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drwilfredwaterson · 6 months

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So long, Lawless and Tearful Liddle Orange Snowflake, Stinky Dinky-Winky Diapered Dummy donald j. trump. Perhaps all of the Pro-Russia Israeli Rabbis Will Anoint him as "G-d's New King David and Davidic Messiah" Now That the Proud Lifelong Nazi donald j. trump Has Betrayed All Jews on Earth? Part 2/3.

"Republicans eat their young. Republicans eat their young." - Incestuous Pedophile Rapist and Adrenochrome Harvester donald j. trump.

“Hannibal Lecter, how great an actor was he?” - Republican In Name Only and Liddle Tearful Snakey-Poo Criminal Defendant donald j. trump

Donald John Trump (2005) "I moved on her, and I failed. I'll admit it. I did try and f**k her. She was married. And I moved on her very heavily. In fact, I took her out furniture shopping. She wanted to get some furniture. I said, "I'll show you where they have some nice furniture." I took her out furniture—I moved on her like a b**ch. But I couldn't get there. And she was married. Then all of a sudden I see her, she's now got the big phony t*ts and everything. She's totally changed her look. I better use some Tic Tacs just in case I start kissing her. You know I'm automatically attracted to beautiful—I just start kissing them. It's like a magnet. Just kiss. I don't even wait. And when you're a star, they let you do it. You can do anything. Grab 'em by the pu**y. You can do anything." (Access Hollywood)

On October 25, 2016, allegations were made by two men stating that incestuous pedophile rapist donald j. trump had attended and partaken in sex parties filled with underage minor females as young as 15 years old who were induced with promises of career advancement. Illegal drugs were also alleged to have been provided to the minors. One man was identified as model and actor Andy Lucchesi, while the other was identified as a fashion photographer who spoke on condition of anonymity. Both men claim to have been acquaintances of Trump during that decade, which one described as his "Trump days". The anonymous witness said Trump had sex with the girls, going from room to room, saying "[Trump would] wander off with a couple girls. I saw him. He was getting laid like crazy. Trump was at the heart of it. He loved the attention and in private, he was a total f*cking beast." He claimed the parties were attended by minors as young as 15 years of age, adding "I was there [only] to party myself. It was [other] guys with younger girls, sex, a lot of sex, a lot of cocaine, top-shelf liquor." Lucchesi, for his part, claimed that he saw Trump engage in sexual activity with the girls but did not witness him taking illicit drugs. In regards to the age of the girls, Lucchesi said he himself never specifically asked about their ages, only remarking of the attendees "a lot of girls, [aged] 14, look 24." (Wikipedia)

Public response A survey conducted by YouGov in October 2016 found that 43 percent of respondents found the allegations against Trump to be credible. Republicans were least likely to find the allegations credible, and only 19 percent of Republicans thought sexual assault would disqualify Trump from the presidency. (Wikipedia)

"Irrational and Emotionally Fragile By Nature, Female Co-workers are a Peculiar Animal…" - Family Guy: Women in the Workplace

Do modern women receive equal benefits and pay to men?

Do modern women receive an accurate and appropriate level of credit for their work and success?

Are modern, successful women considered to be dirty, gluttonous, repulsive, unpleasant, greedy, unkind, unattractive, immoral, and shameless for purusing female empowerment, rights, equality and success?

Have any men who have a problem with successful women ever attempted to manipulate any successful woman/women into proclaiming themselves inferior in every way to a monkey, a pig and a goat by embracing and promoting the Aleister Crowley and Anton LaVey farm animal face; and then having their female victims degrading, dehumanizing, and dewomanizing themselves via that farm animal face in public, as often as possible, to and for patriarchal amusement, empowerment, and perpetuity?

Are there any male-dominated political efforts to legalize all forms of rape and force women and girls of any and all ages (including girls being bottle-fed and in diapers--to permanently erase the ideas of feminism and civil and human rights for women when they're just babies) to be sex and breeding slaves to all males who embrace and demand to live in an Aleister Crowley and Anton LaVey-inspired world to "liberate" those men from feminism and women's rights and validate all of their "darkest fantasies"?

On March 1, 1974, a grand jury in Washington, D.C., indicted several former aides of Nixon, who became known as the "Watergate Seven"—H. R. Haldeman, John Ehrlichman, John N. Mitchell, Charles Colson, Gordon C. Strachan, Robert Mardian, and Kenneth Parkinson—for conspiring to hinder the Watergate investigation. The grand jury secretly named Nixon as an unindicted co-conspirator. The special prosecutor dissuaded them from an indictment of Nixon, arguing that a president can be indicted only after he leaves office. John Dean, Jeb Stuart Magruder, and other figures had already pleaded guilty. On April 5, 1974, Dwight Chapin, the former Nixon appointments secretary, was convicted of lying to the grand jury. Two days later, the same grand jury indicted Ed Reinecke, the Republican Lieutenant Governor of California, on three charges of perjury before the Senate committee. Nixon's position was becoming increasingly precarious. On February 6, 1974, the House of Representatives approved H.Res. 803 giving the Judiciary Committee authority to investigate impeachment of the President. On July 27, 1974, the House Judiciary Committee voted 27-to-11 to recommend the first article of impeachment against the president: obstruction of justice. The Committee recommended the second article, abuse of power, on July 29, 1974. The next day, on July 30, 1974, the Committee recommended the third article: contempt of Congress. On August 20, 1974, the House authorized the printing of the Committee report H. Rep. 93–1305, which included the text of the resolution impeaching Nixon and set forth articles of impeachment against him. Faced with the inevitability of his impeachment and removal from office and with public opinion having turned decisively against him, Nixon decided to resign. In a nationally televised address from the Oval Office on the evening of August 8, 1974, the president said, in part: "In all the decisions I have made in my public life, I have always tried to do what was best for the Nation. In the past few days, however, it has become evident to me that I no longer have a strong enough political base in the Congress to justify continuing that effort.…the interest of the Nation must always come before any personal considerations. From the discussions I have had with Congressional and other leaders, I have concluded that because of the Watergate matter I might not have the support of the Congress that I would consider necessary to back the very difficult decisions and carry out the duties of this office in the way the interests of the Nation would require. …as President, I must put the interest of America first. America needs a full-time President and a full-time Congress, particularly at this time with problems we face at home and abroad. To continue to fight through the months ahead for my personal vindication would almost totally absorb the time and attention of both the President and the Congress in a period when our entire focus should be on the great issues of peace abroad and prosperity without inflation at home. Therefore, I shall resign the Presidency effective at noon tomorrow. Vice President Ford will be sworn in as President at that hour in this office." (Wikipedia)

How I Broke The Cycle Of Intergenerational Trauma, Incest, and Sexual, Physical, and Emotional Abuse - Tiffany Hamilton

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Published: January 12, 2023 (12th day) Duration: 12:21 (741 seconds) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R_1af_yV6Lg R_1af_yV6Lg RafyVLg afglrvy 1+6+7+20+80+700+400=1214. 1214+1+6=1221. 1221+741=1962. 1962+12=1974.

