingroom he felt no spark, no drive.

Well, that wasn't true. He felt something, but it wasn't the need to create. He took a swig of wine and looked up to where Az was quietly contemplating his own glass.

"I-"

"It's Aziraphale."

"...what?" Anthony sat up straight for the first time possibly ever. Az flinched.

"My- my name...my angel name. I never," he bit his lip, "all the other demons were changing their names, but I never meant to fall. I liked the name the Almighty gave me, even if She...so, so perhaps you can call me Aziraphale from noe on? Since I guess I'm technically not a demob anymore..."

The name was familiar. It brought Crowley the memory of a flash of white wings and blue eyes watching him work. However, that image very comfortably faded to fit the face of the demon he so loved.

Aziraphale.

"Aziraphale," he spoke it in a way that made one think of blasphamy. He caught the demon's shiver. Slowly, Crowley set aside his sketchbook and his wine and he prowled forward.

"Crowley?"

"Yes, Aziraphale?" He breathed, close enough to count the lashes framing Aziraphale's dark eyes. They fluttered closed.

Lips pressed against lips, soft and full of longing and hope. It took Crowley a moment to realize he hadn't been the one to close the gap. He framed Aziraphale's face in his hands, like the work of art it was, and kissed back.

A gasp and then hands fluttered against his back, gripping at his jacket as the angel pushed him back in his chair, thoughts scattered so only one thing remained.

Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale.

-

They laid in a bed conjured earlier that evening. Aziraphale didn't own one, since he was used to hanging upsidedown from the rafters when he slept at all. He made an exception tonight, though, and was now curled up fast asleep in Crowley's arms. He traced the blue-purple-red bruises scattered across his lover's skin and smiled fondly as Azirphale wrinkled his nose and turned in his arms. Slowly, Crowley untangled himself and moved towards the easel he'd put in the room back when Aziraphale was sleeping for a century. He had wanted to be around the demon, even if he was fast asleep with no plans to become concious again until he thought his books were in danger.

He brushed the dust off a blank canvas and set it on the easel. It was facing out the small window, revealing the expanses of space for Crowley to record again and again. He hesitated a moment before changing the angle of the easel, pointing it towards the bed where Azirphale was still curled up.

He looked over at where his brush had been reverently placed on the nightstand at contrast with everything else he'd been wearing previously. He looked at it and then shook his head. He opened a pot of red paint and dipped his fingers into it. The excess dripped from the tips before Crowley set then to the canvas, and he began to paint.

#good omens #good omens swap au #ineffable husbands #ineffable partners #crowley #aziraphale #good omens crowley #good omens fic

[crimethinc]

The ICE Age Is Over: Reflections from the ICE Blockades

Starting in mid-June, occupations sprang up around the United States in protest against ICE (US Immigration and Customs Enforcement) on account of how US border policy breaks up families, incarcerates and forcibly drugs children, and deports millions—in some cases, to war zones in which they have no homes or resources. In the following accounts from the ICE occupations in Portland, Tacoma, and Atlanta, participants reflect on some of the internal challenges facing movements against the border regime.

We urge everyone to support the arrestees in the struggle against ICE in Portland and elsewhere around the United States. For more on how and why borders tear apart families, ruin lives, and create the conditions for exploitative capitalism, read our book, No Wall They Can Build.

Portland: Cracking the ICE

After itching to do something, anything, about the violence being enacted by ICE, I was pleased to hear that some folks participating in the march held on June 17 and ending at the ICE facility at 4310 SW Macadam Avenue in Portland had decided that they weren’t leaving. My first visit to the space that would become the commune was on June 19 in the early afternoon. If my memory serves, there were only a handful of tents, one or two canopies with kitchen and first aid supplies, and perhaps one portajohn. After observing for an hour or two, I approached folks to ask if there was anything I could bring and was asked to supply the encampment with ice and another cooler if possible.

In the hour it took me to run that errand, the small scattering of three or four tents became nine or ten, and the 40 or so people became, by my approximation, over 100.

Click the image above for downloadable PDF.

While ICE agents were still trapped in the building, a pizza delivery person showed up (from Bellagios, I think) to deliver food to the ICE agents. After walking around the building multiple times and not finding a way in, he gave up and left the huge stack of pizzas with the protestors.

When I showed up after work the next day, the camp was bigger still. That day, there was some alarm when DHS (Department of Homeland Security) showed up. People rallied and ran to the front entrance on the Macadam side of the building and were quickly forced aside by DHS. While I chose to stay behind in the driveway, in the event that that was the next target, by all accounts DHS escorted ICE agents who had been trapped inside the building into their vehicles, with many of the ICE agents covering their faces.

Over the next few days, the camp expanded to include between 80 and 100 tents on either side of the bike path, in front of the main driveway, and spilling over into a field adjacent to the facility—as well as a large kitchen, a childcare area, a communications team, an engineering team, a medical tent, a front entrance check in, and other amenities. The engineering team, with the help of fellow occupiers and community members who delivered loads of pallets and furniture, fortified the encampment with barricades. We also worked on creating a boardwalk of sorts down the trolley tracks to provide a wheelchair-accessible way to reach all the tents providing services and in hopes of potentially creating more space for tents.

On Thursday, June 28, at 5:30 am, DHS tore down the barricade from the door on the Macadam side of the building to the far side of the driveway in order to enable officers and transport vehicles to come and go again. After many days of being shuttered, the building was open again.

I wasn’t able to make it until that afternoon, but the difference was striking. There was still an air of lightheartedness, but the seriousness of the situation was unmistakeable. We had known it was coming and here it was. I opted to park far away and walk into the camp. DHS vehicles were absolutely infesting the surrounding area. I walked into the camp and immediately spotted snipers on the roof. Small children were yelling at them: “Quit your job!” and “You should feel bad!” There was a line of DHS officers in full riot gear lining the edge of the driveway, facing off with protestors. The engineering team was furiously assembling more barricades. Press was assembled outside the near entrance; I nearly walked face-first into a camera as I was trying to access the sidewalk. Security was tighter. I overheard multiple people who were standing around asked what they were doing.

Overall, for me personally, it was a tremendously heartening experience. I worked with teams of people who were organized and dedicated. The atmosphere was refreshingly lively and upbeat, with children running around and people of all stripes showing up to support the occupation with their labor, their bodies, and their time, or just to get a hot meal. I saw anarchists working alongside DSA, and lots of awesome solidarity. I witnessed vital, important work being done toward the goal of dismantling ICE.

That said, the occupation was not without its problems. I heard that comrades were thrown out for tagging the Tesla building and I wanted to find out what had gone down. When I first approached someone from the security team, they seemed as outraged as I was; they took me to folks who might know more.

I found myself speaking to two people. One seemed concerned if not exhausted; the other seemed annoyed if not hostile and eventually walked away from me. I didn’t have a lot of information at that moment, so I accepted that the person I was talking to didn’t either and left it at that. The day of the crackdown (June 28), I approached the person who had walked away from me, introduced myself, and stated that I hadn’t been there to cause problems, that I was genuinely concerned, and that I had more information if they wanted to talk about it. From my end, this was an earnest attempt to make peace with this person. They proceeded to berate me for defending the people who had done the tagging, telling me that it was inappropriate and put marginalized people at risk, that the account I heard from one of the people who were expelled was false. The person I was speaking with kept referring to some sort of nebulous “leadership,” and insinuated that the only reason I was there was to get the expelled person’s stuff back. When I tried to express that actually I was making an attempt to offer an olive branch, despite our difference of opinions, they told me they were done with me and walked away.

This inability to have a conversation is a big problem. And that conversation is not just about property destruction—we have that one all the damn time. But I had legitimate questions: Was “no property destruction” decided to be a ground rule at a General Assembly? How were new people invited into the space? Were they made aware of the ground rules? (Who has the right to determine the proper form of resistance to an institution that is incarcerating people, drugging children, and separating families?) Was there a protocol established for how to handle violations? Was there any accountability for people on the security team or in any other position abusing power? I think these are major recurring problems in spaces like this that need to be addressed before we can start organizing across tendencies in any meaningful way.