Strong's Concordance #1974 hillul: From halal (in the sense of rejoicing); a celebration of thanksgiving for harvest -- merry, praise. Original Word: הִלּוּל

That's the rotten core of the anti-American MAGA Nazi cult and political movement. This is the endgame of 1930s and 1960s Aleister Crowley and Anton LaVey sexual predator, domestic abuser, and con artist female self-abuse, self-harm, and self-sabotage farm animal face. That's one of the possibly millions of faces of the victims of the Make America Great Again (by vicitimizing all girls and women when they're being bottle-fed and in diapers so they'll never know any different) movement. This is the truth of why the MAGA cult targeted Roe vs. Wade and why they'll never stop assaulting girls and women and legalizing their intergenerational incestuous rape, forced impregnation, and female domestic slavery lifestyle. The United States of America will never be united and great until American men and boys choose to stand united with American women and girls, in united American homes where American families are united by mutual respect for one another, and loving, united, educated, sophisticated, and worldly American ladies and gentlemen make and keep America united and great.

Considering that politicians and their supporters who undeniably embrace and act upon Aleister Crowley's and Anton LaVey's worldviews have legalized domestic violence and rape against ALL women and girls of ANY age, incest, forced impregnation and breeding, sexual grooming of girls of ANY age, and the death penalty for anyone who tries to protect or help those victimized women and girls, modern feminists cheering those people on with Aleister Crowley's and Anton LaVey's farm animal face expressions is accelerating the American implosion. It's exactly the same as Marsha Blackburn voting against reproductive rights, the Violence Against Women Act, Lilly Ledbetter Fair Pay Act, and the Paycheck Fairness Act while being a woman (Tennessee's first woman senator) in a position to help women, but abusing and sabotaging them instead. The Aleister Crowley and Anton LaVey farm animal face isn't liberating any women or girls from the Anton LaVeys of the world; it's just fueling and perpetuating all of those abuses against women and girls by validating that worldview. When any woman makes the Aleister Crowley and Anton LaVey farm animal face, they're giving the Anton LaVeys of the world their public seal of approval and saying that every woman and girl wants, needs, deserves, and really, really likes and fantasizes about being abused in all the ways Anton LaVey abused the women and girls he had access to. I really don't understand, and I seriously doubt I'd want to understand, how any modern woman with any self-respect can knowingly sabotage themselves and every other woman and girl in the world via the Aleister Crowley and Anton LaVey farm animal face.

If anyone believes that women degrading, dehumanizing, and dewomanizing themselves via the Aleister Crowley and Anton LaVey farm animal face for partriarchal amusement, empowerment, and perpetuity is a crucial component in female equality in human evolution and the strengthening of an inclusive, expansive, loving, nurturing, and humanitarian free will-based society, it'd be interesting to see and hear modern feminists debate the issue on behalf of all women and girls past, present, and future.

Likewise, if anyone believes that women degrading, dehumanizing, and dewomanizing themselves via the Aleister Crowley and Anton LaVey farm animal face for partriarchal amusement, empowerment, and perpetuity is a crucial component in preventing and denying female equality in human evolution and the complete destruction of an inclusive, expansive, loving, nurturing, and humanitarian free will-based society, it'd be interesting to see and hear modern feminists debate the issue on behalf of all women and girls past, present, and future.

It's of utmost importance to remember that Aleister Crowley and Anton LaVey were sexual predators, domestic abusers, and con artists in the 1930s and 1960s. It's extremely unlikely that the Aleister Crowley and Anton LaVey farm animal face was ever intended, nor is it now intended, to fully liberate all women and girls from societal norms, expectations, and patriarchal oppression, repression, and domestic enslavement through "living out their darkest fantasies" that could then be used to exploit, extort, and force them back "into their place" in patriarchal 1930s and 1960s societies. The math isn't mathing, because that's never going to add up to female empowerment and equality in any age for any woman or girl.

"There are some good people. But a good chunk of them will lie for no reason at all - it'll be ten o'clock and they'll tell you it's nine. You're looking at the clock and you can't even fathom why they're lying. They just lie because that's what they do." - John Cusack

3000+318… Sam & Dave - Hold On I'm Coming

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Published: October 29, 2018 (302nd day) Duration: 2:32 (152 seconds) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vsJuhJJCdoI vsJuhJJCdoI cdhijjjosuv 3+4+8+9+600+600+600+50+90+200+700=2864. 2864+152=3016. 3016+302=3318.

Strong's Concordance #3318 yatsa: to go or come out, appear, bring forth, break out, escape, carry out, lead out, grow, spread out, be risen Original Word: יָצָא

High Infidelity (Zeena's Version) (From the Cremation Jar) - Demolished Anton LaVey Black House and Postmortem Fact Sheet Remix: Do you really want to know where he was October 29th? She said he was freeloading. She was keeping count. He was pathetic at the house. He bent the truth too far; she put her records on and burned his city to the ground. He became an ashen compound; like his squalid Black House; as a warm up for goin' down, down, down. And it was later found that every legend pooped from his forked-tongue mouth was nothin' but a lyin', dirty, dirty cheatin' sound. He wasted his whole life foolin' 'round. Then two ladies unsheathed their bittersweet frosted receipts and saw to it he finally found out.

Anton LaVey's Death: Wednesday, 29 October 1997 = 28th of Tishrei, 5758 Parashat Noach כ״ח בְּתִשְׁרֵי תשנ״ח Parashat Noach is the 2nd weekly Torah portion in the annual Jewish cycle of Torah reading. Torah Portion: Genesis 6:9-11:32 Noach (“Noah”) begins as God decides to destroy mankind with a flood. At God’s command, the righteous Noah builds an ark, where Noah, his family, and select animals survive the flood. Noah’s children bear children, and several generations develop. God confounds the speech of people building the Tower of Babel.