Portland and Tacoma: You Can’t Build a Movement Based on Shame

I spent time at both the blockade in Portland, Oregon and the Northwest Detention Center Occupation in Tacoma, Washington. I think it is so inspiring and exciting that these occupations and blockades are happening all over the country. I wish they were happening in every city, at every ICE facility.

At both of these occupations, there were many anarchists with whom I felt affinity; but there were also aspects of these occupations that reminded me of the worst parts of the 2011 Occupy movement—including an intense form of privilege politics that I had hoped we had learned from and moved on from in the past seven years.

One of the most exciting aspects of resistance during times of intense repression and authoritarianism such as those we are experiencing now is the number of people who are radicalized and join anarchist struggles. It is a huge turning point for us—a time to spread anarchist ideas. Newly radicalized people are looking for direction. Often, however, they will follow the loudest voices—and the loudest voices are often the liberals or self-appointed “leadership” of a movement. I have seen both new people and seasoned revolutionaries being controlled by authoritarian privilege politics, accepting them out of fear of being seen as racist—even though most privilege politics are themselves racist, involving self-appointed white leaders claiming to speak for all people of color and claiming that people of color are always peaceful.

This is not to say that racism is not a huge problem in anarchist scenes. But adhering to reactionary privilege politics is often as bad as not addressing it at all.

At the occupation at the Northwest Detention Center, there were moments when the General Assembly was filled with anarchists; at these times, the assembly made consensus decisions to never talk to the police and to not have a police liaison or any sort of security force, and agreed that snitching and sexual assault were the only acceptable reasons to kick someone out of camp without discussion. There were other times when the General Assembly was full of liberals, self-appointed all-white leadership, and even a person who threatened to snitch if someone did anything illegal. These were the moments the camp felt the most stifling. We were told by that all-white “leadership” that the only acceptable action was to build the camp, for example, by cooking and organizing supplies. They maintained that any other actions would harm the people inside the detention center—all of whom, apparently, did not want tactics to escalate beyond cooking and taking out the trash.

To be clear: the NWDC is one of the biggest immigration prisons in the country. How they asked all 1500 people trapped inside it what tactics they do and don’t support was never explained to us. In fact, they could not and did not.

At the Portland occupation, I saw some people aggressively shamed for tagging the Tesla showroom. They were screamed at and kicked out of the entire occupation at 3 am. I also saw those same people later being described as white, although half of them were people of color, because it didn’t fit into their privilege politics narrative to admit that many people of color are invested in confrontational politics and escalation. As they were verbally assaulted and kicked out of camp, they were told that because they had tagged the Tesla showroom, it would be their fault if the police came to the blockade and took children away from their parents.

At the Tacoma blockade, one afternoon, a nonviolent direct action training took place. It began with two white people and one person of color aggressively shaming everyone in the space for the actions of the police. According to them, it was our fault that the ICE agents were torturing and raping people inside because demonstrators had been standing in the street the night before. It was our fault the ICE agents were torturing and raping people inside because a couple demonstrators had been drinking beer.

We must remember that the violence of the police is never our fault. The violence inflicted upon the migrants detained within the Northwest Detention Center, despite being escalated during the protest outside, is still entirely the fault of the police inflicting it.

Many of the people in the nonviolent direct action training were white folks who had never been to a protest before and were heavily influenced by being shamed and told how racist they were. This type of privilege politics, built on shaming people into inaction, is not how you build a movement. It doesn’t build momentum, it shuts it down. It doesn’t inspire people, it shuts them down. Shame is a feeling that does nothing but disempower people, which is the exact opposite of our goal—building power, together.

As I watched the people being kicked out of the Portland blockade that night, the “security team” evicting them repeatedly expressed the belief that if there was graffiti, the police would immediately come and shut down the camp. As if the police wouldn’t come to an illegal blockade if the building hadn’t been tagged! As if the police were allowing the camp to exist because of some morality that the police and the protestors shared, and the only reason the police would come would be if that morality were no longer shared. It was as if they believed that the protestors and the police had come to an agreement, in which as long as the police could trust the protestors to police each other, then the protestors could trust the police not to evict the camp.

But the police can never be trusted, and they will never share our ethics. We know, both from the logic of the state’s position as well as from our experience in past actions, that the police will always come—just as soon as they have the force to do so. However, the amount of force they need to evict a camp or shut down a demonstration often depends on how confrontational the demonstration is. The more confrontational the occupation, the more force the police will need to evict it and the longer it will take for them to amass that force.

One recent example of this is the Olympia blockade, which barricaded an active railroad for 12 days. The entire neighborhood was covered in anti-police graffiti. Cement was poured on the tracks. Security cameras were taken down. Parking meters in the area were broken. At any given time, the most people you might find at the blockade were 50-100 people. At night, it was down to 5-20 people. By contrast, if we count from the first day of the overnight occupation in Portland to the day the ICE building was reopened, the Portland blockade lasted 10 days—and the number of people at that blockade was often up to 1000 or more.

As we can see, the graffiti—and the smashed parking meters, broken security cameras, and so forth—at the Olympia blockade did not cause the police to come sooner. It actually took them longer to come, despite the blockade being only a fraction of the size of the Portland blockade. At the Portland blockade, people were busy policing each other. The actual cops didn’t even need to come. The protestors themselves were protecting the property of the government and the showrooms of capitalism. (Never mind that both the Tesla showroom and the ICE facility are owned by a man who openly admitted to running his Mercedes into demonstrators.)

We are in a time of crisis, in which the overt white nationalist terror of the state is clearer than ever. In this moment, we should build autonomous spaces in which people can take action outside of the control of political politicians and peace police. We believe this because of our political ethics of autonomy, but it is strategic as well. Confrontational tactics are a threat to the state, whereas any protest tactics that do not actually threaten the power of white supremacy can only reinforce it. The stronger we make the barricades, the longer we can hold off the police. The less we police each other, the less power we give to them.

As anarchists, how do we counter the politics of leadership, inaction and shame? How do we build our power even as the liberals and peace police are actively trying to strip it from us?

Atlanta: The ICE Age Is Over

In Atlanta thousands of people gathered early Saturday morning for a “Keep Families Together” march organized by NGO’s and members of the Democratic Party. Currently, several dozen participants in this march are still occupying a plaza outside the City Jail, which doubles as an ICE detention facility. While the group seems set to stay the night, the occupation still has a long way to go to connect with the thousands who took the street earlier in the day.

Strangely, the coalition that called for this march chose to start at the ICE facility, before marching away to go listen to speeches outside of the closed federal building. Surrounding the physical building where hundreds of immigrants are detained seemed like a good start, but the politicians in charge of the rally moved away from the site of real power to a symbolic site. Some participants who had their families in tow were overheard lamenting that the march was a little too tame for them, even with their kids in tow.

Autonomous groups and leftist groups that utilize non-electoral strategies had organized before the large demonstration to continue the march and return to the jail. After the rally was dismissed, a large banner reading “ICE BREAKERS: Chinga La Migra” was stretched across the street along with chanting and drums. Several hundred joined, despite liberal protest marshals attempting to discourage them from doing so. Together, they marched back to the jail, holding the streets the whole way.

Peachtree Street was blocked outside the jail as hundreds chanted and waved to those locked up inside. Cops drove motorcycles through the crowd, but the crowd did not back down; soon, a couch appeared in the streets and people began to set up tents. The atmosphere was festive, with many dancing to music or playing soccer. As the day wore on, the cops slowly began to encroach on the occupation, forcing people to clear the street, confiscating the couch and tents, and violently arresting one person. Numbers fluctuated throughout the day but remained over 50.

As of this writing, the occupation is ongoing, having resisted the initial attempts to push it out. There still remains a lot to do. The terrain of the occupation is favorable to autonomous groups and anarchists because we were the ones to push for it and to make it logistically possible, but unfortunately these circles comprise the bulk of the camp. Democrats were the first to call for an action and they sucked up the spontaneous energy of thousands with their march in the morning, though it is likely that whoever had been the first to call for a march would have drawn a large number of demonstrators.

We were enraged by the concentration camps and sought to catalyze a real movement against them. This energy was enough to enable us to push for an occupation no matter what the circumstance. Now we need to figure out how to bridge the distance between those who carry signs declaring #abolishice and those who want to shut down the ICE facilities themselves. How can the occupations grow, spread, and mutate?