Anton LaVey's Black House Demolished: Wednesday, 17 October 2001 = 30th of Tishrei, 5762 Parashat Noach כ״ח בְּתִשְׁרֵי תשנ״ח Parashat Noach is the 2nd weekly Torah portion in the annual Jewish cycle of Torah reading. Torah Portion: Genesis 6:9-11:32 Noach (“Noah”) begins as God decides to destroy mankind with a flood. At God’s command, the righteous Noah builds an ark, where Noah, his family, and select animals survive the flood. Noah’s children bear children, and several generations develop. God confounds the speech of people building the Tower of Babel.

Taylor Swift - no body, no crime (Official Lyric Video) ft. HAIM ("Life")

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Published: December 10, 2020 (345th day) Duration: 3:38 (218 seconds) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IEPomqor2A8 IEPomqor2A8 IEPomqorA aeimoopqr 1+5+9+30+50+50+60+70+80=355. 355+2+8=365. 365+218=583. 583+345=928.

Strong's Concordance #6114 etser: to inclose, to restrain, restraint, detain, shut (up), stop. Original Word: עֶצֶר

All Too Unwell (Eternity Version) (From the Cremation Jar) (Anton LaVey's Version) - Poopyheads, Liars and Dirty, Dirty Cheats of the World Remix ft. The Truth:

The Black House was a building that formerly stood at 6114 California St. in San Francisco, California, in the United States. The house was used by Anton LaVey as the headquarters of his Church of Satan from 1966 until his death in 1997. LaVey conducted Satanic seminars and rituals at the house; one of the most notorious such rituals was the Satanic baptism of his daughter Zeena Schreck in 1967, punctuated by LaVey speaking the words "Hail Zeena! Hail Satan!" over the nude body of a female acting as the 'Satanic Altar'. Public ceremonies were performed at the house until 1972. LaVey lost ownership of the house in 1991 as the result of a court settlement resulting from his separation from Diane Hegarty, but LaVey was allowed to reside at the Black House until his death from poor health, increasing paranoia, and a pulmonary edema on October 29, 1997 at St. Mary’s Medical Center in San Francisco, CA. (Wikipedia) Following LaVey's death, members of the Church of Satan unsuccessfully attempted to raise funds to repurchase the house, and it was demolished on October 17, 2001. A duplex now stands in its place. (Wikipedia)

“if life teaches anything at all, it teaches that there are so many happy endings that the man who believes there is no God needs his rationality called into serious question.” ― Stephen King, It

“The timing was just right enough so that things worked out wrong for everyone.” ― Stephen King, It

“If there are ten thousand medieval peasants who create vampires by believing them real, there may be one—probably a child—who will imagine the stake necessary to kill it. But a stake is only stupid wood; the mind is the mallet which drives it home.” ― Stephen King, It

“Someday you're just going to go too far and that will be the end.” ― Stephen King, It

On February 2, 1998, Anton LaVey's estranged daughter Zeena Schreck and her then husband Nikolas Schreck published a nine-page "fact sheet", in which they endorsed Wright's earlier allegations and claimed that many more of LaVey's stories about his life had been false.

LEGEND: In 1945 the 15-year-old Anton LaVey was brought to the ruins of postwar Germany by his uncle, a U.S. Coast Guard officer. There the teenaged Anton LaVey was shown top-secret films inspired by Satanic cult lodges and their rituals. Anton LaVey claimed that the "German" rituals in his 1972 book The Satanic Rituals were actual transcripts of the filmed rituals he saw as a youth.

REALITY: Young Howard spent the entirety of 1945 in suburban northern California, and never visited Germany at any time in his life. The uncle who he claimed brought him to Germany was incarcerated at McNeill Island Penitentiary for involvement with Al Capone-related criminal activity during 1945, and was never in the armed forces. Allied martial law forbade U.S. citizens from visiting postwar Germany. The "German" rituals in the Satanic Rituals are written in extremely poor, Anglicized German. They are clearly uncredited adaptations of the short story The Hounds of Tindalos by Frank Belknap Long and H.G. Wells' famous novel The Island of Dr. Moreau.

SOURCES: Anton LaVey relatives, former wife Diane LaVey, The Hounds of Tindalos, The Island of Dr. Moreau, The Satanic Rituals, Church of Satan member Rosalind Herkommer (who translated Anton LaVey's rituals into German).

LEGEND: The 15-year-old Anton LaVey played second oboe with the San Francisco Ballet Orchestra, making him the youngest musician ever to play with that prestigious institution.

REALITY: There was no "San Francisco Ballet Orchestra" in 1945. The San Francisco Ballet was accompanied by a local orchestra, whose records show that none of its three oboists was named "Levey" or "LaVey".

SOURCES: San Francisco Performing Arts Library & Museum, San Francisco, California.

LEGEND: In 1947 Anton LaVey ran away from home and joined the Clyde Beatty Circus. The Circus employed the 17-year-old as a lion tamer. He then replaced the Circus calliope player, accompanying such famous Beatty acts as the Concellos, Harold Alanza, and the Cristianis.

REALITY: The voluminous Beatty archives show no record of a "Levey" or "LaVey" as lion tamer or musician. The Concellos, Alanza, and Cristianis were never Beatty performers; they worked exclusively for the Ringling Brothers Circus.

SOURCES: Beatty 1947 Route Books, Circus World Museum, Baraboo, Wisconsin (Wright, "SD", page 67); Anton LaVey relatives.

LEGEND: In 1948 the 18-year-old Anton LaVey was engaged to play organ at the Mayan burlesque theater in Los Angeles. There he met a young stripper named Marilyn Monroe, with whom he had a passionate love affair in the period before her rise to film stardom. According to Anton LaVey, Monroe had resorted to stripping to pay her rent. As proof of his relationship with Monroe, Anton LaVey later showed visitors a copy of Monroe's famous nude calendar inscribed "Dear Tony, How many times have you seen this! Love, Marilyn".

REALITY: Anton LaVey never knew Monroe. Monroe intimate Robert Slatzer and Harry Lipton, Monroe's agent in 1948, have exposed and discredited this tale. Lipton paid Monroe's expenses, including her rent. Paul Valentine, director of the Mayan Theater, has stated that the Mayan was never a burlesque theater, and that neither Monroe nor Anton LaVey ever worked for the Mayan in any capacity. Diane LaVey, Anton LaVey's former wife, has admitted that she forged the "Monroe" inscription on the calendar. Anton LaVey's former publicist Edward Webber claims Anton LaVey admitted he never knew Monroe.

SOURCES: Diane LaVey, Paul Valentine (Wright, "SD", page #68), Harry Lipton (Aquino-Lipton conversation 12/1/82), Robert Slatzer (letter to Aquino 11/27/82), Edward Webber (interview by Aquino 6/2/91).

LEGEND: Anton LaVey was exposed to the savagery of human nature during his stint as a San Francisco Police photographer in the early 1950s.