[abitscripturient]

Sequence 1-1 : Raina

Sequence 1-1: Talks Of Freedom Between Meals

Spring 1786

Footsteps rushed through the forest, the sounds of breath coming in and out of huffs as trees flew past. A look behind revealed that the men chasing on horseback were coming nearer and nearer. Fear clutched the heart but still, the need for freedom took prevalence. There was only one chance, only one to make this escape and make it to the railroad. Closer…just a bit closer…there! A lantern lit in a window. Head for it! The running footsteps make it into the yard, and finally to the door that was opening, revealing a warm cozy glow and outstretched hands of assistance.

This…this was what the first steps of freedom felt like.

Eyelids framed by dainty eyelashes move upward, revealing dark brown orbs that focus on the ceiling of a cabin. They then move to the right, where a dimly lit fireplace was. There is no cozy glow here, no outstretched hands. 

“No,” Raina whispers, her arm coming up and over her eyes. “It was just a dream.” 

Her body raises up on the straw pallet she usually slept on and tears welled hot in her eyes. For the past couple of days, she had been having this same dream: to have freedom so close she could practically taste it only to wake up still in bondage. She moves some of her thick wavy dark hair behind her shoulder and sighs, trying to get over the remnants of her dream. A look to her left shows her older roommate and caretaker Edie still snoring softly. She gets up hearing the rooster starting to crow outside, which meant she only had about fifteen minutes or so to get appropriately dressed and ready to head to the big house in order to cook breakfast for the master and the mistress. She smiles warmly at the woman behind her, wanting more than anything to let her sleep but the consequences for being late spur her to wake her up.

“Edie, rise and shine. Time to get up, sugar.” Her voice is quiet with well-meaning and it seems to do the trick as the woman starts stirring and rising to a sitting position as well. 

“I was only resting my eyes, Rainy.” 

“I understand. I like to rest my eyes for eight hours too.” Raina replies, getting a soft belly laugh in response. 

 <<< >>>

 The young woman manages to get herself ready quickly enough to hurry to the house. She rushed under huge willow trees, noticing lights turning on in other quarters signaling that other slaves were getting ready to start their workdays along with hers. The weather was warm but the humidity was heavy like a rough blanket, making Raina incredibly happy that she was blessed to work inside of the home. Raina had been born a slave on Ridgedale; the plantation that belonged to Thomas Carmichael alongside his young wife, Ella.

The master was pretty civil to her all of her life, giving the okay for her to work in the kitchen next to Edie ever since she was orphaned and despite knowing that she was his property, she made sure to give him her respect around him. However, Mistress Ella was another thing entirely. She never missed a chance to cut evil glares towards Raina's direction or to harp on her for no reason at all and she never understood why but not to be a problem towards the two she kept her distance as often as possible. 

Out of breath, Raina enters through the back door and grabs her apron seeing yet another house cook, Annabelle next to the huge stove stirring suppawn, a thick porridge of cornmeal and milk cooked together. The milk was taken from the cow early in the morning. While tying her apron straps, he gives her an amicable smile before starting to look around for what was next to make. She settles for getting the fruit together to accompany the main meal as well as some extra milk to wash it down. After waiting patiently for Annabelle to finish and to set the two steaming bowls of suppawn down, Raina took no time to pick up the tray to walk into the large dining room where she knew her owner and his wife sit expectantly. 

“Hurry up, girl! Do we have to wait all morning for us to eat?” Ella harps as her golden curls bounce with each shake of her head. Thomas watches Raina’s every move silently seemingly unaware of his wife’s sullied mood

“No, Miss Ella. I’m sorry.” Raina answers, setting down the tray and giving each recipient their porcelain bowls. After making sure that food was served, Raina went back around to grab the pitcher of milk. She pours some into Miss Ella’s cup first, trying her best to ignore the way the woman sneers at her. When that is finished she starts to walk toward her master only to feel a foot trip her. She tries to catch herself but watches in dismay as a good amount of the white liquid flies out and lands on the polished wooden floor. 

“Land sakes! You are so clumsy, Raina! Now, can’t you do anything right?” Ella spits out with disdain and Raina fights the urge to turn and give this rotten woman a piece of her mind. She instead turns and meets her owner’s eyes before coming over and pouring what’s left of the milk into his glass. 

“I apologize, Master Thomas. I’m not sure what I tripped over.” She tries to explain with her head down. 

Thomas stares at her with emotionless eyes before glancing over at his wife who is staring at Raina smugly. He knew what she was up to as did Raina herself. He finally gives a soft chuckle and Raina dares to look at him. He gestures with his head toward the spilled milk puddle. 

“It’s fine, Raina. Clean that mess up and finish in the kitchen.” 

“Yes, Master.” 

Raina bows her head slightly before rushing toward the kitchen only to stop short to grab a rag from Russell, the butler who had seen the whole thing. As she passes behind the chair of the owner and kneels the clean the spill she knows it’s not long before she hears the screeching of the bested wife. She doesn’t have to wait. 

“That’s it? You’re not going to punish her?”  Ella asks, her eyes glaring down at Raina who keeps cleaning. Her eyes watch her husband who starts to eat a few bites before looking.

“For what exactly? For you tripping her and spilling fresh milk that was milked by my hard-working slaves this morning? You must think I have eyes in the back of my head for not noticing.”

A small gasp came from the mistress before a shadow of annoyance flashed over her features.

“I swear, Thomas I don’t know what you see in this mulatto wench. You are always defending her!” Ella points at Raina who glances back at her before starting to clean faster. She hears Ralph sigh obviously not wanting to get into a discussion while eating breakfast.

“Now, Ella…”

“No! I see the way you watch her while she works. You want to bed her so bad.”

Raina stiffens, momentarily abashed hearing those words. She glances up at her master who looked back at her for a slight second with red cheeks and it’s all she needs to know the truth. She had wondered why she would see him standing in the doorway of the kitchen from time to time watching her. She naively contributed it to him making sure things were going smoothly. But he would linger his sight on her for the longest and she remembers the few chills she would feel from it. 

“Ella Carmichael, you watch your tongue this instant. I will not have you talking this way to me.”

“Get rid of her! Get rid of Raina, Thomas!” 

Raina notices Russell kneeling down to help her clean the mess only for both of them to jump hearing the master yell into the dining hall. “Everybody get the hell out of here, now!” Feeling Russell pull her arm to help her up, she quickly follows the butler to the back, hearing muffled yells and shouts from the owner and his wife as Edie closes the door behind them. 

“What is going on?!” She whispers harshly, looking from Russell to Raina who has color flooding her light cheeks.  Russell, always so sympathetic, takes the milk dampened rag from her before putting his hands on her shoulders to look down at her. She looks up at him in return biting her lip. 

“I blew it, didn’t I?”

“No, child. That was all the mistress and we both know it. Now you best go make yourself scarce for a while until things cool off. I’ll fill Edith in and I’m sure Beau needs help in the garden.”

Raina nods, reaching back to remove her apron and to hang it on the hook by the door. “Thank you, Russell. I’ll go now and be back for supper time.” She gave a look to a confused Edie to reassure her before departing, the yells still prominent even as she left. 

<<<<   >>>>

It was no secret the relationship between the master and the mistress was ever-changing as stormy waves. Being a much younger age than her husband, Ella was spoiled and had been that way since her birth. She was the second wife Ralph chose, the first dying from an illness. She had always had a grudge against Raina from the beginning and now Raina knew why. The word mulatto went all over her mind as she wrinkled her nose. 

It wasn’t her fault that she was who she was. Her mother was honey-skinned but she had told Raina that her father was not so. That he came from a place called Greece. Soon after she told her that information, she was suddenly sold and Raina never saw her again.  That was when she was fourteen and never had she felt so alone after that. Graciously, Edie was there to take care of her, saying it was her mother’s wish that she did so and the two were attached at the hip after that. Despite that, Raina still bore the ire of Mistress Ella despite trying her hardest to make her happy. 

The trail that led to the garden was made from slaves constantly walking up and down along them and as the dust collects on Raina’s shoes from it she opens the gate seeing her childhood friend, Beau leaning over some lettuce. Despite his cozy appearance wearing a long shirt and pants, Beau is tough lean and sinewy. Hearing Raina behind him, Beau glances over his shoulder before snickering. “It’s only 7 am and you’re already outside, Rainy. Must mean you made Miss Ella mad something awful.” 

“Oh, hush up. It wasn’t my fault this time or any other time before!” Raina snapped grabbing a basket by the fence to help him harvest, hearing him laugh as he starts putting a head or two inside of it. 

A crackling sound of a whip makes the two turn their heads to see a man being whipped for not gathering cotton fast enough. Raina trembles watching but Beau shakes his head growling, “I’m done with all this, Raina. I’m so tired of seeing our people being treated like we’re nothing but dirt for no reason at all than to make white people happy.” 

Raina rushed to cover Beau’s mouth looking around to see if any overseers were watching. “You watch what you say, Beau before you’re next!” She whispers to him, only for him to wrench his head from her hand. 

“I’m not scared of them. They are cowards, hiding behind whips and guns.” 

Raina shakes her head, not wanting to think of her friend getting hurt. “Please…” She watches as Beau’s eyes start to soften again and he sighs. “Look…I know you want freedom as much as I do. If you are as serious as I am, meet me tonight at Albert’s quarters after you are done with your work.” She hesitates, torn by conflicting emotions but then nods.

Raina returns to the house a little later grateful to the Lord that Ella didn’t find her to harp on her. The rest of the day seemed to be quieter as Raina cooks her way past the hours until supper time around 2 pm. This time around the dining room table had three more people joining and so even more work was needed to be done. Smells of roasted meat fill the kitchen as sounds of utensils are heard chopping and stirring.

“Careful, little Rainy…Master Brody is here tonight.” Edie warns Raina as she starts giving platters to the servants. Raina nearly drops the plate she’s holding, her heart thundering at just the mention of that name. Cole Brody is a young man who trades with Ralph Carmichael after taking over his father’s successful sugar plantation. Whenever he came down to Ridgedale, Cole made sure that he had Raina’s undivided attention, no matter what the cost to her. She had been cuffed so many times by overseers after being cornered by Cole for not attending to her duties and she despises him for it. 

After handing off another platter, Raina takes a moment to peek out as the servant leaves the cooking area. Cole was indeed there laughing with Master Ralph and Mistress Ella. He had slicked-back blond hair and brilliant green eyes. Just the way he sat there told you he had made it in life. Raina always thought any woman would be lucky to have him…if he wasn’t such a dirty bastard. She gasps as he suddenly turns his head, his lecherous eyes making contact with hers and she ducks her head down saying to Edie, “Keep me busy! I don’t want to have to go out there if I don’t need to.” 

Edith doesn’t let her down, making her prepare dessert, wash every dish, and clean down everything in the kitchen. It was an hour later when the servants start bringing back the last plates, to which Raina immediately cleans. Edith then tells her to gather the container for scraps so she can feed the pigs. Raina steps outside and pauses for a moment to take in some fresh air, glad that everything was going according to plan and that she didn’t have to worry about the visitor in the house for the time being. Her eyes take in some of the slaves of Ridgedale starting to do their weigh-ins for their cotton while others make their ways to the quarters for the night. She doesn’t forget Beau’s words of the meeting and while sleep pulls at her, the thought of freedom is more prevalent. Resolved to make the meeting, Raina makes it to the pigsty, grabbing the steel container and heading back.

Raina,” A voice that sends chills down the spine calls out. Cole. Raina grimaces hearing Cole but pretends not to at first, heading back towards the kitchen. 

“I know you hear me calling you, girl! Get over here now.” Cole ordered, pointing down to the ground in front of him with a no-nonsense look on his face. Not wanting him to discipline her or have the overseers come over, Raina obeys him, turning around. She gathers the sides of her dress and walks up to him her face neutral of any kind of expression to greet him. “Good evening, Master Brody. How can I-” 

Raina’s right arm is gripped and she’s brought over against the stone wall of the big house. Cole’s hands rush up to Raina’s hair releasing it from her ties groaning as he watches the wavy tresses drop to her shoulders and back, ignoring her soft gasp of surprise.

“Damn…I’ve been dreaming about this body since the last time I saw you, Raina. Since the last time I touched it.” Cole says to her in a low voice, his breath hot against her cheek and neck as he starts pressing his body up against the slave girl he managed to corner yet again. His left-hand starts trailing down Raina’s cheek as Raina turns her head away. Then it grips on to her right breast squeezing hard. 

Vomit threatens to rise up the woman’s throat; this wasn’t the first time that Cole had touched her in such a manner. Uncomfortable at his closeness, Raina tries to distract him with words to make her escape.

“Please, Master Brody. I need to go. The master is waiting for me to finish my work.” She tries to move out of his presence only for him to push her back against the hard brick of the big house. 

“You ain’t going nowhere, girl. You’re always trying to escape me…but soon that won’t be an issue.” Cole holds her tight in his grip. A strange faintly eager look flashes in his eyes before he gives a chuckle seeing Raina’s eyes meet his finally in confusion. Her lips part a tiny bit as she calculates what he’s talking about.

“I don’t understand. What do you mean?” Raina knows the answer but wants to hear them face to face. She manages to keep eye contact with Cole just enough to see the truth.

“What I’m telling you is that in the near future, I plan to make you mine, Raina. When I get enough funds from the sugar cane sales, I’ll be back to buy you and once I do, girl,” He pauses, getting closer to her lips. “Your only job will be for breeding…you won’t ever leave my bed.”  

Before Raina could even try to protest her selling, she felt his lips cover hers, her scream muffled under his kiss that still had the after tones of the dinner made for him. She tosses her head from side to side, raising her hands to push his face back, hearing his growl as he releases her enough backhand her face. White light and agonizing pain sear through her head as it falls back against the brick.  Her hand covers her cheek and she whimpers shying away as Cole comes close to her face again.

“You better know your place, wench. You’re nothing but property to be used, Raina so get that through that thick head of yours.” His fingers gripped onto her cheeks hard pressing her lips out as he growled with irritation at her squeals of terror.

“Master Brody…” 

Both Raina and Cole suddenly become very still hearing a voice, their eyes meeting with Beau’s who was standing there, concern for Raina all in his dark eyes. 

“What do you want, boy? You see me busy, don’t you? Get!” Cole ordered, pointing. Beau removed his straw hat, staying put as he tries to explain to the young master. “I’d like to do that, Master but you are being summoned by Master Thomas. He’s looking for you.” 

Cole scoffs before looking down at the trembling Raina who avoids his gaze. “No doubt wondering if staking my claim on you, girl.” He then releases her, fixing his overcoat and clearing his throat. “No matter. I’ll get what I want soon enough.” Raina risks a glance and Cole smirks at her. Seeing the slaves staying silent, he starts walking away chuckling. Raina waits for the vile master to be completely out of her sight before she starts letting out gasping sobs. Beau reaches her, bringing her into a hug. 

“Are you all right? Did he rape you, Raina?” He asks, checking her all over and looking at her reddened cheek. 

“N..no. Thank the Lord Almighty he didn’t. Thank you for coming when you did, Beau.” Raina says graciously, kneeling down and sniffling, grabbing her hairpins. Beau joins her on the ground watching her intently, his finger going under her chin to bring her face up to meet his.

“Freedom sounds pretty damn good right about now, don’t it?”

Raina doesn’t deny it. 

<<<<   >>>>

 Later after coming back to the house with the container for scraps Raina pauses in the hallway seeing Mistress Ella standing there, her body and face highlighted by candles in the hallway. 

“You enjoy your visit with Mister Brody, Raina? He seems quite smitten with you. Maybe I should put in a word to the master to go ahead and get your papers ready to sell. Give a chance for Cole to stare at you instead of my husband.” Raina stared wordlessly at the woman, her heart pounding. So all that Cole had told her is true. There are talks of her sale. Ella’s smile looks so wicked that Raina takes a step back as she hears her deep chuckle of satisfaction from the slave’s reaction. Hurt from deep inside prompts her to speak up.

“Miss Ella…I don’t understand. What reason is there really for you to hate me so? I try everything I can to please you.” 