REALITY: San Francisco Police Department past employment records include no "Howard Levey" nor "Anton LaVey". Frank Moser, who was a SFPD photographer in the early 1950s, said that Anton LaVey never worked for the Department.

SOURCES: SFPD records, Frank Moser (Wright, "SD", page 68).

LEGEND: Anton LaVey studied criminology at San Francisco City College during the Korean War.

REALITY: SFCC has no record of Anton LaVey's enrollment at any time.

SOURCES: SFCC records (Wright, "SD", page 68).

LEGEND: Anton LaVey purchased the house at 6114 California Street (which would later become the headquarters of the Church of Satan - the infamous "Black House") because he discovered on first inspection that it was the former brothel of Barbary Coast madam Mammy Pleasant. The house was honeycombed with trapdoors and secret passageways, built by Pleasant to elude police raids.

REALITY: 6114 was Anton LaVey's parents' home. It was never a brothel, nor did Mammy Pleasant ever live or work there. Anton LaVey's parents first allowed Anton LaVey and his first wife Carole to live in the house, then transferred ownership of it to Anton LaVey and his second wife Diane in 1971. Such secret passages and hidden rooms that exist were constructed by Anton LaVey.

SOURCES: Relatives, San Francisco property records (Michael & Gertrude Levey, Joint Tenancy Grant Deed, July 9, 1971).

LEGEND: In the 1950s Anton LaVey traveled to Nice, France, where he recorded an album of organ music under the pseudonym of "Georges Montalba".

REALITY: Anton LaVey's first and only trip to France was in the mid-1970s, when his Dutch disciple Maarten Lamers, Amsterdam sex club owner, financed his voyage. The "Anton LaVey=Montalba" story appeared in 1989, when a gullible Church of Satan member found a Montalba album and suggested that it was similar to Anton LaVey's own music. Anton LaVey, never pleased by competition, responded with the preposterous "pseudonym" claim - which is still ardently supported by his posthumous followers.

SOURCES: Diane LaVey, Zeena LaVey.

LEGEND: Anton LaVey was the official city organist for San Francisco until 1966, playing for gala events such as government banquets and political meetings.

REALITY: San Francisco has never had an "official city organist". According to Anton LaVey's first wife Carole, his only income of $29.91/week was generated by his regular engagement at the "Lost Weekend" nightclub, where he was the house Wurlitzer organist.

SOURCE: Julie Burford, Civic Auditorium, San Francisco, California (Wright, "SD", page 68). Carole LaVey's divorce proceeding records (Wright, "SD", page 68).

LEGEND: On the night of April 30, 1966 (the German Satanic festival of Walpurgisnacht), Anton LaVey in a "blinding flash" declared himself the High Priest of Satan, proclaimed that the Age of Satan had begun, and founded the Church of Satan as a religious institution.

REALITY: In 1966 Anton LaVey supplemented his income by presenting weekend lectures on exotic and occult topics, and by conducting "Witches' Workshops". He charged $2 a head, filling his living room with the curious and establishing a local reputation as an eccentric. Professional publicist Edward Webber suggested to Anton LaVey that he "would never make any money by lecturing on Friday nights for donations … it would be better to form some sort of church and get a charter from the State of California … I told Anton at the time that the press was going to flip out over all this and that we would get a lot of notoriety". In the summer of 1966, long after the fictional founding-date invented later, a newspaper article about Anton LaVey's lectures offhandedly referred to him as "priest of the Devil's church". This mixture of Webber's idea and the newspaper's characterization resulted in the creation of the Church of Satan as a business and publicity vehicle. Jack Webb, a San Francisco Police investigator who knew Anton LaVey from the "Lost Weekend" nightclub, also suggested that he should form a church of some kind to exploit his recondite knowledge.

SOURCES: Edward Webber (interview by Aquino 6/2/91), Jack Webb, Diane LaVey.

LEGEND: Anton LaVey's trademark shaved head was the result of a ceremonial head-shaving on April 30, 1966, to formalize his role as High Priest of Satan. This ritual was performed in the tradition of the Yezidi devil-worshipping tribes of Iraq, who were said to have carried out a similar ceremony.

REALITY: Anton LaVey shaved his head in the summer of 1966 due to a light-hearted dare from his wife. The "LaVey look" had nothing to do with the Church of Satan founding nor any mystical meaning attached to it later. Nor do Yezidi qawwals (religious teachers) shave their heads.

SOURCES: Diane LaVey; Ethel S. Drower, Peacock Angel, 1941; C.J. Edmonds, A Pilgrimage to Lalish, Royal Asiatic Society, 1967.

LEGEND: In 1966 Anton LaVey personally designed the Baphomet emblem of the Church of Satan. He owns the right to this design, claiming it cannot be reproduced without obtaining licensing rights from the Church of Satan.

REALITY: The Baphomet emblem used by the Church of Satan was neither original to it nor created by Anton LaVey, hence cannot be trademarked. The original Baphomet dates at least as far back as the medieval Knights Templar. The artwork for the current emblem's goat/pentagram first appears in a 1931 book by Oswald Wirth. The complete emblem with the added circles and "LVYThN" Hebrew letters appears on the cover of a book by Maurice Bessy two years before the creation of the Church of Satan. Early photos of Church activities often show Anton LaVey or his disciples using the Bessy book as a photo-prop because of its prominent cover-Baphomet, and he included that book in his Compleat Witch bibliography. The Baphomet, including this rendition of it, is clearly in the public domain.

SOURCES: Oswald Wirth, La fran-maconnerie rendue intelligible a ces adeptes - II, "Le compagnon", Paris: Derry-Livres, 1931, page #60; Maurice Bessy, A Pictorial History of Magic and the Supernatural, London: Spring Books, 1964 [the original edition of this work - Histoire en 1000 images de la magie - was published in 1961 by Editions du Pont Royal]; Thomas H. Hilton, Sex and the Occult, Vol. I, Los Angeles: Centurion Press, 1974;Church of Satan members, The Black Flame (a 1980s Church of Satan magazine).

LEGEND: One of Anton LaVey's most widely-accepted falsehoods is his claim that he served as technical advisor for the 1968 Roman Polanski film Rosemary's Baby. Anton LaVey also claimed to have played the curiously-uncredited part of the Devil in that film.

REALITY: Anton LaVey had no involvement with Rosemary's Baby. Polanski's close friend Gene Gutowski (original producer of the film) stated that there was no technical advisor, nor did Anton LaVey ever even meet Polanski. Producer William Castle, who details all aspects of the film's production in his autobiography, never mentions Anton LaVey. He does describe Polanski's diligence in basing the film exactly on the Ira Levin novel from which it was adapted, eliminating any need for technical advice. The father of the actress who played Mia Farrow's body-double in the Devil scene recalled that a young, very slender professional dancer played the part, dressed in a small rubber suit. In 1971 this suit was acquired by Studio One Productions in Louisville, Kentucky, for use in a low-budget horror film Asylum of Satan. Michael Aquino, technical advisor for that film, examined the suit and concluded that the 200-pound, 6-foot Anton LaVey could not possibly have worn it. [The suit was worn by a girl in the Asylum film.] Not a single member of the cast or crew of Rosemary's Baby has ever mentioned Anton LaVey's involvement. In 1968 a San Francisco theater did ask ASL to make an appearance at the film's local opening as a promotional event. This appears to have been Anton LaVey's only connection with the film that engendered the 1960s' popular interest in Satanism.

SOURCES: Gene Gutowski; William Castle, Step Right Up! I'm Gonna Scare the Pants off America, New York: Pharos Books, 1992; Diane LaVey, Michael A. Aquino (COS, page #17).

LEGEND: Jayne Mansfield, Hollywood sex symbol and actress, was a card-carrying Satanist and had an affair with Anton LaVey.

REALITY: Publicity agent Tony Kent, an associate of Ed Webber, arranged the meeting between Mansfield and Anton LaVey as a publicity stunt. Anton LaVey was smitten with the actress. Mansfield, who made no secret of her many affairs, denied knowing ASL intimately, and no associate of hers has ever confirmed any supposed romance with Anton LaVey. In a 1967 interview she said, "He had fallen in love with me and wanted to join my life with his. It was a laugh." According to Anton LaVey's publicist Edward Webber, Mansfield would ridicule her Satanic suitor by calling from her Los Angeles home and seductively teasing him while her friends listened in on the conversation. Anton LaVey's public claims that he had an affair with Mansfield began only after Mansfield's death in an automobile accident, which he also claimed was the result of a curse he had placed on her lover Sam Brody.

SOURCES: Edward Webber (interview by Aquino 6/2/91); interview with Mansfield quoted in Jayne Mansfield by May Mann, Pocket Books, 1974.

LEGEND: Anton LaVey wrote the Satanic Bible, his principal work, to fulfill his congregation's need for a scriptural guide.

REALITY: The Satanic Bible was conceived as a commercial vehicle by paperback publisher Avon Books. Avon approached Anton LaVey for some kind of Satanic work to cash in on the Satanism & witchcraft fad of the late 1960s. Pressed for material to meet Avon's deadline, Anton LaVey resorted to plagiarism, assembling extracts from an obscure 1896 tract - Might is Right by Ragnar Redbeard into a "Book of Satan" for the SB, and claiming its authorship by himself. [Ironically these MiR passages are the ones most frequently quoted by Anton LaVey disciples.] Another third of the SB consists of John Dee's "Enochian Keys", taken directly but again without attribution from Aleister Crowley's Equinox. The SB's "Nine Satanic Statements", one of the Church of Satan's central doctrines, is a paraphrase, again unacknowledged, of passages from Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged. The last words in the SB - "Yankee Rose" - have been puzzled over for years by readers. "YR" is actually the name of an old popular tune in Anton LaVey's nightclub repertoire.

SOURCES: Anton LaVey, The Satanic Bible; Ragnar Redbeard, Might is Right, Port Townsend: Loompanics (reprint), 1896; Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged (Galt's speech, ca. pages #936-993); "Yankee Rose" by Sidney Holden & Abe Frankl (Irving Berlin Music, 1926).

LEGEND: Anton LaVey claimed that at the height of the Church of Satan's popularity there were hundreds of thousands of formal members.

REALITY: Diane LaVey (who administered the Church as High Priestess 1966-1984), Michael A. Aquino (senior Magister of the Church and Editor of its Cloven Hoof newsletter 1971-1975), and Zeena LaVey (High Priestess of the Church 1985-1990) have all affirmed that the figures claimed by Anton LaVey were grossly exaggerated. The membership of the Church of Satan never exceeded 300 individuals, several of whom were nonmember subscribers to the newsletter or Anton LaVey friends receiving complimentary mailings.

SOURCES: Diane LaVey, Michael A. Aquino, Zeena LaVey.

LEGEND: Anton LaVey claimed to be a multimillionaire, owning three homes in northern California, a convent in Italy, a chateau in France, a fleet of luxury automobiles, a 185-foot yacht, three salvage ships, and other property.

REALITY: During Diane [LaVey] Hegarty's 1988-91 lawsuit against Anton LaVey, and Anton LaVey's subsequent 1991 filing for bankruptcy, Anton LaVey stipulated under oath that he owned nothing more than 50% of the house his parents had given jointly to him and Diane, along with the personal items he kept therein. Anton LaVey's final years were subsidized by California state aid. Assessors declared the house to be in such poor repair as to be nearly worthless on the real estate market. Family members have attested to the fact that by the mid-1970s the LaVeys lived in near-poverty, frequently having to rely upon Anton LaVey's father's generosity. According to other LaVey relatives, Anton LaVey continued to rely on handouts from friends and relatives until the end of his life.

SOURCES: Hegarty v. LaVey (San Francisco Superior Court Case #891863), Anton LaVey Bankruptcy, Chapter 7 (U.S. Bankruptcy Court, Northern California, Case #91-34251), Zeena LaVey, other relatives.

LEGEND: Anton LaVey presented himself as a loving family man.

REALITY: Anton LaVey violently beat his wife Diane throughout their marriage. In 1984 a police report was made describing Diane being strangled into unconsciousness by Anton LaVey, who was in such a murderous rage that his daughter Karla had to pull him off Diane and drag her outside the house to save her life. Anton LaVey routinely physically beat and abused those of his female disciples with whom he had sex, forcing them into prostitution as part of his "Satanic counseling" and collecting their earnings. In 1986 Anton LaVey was a passive witness to the sexual molestation of his own grandson by a longtime friend who was later convicted of sex crimes with minors. In 1990 Anton LaVey informed a mentally-ill stalker of his daughter Zeena of her whereabouts and the time & location of a public appearance she was scheduled to make, deliberately endangering her life.

SOURCES: San Francisco Police records of ASL attack on Diane LaVey, Zeena LaVey, Diane LaVey, Stanton LaVey.

LEGEND: Anton LaVey had a deeply affectionate relationship with Togare, his pet lion.