The mistress of the manor stared at Raina in disbelief as if she really had the gall to talk to her so, crossing her arms and smirking. Her eyes are full of such contempt and she gestured to Raina with one hand palm up. The next words shake Raina to the core and she knows she will never forget them as long as she lives. 

You exist, you negra bitch. That’s reason enough.” 

Later that evening while in Beau’s quarters surrounded by four others, the words still ring in her ears even though she knows she shouldn’t be surprised they were spoken. She’s not sure if Ella meant by her personally or by her people but either way, it was the final straw in her decision on escaping. She had no real family here to hang onto and so what was really keeping her here? Fear of lashings? Fear of being lynched? That was no different than the fear she felt every second of every day! 

Her decision was made.

The plan was to wait until everybody was asleep in the quarters and slip out to the backwoods; an area that had not been watched for years. That was one of Ralph Carmichael’s major flaws: Thinking that his slaves were loyal to him to the end. He was a pretty lenient master, but he still thought of them all as his property and just like her, this group was fed up with it. There is nothing that can change her mind. Nothing. Not even Edie who pleaded with her ward at lights out to reconsider but when she realized it was a lost cause all she could do was pray over her and wish safe travels. 

Raina once again sits on her bed pallet. She reaches under her pillow to pull out a necklace. It was metal and chain-linked with a pyramid-shaped crystalline gem hanging at the end. Raina had this under her possession ever since she found out her mother had been sold and since then she had been keeping it close, making sure that nobody found or worse stole it. Raina found at times that it would seem to glow almost as luminous as the flame she was in front of; that in itself was reason enough to protect it. She puts the necklace back then sighs, staring at the fire for a few minutes before laying back for sleep. 

Before her eyes can close she smiles, thinking about freedom. That lantern and that open arms ready for embrace…

They may be closer to obtain than she thought. 

#Assassins Creed 3 #fanfiction #writing #amwriting #writer #story: released rain

[artsynanotech]

Rebuilding

Part 1: Adjustments

Ares Salvatore has been given something impossible: a new embrace into a new clan. But is this fresh start everything he’d hoped it would be? Takes place a few weeks after All Good Things: Part 4.

------------------------------

Ares stood at the end of a narrow, moss covered bridge. The moonlit sky illuminated the vast, ethereal valley below him. Serene music filled the background, a stark contrast to everything he’d encountered earlier, and Ares took a moment to calm himself before venturing forward. He was still on edge from fighting the stone giants in the previous area, and going into the next fight with those jitters wouldn’t do him any favors.  He also took that moment to focus his attention on his blood, directing it towards the joints in his hands and fingers. Ares felt a faint, tingling sensation as he tapped into his Celerity. Ares equipped his bow and made his way down the bridge towards the giant, ephemeral butterfly floating overhead. The fight started off okay. Ares fired arrow after arrow at the creature. He masterfully dodged each burst of magic the butterfly aimed at him, aided by the dexterity his new disciplines granted him. It’d made all the difference in Dark Souls. Ares had given up the game in angry frustration years ago, finding the difficulty combined with obnoxiously finicky controls murdered any chance of fun he’d have. Now, though, he was actually making progress. But then he noticed the butterfly’s wings. Like, really noticed just how the translucent green of them shifted to blue and gold as it floated across the screen, shimmering gracefully alongside silver sparkles. The color pallet for this particular fight was really amazing, and it meshed perfectly with the ghostly vocals in the background music. Even the blue glow of the butterfly’s magic was soothing. The game designers were really on point with the ambiance for this particular fight. The television screen faded to black and the words “you died” flashed across the screen. Ares blinked  couple of times as he registered just what happened. Letting out a groan, he flopped back on Scott’s rug and stared in annoyance at Scott’s (comfortingly) bland ceiling. He didn’t want to seem ungrateful – words could never describe how grateful he was to Scott for bringing him out of the Giovanni and making a place for him in the Camarilla – but the fact of the matter was, well…

Learning to be a Toreador was monumentally frustrating.

Ares knew adjusting to a new clan would be hard. He knew that, even with Scott vouching for him, the rest of DC’s kindred would always hold him accountable for his sister’s attempted coup. Hell, Scott’s word probably did more harm than good with some of them. Ares was prepared for that. He’d dealt with his own family’s scorn for nearly sixty years and survived. The distrust of his new sect didn’t mean jack in comparison to that. It was the little things that got to him instead. Things like his damned Toreador distractibility, for one. He was having no luck learning to control that. Then there was learning to use his new disciplines. Celerity came easy, but Auspex overwhelmed him pretty much every time he tried to use it. Presence was another matter entirely. The only time he really got it to work was when he put on the Mafioso façade that came so naturally. But then Scott had never been comfortable with that image of him. And now, after what Ares’ family had done? Ares was not going to do anything that would remind Scott about his roots. Ares wasn’t Giovanni anymore. He was Scott’s family now.

Then there was feeding. Ares had always made it a point to never feed directly on anyone. He couldn’t stand the screams that went along with a Giovanni kiss. He’d never learned how to gauge when he’d taken just enough blood, or too much. He’d never grown accustomed to the pleasure that came with draining a human. The first time he fed after his new embrace he was so overwhelmed he’d nearly killed the poor sap. Thank God Scott had been there to stop him.

As if on some sort of psychic cue, Washington DC’s newest primogen walk through the front door of his – no, their – apartment. Ares heaved himself up from the floor, shut off his Playstation, and went to the meet Scott in the kitchen portion of their studio. Scott grumbled as he slid off his shoes and left them on the welcome mat. He looked annoyed beyond measure. That wasn’t anything new. Scott wasn’t exactly fond of his new position. He’d mentioned something earlier about meeting one the first new Toreador to come to the city. From the looks of it she wasn’t much better than the rest of the kindred Scott had to deal with. “Hey,” Ares waved at him. “Rough night?” “I wish.” Scott snorted and hung his messenger bag on coathook. “I could use a rough night about now. It’d actually be preferable.” “Okay… I’m not sure I get it.” “It’s like…” Scott crossed his arms and scrunched up his face in thought. “Well I guess I’d say tonight was too easy, you know? Nothing went wrong, and that's what's wrong with it. And it'd be one thing if things went well because anything I did, but I didn't do jack shit! So yes, I could use a rough night. At least that'd mean I was proactive about something.” Ares walked over and wrapped his boyfriend in a loose hug. Scott returned the gesture. Ares still didn't quite understand what Scott was upset about, but things must have been bad if cuss words were slipping through his normally impeccable verbal filter. The two kindred stood still for a minute, just holding each other before Scott pushed himself up on tiptoe to place a soft kiss on Ares’ lips. God, they were so close. It’d be so easy for Ares to lean down and sink his fangs into the soft, inviting skin of Scott’s neck. Things weren’t like before; his bite wouldn’t cause Scott any pain now. He could drink as much as he wanted and not worry about a thing.

No. That was his beast talking. Ares made a conscious effort to strangle that thought process before it got any louder. He met Scott halfway for the kiss, then picked up the shorter kindred and sat him on the edge of the kitchen table. He nudged himself between Scott’s legs.  “You know I could do that,” Ares whispered against Scott’s soft lips. “Give you a rough night, I mean.” “It certainly wouldn’t hurt.” Scott grinned playfully and nipped Are’s lower lip. “But not right now. I have a present for you first. There’s a manila envelope it my bag. Why don’t you go open it?”

Ares raised an eye brow. What was the occasion? Nothing particularly special had happened in the past few days, had it? Or course it would be just like Ares to forget if something had. But he didn’t question, and instead did as he was told. He could feel Scott watching him from the table, and he felt his cheeks burn a little as he walked over to where Scott’s bag hung from the wall. He gently opened it and retrieved the envelope. 