REALITY: While Anton LaVey was always careful to portray himself to the public as an animal lover, in private he was cruel to and neglectful of his pets. When he was given Togare as a cub in 1964, he was ill-equipped to deal with such an exotic, wild animal despite his pretensions as a circus lion-tamer. As Togare became larger and more unruly, Anton LaVey frequently used an electric cattle prod to hurt and frighten him into submission. Many animal-rights proponents, including Togare's final owner Tippi Hedren, agree that it is detrimental to a wild animal's development to be raised in a domestic environment. Anton LaVey was arrested due to Togare's unruly behavior, and Anton LaVey was ordered to donate him to the San Francisco Zoo. After complying, Anton LaVey made only two visits to Togare. Due to the trauma of his early life, Togare needed special care at the Zoo and at every animal-care facility in which he subsequently lived.

SOURCES: Jack Castor (Lion Keeper, San Francisco Zoo), Diane LaVey, Zeena LaVey, Tippi Hedren (The Cats of Shamballa, McGraw-Hill, 1985).

LEGEND: Anton LaVey had a deeply affectionate relationship with his other pets.

REALITY: In the late 1960s Anton LaVey acquired a Doberman Pinscher (Loki) as an accent to his "sinister" image. Anton LaVey never took the time to housebreak or train Loki, and relegated him to the overgrown and unkempt backyard of the house, regardless of weather. If Loki ever tried to slip into the house for shelter, Anton LaVey routinely used Togare's cattle-prod on him to terrify him back outside. In his old age Loki developed such severe arthritis that he could not climb the stairs to the back door to eat, and began wasting away from malnutrition. Anton LaVey then gave him to one of his prostitute "students", who at least saw that Loki had a warm, inside home until he died a few months later. During her young childhood Anton LaVey's daughter Zeena once awoke late at night to hear slamming sounds and the shrieking of her German Shepherd puppy. Running downstairs, she saw Anton LaVey savagely beating the cowering, cornered dog with a wooden plank. When Zeena begged Anton LaVey to stop and asked him what the dog had done to deserve such treatment, Anton LaVey screamed, "She won't listen to me! I'm going to force her to obey me!" Anton LaVey continued beating the dog until her face was covered with her blood, then dropped the plank and left the dog quivering in the hallway, so injured and frightened that she wouldn't let even Zeena come near her. This incident left the dog traumatized for a long time afterwards.

SOURCES: Diane LaVey, Zeena LaVey.

LEGEND: On Anton LaVey's original death certificate the date of his demise was recorded as October 31, 1997 (Halloween).

REALITY: An official investigation by the City of San Francisco determined that Anton LaVey's actual date of death was October 29, 1997 and that the "Halloween" date had been illegally written on the document.

SOURCES: Death Certificate #380278667, San Francisco Department of Public Health; Dr. Giles Miller (attending physician at Anton LaVey's death), Physician's Amendment to Death Certificate, 11/26/97.

Source: https://thevital.livejournal.com/23483.html

X-Men 3: The Last Stand, Phoenix VS Xavier EXTENDED

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Published: February 3, 2018 (34th day) Duration: 2:33 (153 seconds) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3qvOVa9x-t0 3qvOVa9x-t0 qvOVax-t aoqtvvx 1+50+70+100+700+700+300=1921. 1921+3+9=1933. 1933+153=2086. 2086+34=2120.

Strong's Concordance #2120 zocheleth: a crawling thing, reptile, serpent, worm, to shrink back, crawl away. Original Word: זֹחֶלֶת

X-Men 3: The Last Stand - deleted scene: Jeans True Power

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January 1, 2009 (1st day) Duration: 1:39 (99 seconds) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YG6QXmS5CjI YG6QXmS5CjI YGQXmSCjI cgjimqsxy 3+7+600+9+30+70+90+300+400=1509. 1509+6+5=1520. 1520+99=1619. 1619+1=1620.

Strong's Concordance #1620 gargar: a berry, grain, an olive, a whole garden of olives… Original Word: גַּרְגַּר

TANAKH (Jewish Publication Society, Hebrew-English) Page 883: Isaiah 17:4 In that day, The mass of Jacob shall dwindle, And the fatness of his body become lean: Isaiah 17:5 After being like the standing grain Harvested by the reaper--Who reaps ears by the armful--He shall be like the ears that are gleaned In the Valley of Rephaim. Isaiah 17:6 Only gleanings shall be left of him, As when one beats an olive tree: Two berries or three on the topmost branch, Four or five on the boughs of the crown--declares the Lord, the God of Israel. Isaiah 17:7 In that day, men shall turn to their Maker, their eyes look to the Holy One of Israel; Isaiah 17:8 they shall not turn to the altars that their own hands made, or look to the sacred posts and incense stands that their own fingers wrought.

John 12:23 Jesus replied, “The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified. John 12:24 Very truly I tell you, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds.

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stellinagatsby · 5 years

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Chapters: 3/3 Fandom: Fallout 3, Fallout (Video Games) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Gob/Lone Wanderer, Gob/Female Lone Wanderer Characters: Gob (Fallout), Lone Wanderer Additional Tags: Touch-Starved, Platonic Cuddling, Self-Esteem Issues, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, mentions of pet death, The Lone Wanderer Has Abandonment Issues, Fantastic Racism Series: Part 1 of Like Real People Do Summary:

The Lone Wanderer arrives late one night in need of emotional support. The only person who's ever kind to Gob needs some kindness in return.

This work was previously titled "To Have A Friend". I titled the series after a Hozier song and I'm titling all of the component stories with Hozier songs as well.

#fallout 3 #fallout fo3 #lone wanderer #gob #fan fiction #shameless shelf promotion

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jikyuz · 3 years

Text

♡ treasure reaction: having an idol s/o ♡

“hiii <33 do you think you could do a headcannon where the boys have an idol s/o? like how they’d react to their s/o comebacks or small interactions on camera? i’m sorry if i’m not being specific :’)) but i love your writing,, keep up the good work <33” - anon

a/n: no need to be sorry! i don’t mind broad requests because it gives me a lot of creative freedom which i like ^^ also feel free to go check out my other idol s/o request here! - bee

♡ hyunsuk ♡

ready to hype you up every step of the way

if he’s free he goes to practice with you to watch you prepare for your next comeback

will help with lyric writing/producing if you do that

understands how hard it is and will be your rock

supports you with everything

if you’re on the same show/on camera at the same time

besides the occasional side glance i don’t think he would interact with you more than a normal amount

he’s the leader and doesn’t want rumors or anything to hurt treasure

so he would be very careful with that

but definitely sits with you while you get your makeup/hair done backstage because he’s happy that he can spend some more time with you

brags about you to his members while he watches your new mv

“woahhh look at them!! that’s my baby!!”