It wasn’t very thick or heavy, and he could hear several different things shift around inside. Ares gave Scott one last, confused look – Scott laughed a little in response – and carefully tore open in the top. Inside were three items: a blue sheet of paper and two small cards. He pulled out the paper first. It was a birth certificate, raised seal and all, dated for his birthday in 1992. It was made out to “Ari Prinz.” He pulled out a social security card next, in the same name, and finally a New York State driver’s license with his picture on it. Ares couldn’t believe it. He looked at Scott, eyes wide with absolute shock, and placed the documents gently back in their envelope. He really wasn't Giovanni anymore. As far as the paper trail was concerned, Ares Salvatore was dead.  Ares felt his heart swell, his blood tremble with happiness at the prospect. He placed the envelope on the table and wrapped his arms around Scott once more. His fangs extended just a little. Ares focused his attention on his joy, not his hunger, and pulled Scott as close as physically possible. "I... I don't know what to say. How did you even manage that?" "Caroline pulled through for us. She knows the right people, I guess. And when I explained that we'd need a good cover in case the rest of the Giovanni came looking for you, she figured it was in the city's best interest to help out." Scott sounded like he was grinning ear to ear. "I hope you like the name. I don't expect any of our friends will use it much, but I put a lot of thought into it." "You did?" Ares looked down at Scott in slight confusion. The name didn't seem like that far a stretch. Ari was close enough to his birth name, so it wouldn't take that long to get used to hearing it. And since it was a Jewish name it made sense to have a Jewish surname, right?  Wait a second. Prinz. From the German word for "prince." As in the child of a king.

Ares groaned. "Did you seriously make a pun out of my new name?" "I figured using my last name would be too on the nose." Scott shrugged, but he still looked smugger than he had any right to for such a cheesy joke. "Besides, if - God forbid - we ever have a falling out, I figured it'd be better if we didn't share a name." "That's not gonna happen." Ares used the most adamant tone he could muster. "I'm in this for the long haul." Scott's gaze fell, and for a second he looked absolutely helpless, even a bit skeptical. Ares couldn't blame him - the last time Ares had said that, it'd been a lie. A lie Ares hopelessly wanted to believe himself, but a lie all the same. Scott's sadness only lasted that one second, though, and soon he was looking up at Ares with a gentle smile. "I know. But better safe than sorry, right?" "If you say so." "I do." Scott moved his arms around Are's shoulders and leaned up to whisper in his ear. "Now, what was that you said about getting rough?"  Ares answered by nipping - not biting, no matter how much he was salivating - Scott's neck. Scott laughed and wrapped his legs around Ares' waist. Ares shoved him down against the table. If rough was what Scott wanted, rough was what he was going to get.

~*~  They hadn't stayed in the kitchen for long. Afterwards, when they were comfortably spent and full to bursting with each other's vitae (thank God, as his beast was finally calming down), they lay tangled on their bed. The last track on Scott's favorite Type O Negative album played on Scott's laptop. Ares didn't quite understand Scott's fixation on mood music. He didn't understand why Scott liked this particular band so much either. It wasn't the worst music, though, and it did give the room a certain ambiance. As long as Scott was happy Ares wasn't going to complain. He had Scott wrapped securely in his arms. That was all he needed. "So..." Ares ran his hands gently through Scott's hair as he spoke. "Is this one of those 'don't talk about work' nights, or..." "Not really. Why?" Scott propped himself up on one elbow so he could look Ares in the eye.  "Well it's just you normally don't swear. So I thought tonight must have been really hard. And sometimes you just want to ignore those things, you know?"

"Ah. Well..." Scott bit his lip as he searched his brain for what to say next. "It's the new Toreador. You'd have to meet her to understand, I guess." "She's really that bad, huh?" "Exponentially so." Scott grimaced. "Yolanda Rivera. 11th gen ancilla, originally from Baltimore. She's an architect. Maxwell contracted out the new Elysium to her construction company. Which is honestly great for our clan, you know? So we were all talking - Maxwell, the other primogen, and myself - about what the new building was going to look like, what facilities we wanted, that type of thing. And the entire time she's acting like she's going to be the face of this clan." Scott's voice spend up as he talked. His grimace turned to a look of bitter frustration and he flopped back down on the mattress. "She's joking and laughing with the other primogen like she's known them for years, and starts acting like she's so happy to be able to help rebuild our clan. She talked over me the entire damn time! What really gets me is that she had the nerve to apologize to the rest of the primogen for my inexperience on my behalf. As if I can't speak for myself!" Ares waited patiently for Scott to finish his tirade. Honestly, it didn't sound that bad to him. With Isaac's flighty reputation and Ares being, well, himself, it would do Scott good to have someone who could help him with his new political responsibilities. Scott could probably learn a lot from this woman. But at the same time he knew exactly where Scott was coming from. As much Scott complained about his new job, he wanted desperately to succeed at it. He couldn't do that if no one gave him the chance to. "She made you feel small, didn't she?" "You don't know the half of it. This woman's over six feet tall and stacked. She could stand there completely silent and I'd still be invisible by comparison." And that explained the rest of Scott's frustration. Ares couldn't help but smile. Scott had no idea how adorable he was when he got flustered about his height. The way his cheeks got all pink, the little furrow in his brow... God, it was absolutely precious. Ares snickered before he could catch himself, earning him a rather icy glare from Scott. "You think I'm overreacting, don't you?"  "I think..." Ares paused so he could choose the right words to answer that obviously loaded question. "I think you're in a tough position, and there's a lot that's new and overwhelming. You'll get the hang of it eventually. I know you will." He leaned over and kissed Scott's forehead. Scott opened his mouth to reply, as though he has a frustrated rebuttal planned for whatever he expected Ares would say, but he paused a moment to actually process what Ares did say. By the time he did speak, Scott actually sounded impressed. "Nice save." "Thank you." Ares pulled Scott close again, tucking him snug against his chest. He pulled the blankets over the top of them. There was only an hour left before sunrise. Ares didn't see any reason for either of them to get out bed before sleep inevitably took them.

#IC #Rebuilding #NPC: Ares

[ecotone99]

[MF] What's the Damage?

“I’m not a fan of online dating”, he said, in between taking a sip of his old fashioned. “I mean, what’s the point, really? In my opinion, online dating has only two purposes: the first being for sex, and the second being for validation.”

At the other-end of the table, a skinny brunette sat quietly and listened. With her frayed hair, blue eyes and perky breasts, she wasn’t anything remarkable to look at. In fact, besides these perky breasts, she didn’t have much to offer in terms of beauty. But for the most part it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if she was a five or six (her mother always thought her to be the former) because middle-aged men, when confronted with the possibility of being alone, always settle for less than their perceived ideal — which was fine by her. For here she was having a drink at one of the finest gin-joints in town free of expense.

“How do you figure?” she asked, while gulping down Merlot, staining her teeth with a tinted red.

“Well, Maria —"

“Theresa”

“Huh?”’

“My name is Theresa, not Maria.”

“Alright, Theresa, you have Tinder, right?”

“Tinder?”

“The dating app where you swipe left or right depending on whether or not the person is ugly or not.”

“Hey, that’s not very nice —"

“I’m not trying to be nice. I’m just stating the truth.”

“Well, my mother always said if you can’t say something nice, then don’t say nothing at all.”

“Isn’t that from Bambi?”

“Honestly, most of the things I’ve learned in life came from my mother or television, so it could be either...”

Theresa chuckled and then flicked her hair back. Her split ends radiated in the stenciled brass lighting. There was just something about her that made him tick; perhaps, it was because of this bar they were in. The place was far busier than usual from what he remembered, and tonight the curved arches, balconies, and balustrades made it impossible to view anything without romantic undertones. He’d like to think that. He’d like to think that the sound of the Atlantic crashing against the rocks was romantic.

“Anyways,” Theresa continued, “As you were saying?”

“As I was saying,” he went on,” Do you have tinder?”

Theresa shifted in her seat a little.

“...Yes, I have tinder.”

“And why do you have Tinder?”

A suede jacket, a gold watch, and wingtip dress-shoes. A suede jacket, a gold watch, and wingtip dress shoes — yes, this was a man who had made a living understanding the cost of needing to make a living.

“Why do you have tinder?” he asked again. His elbows now draped alongside the wooden countertop.

“Sorry, I zoned out there for a second,” she apologized. “What did you say?”

“Why do you have tinder?” he asked once more.

Theresa raised her wine glass and took another gulp; her face was obscured behind a veil of opaque purple. Gulp. Gulp. Gulp. As she guzzled down the final few drops, the man with a suede jacket, a gold watch, and wingtip dress shoes watched.

“I’m looking for the love of my life,” she replied.

…

She reached for the bottle: there was no more wine left to be drunk.

Fuck.

“You know, why this place is famous right?” he slurred, as he swaggered back and forth in his chair.

Theresa took in the view: antique floor and table lamps; a fireplace carved of brilliant marble; palm trees casting luminous shadows against white walls; old and young couples alike hiding their insecurities in twenty to twenty-two-ounce chalices and surface-level conversations. Even with last call announced by the bartender, the place was evocative of a glitz and glamour that even a F. Scott Fitzgerald novel would pale in comparison to.

“It’s where they filmed, Casablanca, isn’t it?” she finally spoke.

“No, they didn’t film Casablanca here,” he said, gesturing around the room, nearly

keeling over while doing so. “It’s a recreation of the bar in the movie, you know—"

“Rick's Café Américain. Yes, I’ve watched Casablanca before,” she interrupted.

“…Then would you know that the sculpted bar over there is where Humphrey Bogart first recited, of all —

“ The gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine. Yes, I’ve seen—"

“And that 1930’s Pleyel piano the in-house pianist is playing is the same one Sam played while singing, As Time Goes By”

“Right now, I wish time went by --”

“And those oak doors over there is where Ingrid Bergman—"

“You really know a lot about this place, huh?” she interjected, coolly.

The man with a suede jacket and a gold watch and wingtip dress shoes sat in silence for a moment. Then he reached for his old-fashioned: there was nothing left but bitters and a melting ice cube.

“Well, I used to come here all the time when I was your age,” he continued.

“And how long ago was that?” she asked.

“When I was married.”

He looked over at the wooden doors again.

“…You were married?”

It was where Ingrid Berman, the Swedish blonde who painted her face with her eyes, first strolled into Humphrey Bogart’s little gin joint.

“Once upon a time”, he replied, raising his drink.

He held it in the air for a long moment. Reluctantly, she clinked her glass against his. Then he lurched back into his seat -- which took a great deal of effort -- and she laid her glass back down on the table. After this was all said and done, he reached for his collar and adjusted his “tie”: he wasn’t wearing one. It was a motion he most likely had grown very accustomed to. After all, at the moment, he was too maudlin to notice. Then he said something about working in an office and wanting to hang himself. Why not? Go for it. Who am I to stop you? Wait, she shouldn’t project.

“And what is it that you do for a living” Theresa asked, resting the weight of her chin on her arm.

“Advertising,” he replied, with a drunken grin.

The bar went quiet, or the lack of an ambient murmur seemed to indicate so. Regardless of how many people were in the place, Theresa now sat erect in her chair with her shoulders upright. She was quite-lady-like.

“And what is it that you advertise?” she asked with her eyes now locked on his.

“Mostly dating apps, ” he answered, “That’s why I asked you if you had tinder earlier. I wanted to know why a girl like you goes out with a guy like me.”

Theresa curled her lip inward and bit down hard. A metallic warmth pervaded her pallet, tantalizing her taste buds with the sin of....more. She wanted more, and this man before her could also be found wanting; for here he was. in one of the finest gin joints in town, wanting what came after an old-fashioned, a decorous bill, and a moonlight escapade through the razor-thin alleyways of Casablanca with the fog rolling in.

It shouldn’t be her fault he had already planned the route before they had even met.

…

“I like older men”, Theresa sweetly said, as she wiped her lips with a cocktail napkin. The shade of red where her lipstick found its mark emblazoned on the coarse surface like an autograph given from a Hollywood starlet.

“Do you now?” He replied, puffing his chest out in the process. He must be attractive to her.

“There’s just something attractive about an older man, wouldn’t you agree?” she said, leaning over the table and sliding his now empty old-fashioned over to her end. Then she pulled out the melting ice cube and examined it. Drop. Drop. Drop. The liquid dribbled over her knuckles and became more and more evaporated as she fingered the cube more and more—

“Wouldn’t you agree?” she said once more.

The condensation from the ice cube soaked into the wood. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. In the midnight heat, they glistened.

“…What, what do you mean?” he squeaked out.

Theresa bit her lip and smiled again. Then she took the ice cube and hovered it near her mouth.

“There’s just something older men possess that younger men do not,” she said, lipping the ice cube. “And, yes, a younger man may be chiseled and confident and charming -- hell, they might even fuck like horse in bed…”

Drop. Drop. Drop. Crystalline wetness glistened upon her lips and then fell from them onto the soaked wood. The man with the suede jacket, a gold watch, and wingtip dress shoes inched to the edge of his seat.

“…but there is just something about an older man that cannot be beat. There is just something about them that is just irresistible, and for the life of me, I can’t put my finger on it.”

She held a very long look at him.

“Do you know what it is?”

The man the suede jacket, a gold watch, and wingtip dress shoes sat at the other end of the table, unmoving.

“…is it because they have stature?

Theresa nodded her head thoughtfully and wiped off the water that formed on her hands; the ice cube had melted.

“…Yeah, that could be it.”

A moment of silence passed between them. Then Theresa stood up with her purse in hand and walked over to him. Then she began encircling his wrist; it was smooth to touch and heavy to feel, as if you could scratch the color off--

“I’m going to go freshen up before we leave. Is that okay?" she asked, leaning in close, her fingers running along his.

“...Would you like me to join you?”

Theresa smiled and then stepped away from him.

“I don’t need any assistance.” she said, walking away from the table. “Just the bill.”

…

As she maneuvered her way through the tables and toward the restroom, he looked on intently. There was just something about her that made him tick; perhaps, it was the way she looked at him and smiled. Even now when she eyed the wooden doors, and then the restroom, and then the wooden doors once more, he was floored. It was as if he had a front-row seat at a ping-pong competition, swinging his head back and forth, wondering which thing would capture her attention first; and, as she entered the restroom, she was all the more the spectacle. She knew what she wanted, and he didn’t dare change her mind -- he wasn’t even that drunk. He didn’t dare encumber himself with the fact that he knew she was more than he bargained for because when you’ve been selling nothing for years, you don’t pass up an opportunity for a new product…

…that’s advertising 101. You give the customer what they want. And no matter how flawed and fragile that product may be, you give the customer what they want. I mean, look at Apple these days: they don’t make quality products. They make iPhones, iPads, and Air Pods -- a bunch of parts loosely strewn together in a Malaysian sweatshop -- and in a few years, you’ll be paying seven hundred dollars for “repairs”, for something that was already broken. He knew what that felt like. He knew what it felt like to purchase something that was meant to last for years but didn’t make it past the warranty. He knew what it felt to like to invest in something that was supposed to take a lot of wear and tear, only for it to break at the first sign of trouble. And he knew what it felt like to love, only for that love to be found in a motel room fucking the brains out of someone who didn’t even know her name.

God, she had spent a lot of time in the restroom.

…

He should be embarrassed he should be embarrassed to be drunk as a skunk and drool all over the place in front of other people its fucking embarrassing and the worst part is that tomorrow he’ll tell all his corporate pencil pusher buddies that he balled the broad at the bar and then proceed to brag about how good he fucked her Christ why are my eyebrows so lopsided and why are my breasts so perky and why are my cheeks so chubby why is he such a miserable little wretch he has a suede jacket and a gold watch and wingtip dress shoes and no heart he is a shallow creature who can’t control himself he can’t hold a conversation he will work in an office from nine to five until the day he dies and he will never know what it’s like to hold the hand of someone he loves and he will never know what it’s like to look at someone and be totally vulnerable and he will always be the one who sits down at a table and have no one look up and he will always be the joint that people pass around take a hit of and then exhale and he will always be a whoring wanting human piece of trash that no one dared to love because there wasn’t much to love.

…God, why am I looking into a restroom mirror?

…

By the time she finally returned from the restroom, the bar had all but cleared out. The table lamps were extinguished. The terracotta tile, once carnelian and gleaming -- set in the floor by hand -- lay waste to footprints. Even the bus boy, who wouldn’t fool a soul if he asked for a drink, had already wiped the sweat off his brow and bussed his last table. There was no left in the place, except for him and her. There was not a human noise to be heard, nor a person seen moving. Everyone had left for what came after a drink and dinner.