♡ jihoon ♡

as i said in my previous idol s/o reaction: the Proudest Boyfriend Ever

also a very protective boyfriend

all his other idol friends not in treasure know you’re his partner

you have to remind jihoon not to spoil anything about your comeback to his friends because he Will brag about you

wants to know all the details of your comeback and watch your dance practices

when he can he brings you (and your members) lunch/snacks to make sure you’re eating well

if you guys promote at the same time he will absolutely visit you backstage to wish you luck/give you good luck kisses

the makeup artists scold jihoon for kissing you and messing up your lip tint

but they think yall are the cutest so they don’t scold him too much

is very very subtle with interactions on camera

a lot like hyunsuk, since he’s a leader he doesn’t want to jeopardize the groups career/your career over rumors

but he also loves you so much so he would smile fondly at you and clap loudly for you

♡ junkyu ♡

again, as i said before, knows your dances front to back

is your hype man but moreso hypes you up when you need it

like yea he’s super supportive

but if you ever say you’re worried/upset about something

he turns on the hype switch

“babyyyy you’re the best! don’t doubt yourself!” *points to your dance practice video* “look at you! you did so well!”

texts you before you go on stage/go to a filming for something wishing you luck and that he’ll be watching and cheering from the dorm

so shy with interactions

if you’re on the same show junkyu won’t do anything that’s considered ‘too much’

but if your group is included in a random play dance or something

junkyu will go All Out

think junkyu dancing to cl’s ‘baddest female’

absolutely embodies the feel of your dance because he’s watched you practice it so many times

♡ yoshi ♡

probably one of the shyest/least likely to interact with you on camera

smiles and claps for you but doesn’t do much else

if you guys promote at the same time he’ll visit you in your waiting room for a moment to steal a quick kiss and then dart back to his room

while you perform yoshi just sits in the makeup chair with his eyes glued to the screen

smiles when you show up

the members tease him about his glazed over look he gets when he watches you perform

gushes about you to the members after your stage is done though

“did you see how they were center for the dance break?!”

if you compose/write lyrics he would love to just spend quality time with you in the studio

even if he’s just laying on the couch watching you work

he really values quality time so he would love to visit you in the studio and bring you lunch/dinner

knows only your lyrics to your songs

he loves your songs and hypes you up when you have a comeback

but he just loves listening to you and ends up just remembering your parts

♡ jaehyuk ♡

the Most Supportive Boyfriend

brings you and your members snacks/food during practice when he can

is really good friends with your members as well

every time you have a comeback he brings you flowers and sends flowers to music shows for your comeback stages

if you guys promote at the same time he will visit you in the waiting room and wish you luck

makes sure you’re eating well/enough

if you ever say you’re dieting jaehyuk will Hate It

“no you don’t need to! you’re perfect the way you are!”

when you get your first win jaehyuk absolutely cries

unless he’s on the stage promoting as well then he fights so hard to hold back and just smiles really widely/claps

but if he’s at home watching on the tv then he bawls

“i’m so proud of you, sunshine.”

if you stay late at the company to practice/produce/etc then jaehyuk joins you

because he wants to make sure you get some rest eventually

also because he likes spending time with you and watching you practice

♡ asahi ♡

the silent type of supportive boyfriend

when you have your comeback he will watch it over and over, smiling when you appear on screen

has your songs on repeat in the practice room and screams the lyrics/dances nonstop

when your concept photos come out he shows all the members with a big smile on his face

during your promotions asahi always texts you and reminds you to drink water/take a nap when you can/that you’ve going to great

always ends those texts with a heart

no rumors of you two ever come out because asahi is his normal quiet self during broadcasts/recordings

if you’re ever on camera together then he would just act normal

he’s mostly the silent supportive type but there are definitely exceptions to that

if you’re promoting at the same time, asahi will go to any tv he can in the waiting room just to watch your stage

does the fanchants..... very loudly and cheers loudly when it’s your part

also if you ever do a solo stage/cover/song then asahi is gonna blast it at 100 volume in the dorm and go wild

♡ mashiho ♡

Hype Man!!!!!!!

he would have all your albums on his shelf and if he could he would have one of your photocards in his phone case

knows all the dances to all your songs, all the fanchants and lyrics

probably one of the ones to interact with you the Most on camera

if you’re on the same variety show together he will laugh at everything you say, clap and smile at you

during music shows at the end when all the groups are together he would absolutely stare at you with a smile on his face

shared smiles and knowing glances from the other members of your group/treasure

when asked his ideal type he describes you

loves to visit you in the waiting room

brings you food/snacks during practice, especially if you tell him you hadn’t eaten yet that day

whenever he can he visits you to see how practice is going

will help you with dance moves or help you learn cover dances

tries to teach you treasure choreo

♡ yedam ♡

streams your comeback whenever he can

during breaks in filming stuff he has his phone in his hand and your mv on repeat

shows all the members the mv and points you out even if you’re at the back

wants to do a cover with you so badly because he thinks your voices would go well together

eventually you do a collab at an awards show and yedam is the Happiest Boy Alive

during variety shows or other broadcasts on camera he’s really professional

is able to separate his private life and his career pretty well

plus he gives you plenty of affection backstage/when the cameras are off

knows all the lyrics to your songs and goes to you to learn the dance

when he can he likes to make you cute lil lunch bags for you and your other members to eat

buys you matching necklaces that neither of you take off so that when you’re on stage or recording something you can always remember him

“so i’m always close to your heart and you’re close to mine!”