“That took awhile” he said, reaching for his old-fashioned: it wasn’t there. One of the bus-boys must’ve taken it earlier. Theresa bore over him silently, watching him grasp blindly for what was already lone gone.

"There was a long line at the cue.” she finally replied.

“…I’m sure there was.”

Theresa’s eyes darted across the room towards the rest room and the wooden doors. There was no one at either.

“Do you want to leave?” he asked, his eyes fixated on where she was looking. Theresa stood there for a moment, silent.

“…Are you sure you don’t want to get another drink?

The man with a suede jacket, a gold watch and wingtip dress shoes tapped a black leather envelope that lay next to him.

“The cheque’s already here.”

Theresa stood there for a moment once more, silent.

“…You sure, you don’t want another drink?

The man with a suede jacket, a gold watch and wingtip dress shoes shook his head.

“ I’ve had enough to drink.” he replied.

Theresa looked over to the other end of the table. Sure enough, the cheque was there, flat on the table. Next to the cheque, a gold watch wrung around a plump wrist. On the floor, wingtip dress shoes planted into the ground. Before her, a suede jacket that looked about two sizes too large wrapped around an equally too large torso; and above that… blue eyes. They were such flawed and fragile and vulnerable and harrowed and broken and tormented and lonely and greedy and guilty and unworthy and pitiful and beautiful, blue eyes.

“…So, what’s the damage?” she said, her eyes glued on his, unmoving.

The man with the beautiful, blue eyes smiled.

"I’ll pay,” he answered.

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#Blogger #Story

[lorescoz-blog]

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Monster courses monsters fit into a range of parts a little too, as an example attackers, tankers, followers, and safety. Runes are embeddable suppliers that develop your monsters’ statistics. Summoners conflict related information each and every one types of beast has their own personal group of particular animation in attack, in triumph as well as in nonproductive states. Even if you obtain advantage 30 exp (the fact that they commonly give) after a perform Summoners conflict discipline judgment: awesome (5/5) entire, Hack De Summoners War: skies world is truly a comprehensive earn personally. It possesses a refined summoning application enabling for in-height customization and works with many different playstyles. Useful information user discussion forums - analyze beneficial suggestion and observations all members on particular person beast pages in the game’s built in opinion application. Amusingly, both invade and curing potency is manipulated with a monsters invade stat, so damaging runes that maximize invade also influence that beast to treat way more hewlett packard when dealing with allies. |activities or has other side effects, as an example curing. without doubt taking a look at the carrying on with chat doesn't sound feasible, though the latest subject matter is exposed to the top of the the screen inside of a truncated type, the chat windowpane alone can't be exposed. Also, a minimum of, you can find girl monsters and members that are not scantily clad and incredibly have a look badass. Toucharcade stated the sport was "vital-have for gamers who will like way more strategic maneuvering in their ccgs or maybe more customization in their method memberships. Accumulates details about sex and grow older. Surrounding the upside, it's lively and sweet, obtaining a stunning quantity of story and team plans to keep children quite busy. So how exactly does members enjoy the activity now? Let us have a look at our heatmap! Enthusiasts appreciate summoner’s conflict entire. Exactly how can Hack De Summoners War preserve members--despite bot Enthusiasts also have to limit the luck included in proceeding contained in the bot. |Know how to make members want to pay back, not demand to. Pokemon with combination aspects together with a captivating eliminate application, perfectly animated. Once arriving at the volcano in the center of the map, the gamer things The (combination) celebrity application continues point numbers little (optimum 40), but masks which every celebrity also is equal to a lot of degrees of foundation energy. An efficient bot if you wish a situation to bear in mind your time and energy. To eliminate the repetitiveness, there are plenty of methods to attack and acquire, whether it is studying the history, or specific "dungeon" heights, or looking for pvp (whether actual or ai). The progressing application farmville We have been actively playing farmville for only two weeks now also it really has not |Then again this, farmville wrists and hands us another kind of feeling at the usual beast gathering memberships we undertaken. Summoner competitions is truly a super quick-actively playing, move-jam-packed charge card bot for only two-4 members the fact that they tackle the function of summoners: proficient beings who utilize the strength of unexplainable summoning gems to steer their race to conquest all over the conflict-split world of itharia. Refer to as the wall surfaces of stone to safeguard you in eliminate and function miracle sites that you simply summon your members. Will this game have fun playing presented in summoner competitions transcend time, or has it'd its morning? Read more to search out out… the total components of the actual determine (minus a guide manual). You've astonishing pushes that allows you to phone call forth proficient beings and allies to battle to prevent opposite summoners. for some other devices. Every individual player can be all through as a great deal of or as several out from the phases in their distinct transforms. Every individual is tagged so you should understand exactly things to do through these phases. Beating an rival model will most likely lead to that charge card actually set have to deal with-cheaper inside your miracle heap. |Rely on them correctly and you can now golf swing a game title name inside your help. “easy to achieve, tricky to master” a particular thinks of. There aren't any less than 24 a range of factions presently provided all through all sets and expansions with just a few impartial charge cards thrown within the mixture to generate deckbuilding much simpler. Then again, the sport could certainly be a some- or several-player bot a little too. With members making an attempt is known as a go on summoner standing, matters may possibly get very reasonably competitive. Completely free-to-have fun playing beast-gathering projects certainly are a cent-a-dozen, just how do we identify the ideal for you? While in the state of affairs of Hack De Summoners War: skies world, the glossy processing beliefs, tightly fitted root aspects, addicting blend of Just don't assume the temptation to consider various other matters will likely not rear its unpleasant head using some spots. Different kinds of summon scrolls establish the scarcity and brilliance to your monsters, numerous from 1 to 5 various-celebrity evaluations. This blend of deck-putting together around the vein pioneered by miracle 2013 [] with strategic maneuvering that way observed in hero academy [] and outwitters [] is truly a proficient collaboration for gamers who're followers of both genres. |A single iap unlocks all ai decks, deck production, and asynchronous website have fun playing. Also worth noting is the $7.99 combination bring insures only all found decks, not upcoming expansions. That have an i phone or ipod device system look, the debit card content is little even zoomed-in, and whenever taking a look at your whole map, the debit card talent is rarely adequate enough to identify connecting charge cards. My claims may be the next few: (1) the dishes aren't okay-ordered. (7) there has to be a suit-which makes application for website have fun playing. (11) due to the fact check out mentions, no chat? That may be not reasonable upon the bot that might engage in around the duration of fourteen nights. If i am from charge cards and also have no beings around my wrists and hands, it has to not bear demanding me should i want to surface texture my summoning point. In addition to that, i discover my i phone, tricks is little, but definitively playable. |Then again, as is still stated, playdek could and incredibly If you possess the ipad device, beneficial - while you don't and need to receive a particular post when out contributing to, this is solid to get the bot all synced all over the i phone. The initial issue which i appreciate about summoner competitions is when the exceptional decisive moment is most effective. And that's impressive. You start the sport with a lot of devices all over the board, and you'll have rather several (or no) transforms you ought to don't attack each other. Choose to foundation determine resources a player with all that they ought to take part in the bot. I had been very very happy with time while using Or, in order to consider extra of my feedback, you should think about the summoner competitions professional determine (visibly), but you may also have a shot at the reluctance, yomi, and battlecon. |The great thing is the races around the professional determine don't may be found in every other type, if you purchase any expansions, you will know you might be not experiencing repeated charge cards. memberships like summoner competitions allow it to be simple to grasp why deck-putting together memberships do actually in regards to this new moderate, principally as a consequence of rising identification of asynchronous multiple-player bot have fun playing. This attribute converts okay at the ios type of the sport. In addition, you should buy reinforcement packages that add in new devices for their During summoner competitions under no circumstances produces the endorphin hurry of opening up a foil enhancer bring to discover a remarkably exceptional charge card expecting you, it will eventually show that caliber charge card-built method memberships is actually feasible on mobile instruments. So help me select a solid bot to start my (apparently, he’s also agreed on honestly he loves the endgame auto expert from great bunnies And hunting for the exceptional decisive moment carrot, so you may want to reconsider seeing and hearing him.) miracle carrot away, tom’s most effective. |And my compliment out from the carton extends to this place put in - there's living room not just for any six faction decks included around the carton but on top of that slots for several way more decks.