♡ doyoung ♡

doesn’t interact with you on camera, at least not past the normal regular interactions

helps you out with dancing all the time

you need help with a dance cover? doyoung will help.

having trouble with a move in your own choreo? he’s got it

likes to visit you when he gets out of practice because “seeing you is better than sleep”

gets so excited every time you have a comeback

like you would think he was part of the group with how hyped he gets

when your teasers drop he sends them to all the members on kakao and keyboard smashes in korean

is good friends with your members

hypes up your members as well but not as much as he hypes you up

knows the dance to all your songs and is the Resident Master when your songs come on random play dance

depending on when you/him go to practice, he will bring you and the other members coffee and a small snack so he knows you are eating

♡ haruto ♡

despite ruto being young, i think he’s pretty shameless when it comes to interactions on camera

like during a variety show if you show off a talent and the hosts ask ruto what he thinks, even if he’s seen you do it before, he stares with his mouth wide open

“wow, they’re really good”

but he’s also careful not to overdo it

if he visits you during practice he hypes tf out of you

yells so loud when you’re the center that it’s hard to hear the music

also hypes you up in the waiting room as well

kisses your forehead (much to the annoyance of the makeup artists lol) and takes pictures for you for instagram/twitter

“you’re gonna rock it, hun!”

will be your Biggest Fan and will talk about your comeback/mv/concept photos to the members whenever he can

they even recorded him talking about you and sent it to you which you found adorable

♡ jeongwoo ♡

Hype Man!!!

absolutely cries when you get your first win because he’s so happy for you

sends you flowers whenever you get first place on a music show

though he’s your hype man, i think if you guys are on the same show together he might be a bit shy

like he is shameless when you aren’t there, he dances to your songs on tmap or whatever

and sings at the top of his lungs in the dorm when you have your comeback

but if you’re together on a show then jeongwoo tones it down because he knows how much rumors can hurt you/him

out of all the members, probably talks the most about you around the dorm/at practice

“have you seen their concept photos? their mv teaser? i have to be up at midnight for the music video release!”

plays your song whenever and wherever he can

has all your albums because he wants to support you however he can

♡ junghwan ♡

oh this cute babie

a lot like doyoung with interactions, is really shy when he’s with you on camera but maintains being professional

after you have a comeback junghwan will call you at 12:01 and tell you all the things he liked about the mv in specific detail

“the effects in the background when you showed up were so pretty! your makeup was so good! this dance looks really hard”

if you guys promote at the same time junghwan might try and visit you

but if he doesn’t then he texts you wishing you good luck

when you perform junghwan has all his attention on you

his mouth kinda falls open when he sees all of the cool effects and makeup and everything

blasts your songs at Full Volume in the practice room

excitedly talks to the members about your new comeback

makes them watch all the variety shows you are on

the cutest supportive bf ever >_<

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adam-memeleri · 3 years

Text

Rainbow

Rosie’s always liked rainbows. Liked the beauty, the wonder, the ethereal, indescribable nature of the array of colours painted on the sky and clouds. She’s always liked the possibilities held within those colours, always liked what they meant, always liked the way the world seems to stand still when you find one after a storm, frozen for something so magical.

Hope reminds Rosie of rainbows.

okay so i actually really like this one and i think it shows. also thank you @bubblelaureno for proofing and fixing my feeble attempt at past tense you are so very lovely

tagging - @bubblelaureno @lookingforsomethingcuzimbored

if you wanna be tagged

Masterlists shameless self promotion lmao

T Rating (its mostly fluff, but there's sick if youre not cool with that)

Hope x MC (Rosie) or rope if youre chichi

~7k words this took an alarming amount of time to finally fucking finish, so take it for what it is

Like the sweater that blocked Rosie’s view of a lecture one morning, red. Like the tapping nails she couldn’t stop watching, red. Like the sensation of being mesmerized, hypnotized more deeply than when watching the sun slowly creep higher above the horizon, red.

Her eyes roved over the carefully organised materials - pens, notebook, laptop - all set in a specific place. She watched the nails halt their tapping, scribbling out notes in what she could only assume was perfect handwriting. She couldn’t imagine this girl doing anything less than perfect, less than meticulously planned, less than plain stunning.

Although her face was obscured, Rosie could picture the expression painted across it. Could picture a focus that could knock you down and heal your bruises all at once. And it intrigued her, left her wanting to see it for herself, and she angled her head to glimpse as much as she could.

The red sweater rose abruptly, just as Rosie was about to peek, and Rosie knew she should as well, knew that the drone of the professor had disappeared and she had another lecture not too soon, but she couldn’t manage it. Her curiosity had gotten the better of her, her stupid desire to see if she was right about this girl.

She turned, her eyes landing on Rosie’s, and Rosie could have sworn her heart stopped. She was surprised more than anything, to find eyes boring into her own so fiercely, her eyebrows knitted together in momentary confusion. Before she whisked herself away, with a bag thrown over her shoulder and Rosie left behind, simply gawking after her.

After all coherent thought had left her mind, Rosie jumped to her feet and scrambled to collect her belongings, haphazardly she shoved them in her own bag and scooped them in her arms before darting out the room. She found that red sweater as it exited the building, nearly lost in the sea of students.

Elbowing her way through the crowd, Rosie managed to nearly catch up, stumbling a little ways behind as she called out, “Hey, wait up!”

The girl’s eyes searched over her shoulder before she slowed, peering over at Rosie curiously as she fell into step beside her.

“Sorry, I, uh…” Rosie fumbled over her words, gesturing awkwardly as she sought to clear the air, a blush staining her face. “I didn’t - That wasn’t - I wasn’t staring.”

The girl side-eyed Rosie, lips quirked in a tiny bemused smile at her feeble attempt. Her fingers toyed with a ring, spinning it around one finger in a steady rhythm as her free hand held the strap of her bag.

“Really! I wasn’t!” Rosie insisted uselessly.

Her grin grew as she hummed teasingly, “Mmhmm.”

“Look, just -” Rosie’s shoulders sank in a sigh, shaking her head in exasperation, but with a smile of her own. “I’m Rosie.” She tried, her voice having steadied.

The girl smiled invitingly, in the type of way that drew Rosie in, left her wanting more as dazzling eyes crinkled enticingly. “Hope,” her sweet voice rang, with all the power of a declaration but none of the demand.

Rosie nodded mutely, her braids shifting with each shake of her head. She opened her mouth to say smoothing, but, at a loss, she clamped her jaw shut.

Hope didn’t seem to mind, her eyes adjusting forward as they walked side by side, the gap between them like a canyon to Rosie. She swallowed, fixing the book under her arm, “So, uh, have you always been in that class?”

“Yes,” Hope nodded coolly, “Someone stole my usual seat today, though.”

“That… That sucks.” Rosie’s lips purse to the side as she nods along.

“Actually,” Hope’s voice drawled as she peered up at Rosie out of the corner of her eye. “I seem to recall there was an open seat beside you.”

“Oh! Yeah, I keep it open for a special someone,” Rosie’s lips quirked in a crooked grin, her typical playfulness finding its way back to her.

“And who would that be?”

Bolstered by Hope’s own teasing, she winked, her cheeks dimpled from her smile. “I’m hoping I’ll find out soon enough.”

“Maybe you will.” The pair fell into a companionable silence as they walked, neither a word exchanged or a beat of awkwardness filling the space. Rosie’s eyes roved distractedly, sneaking glances at Hope every chance she got and darting away when she got caught.

And every time Hope smiled to herself, and every time Rosie’s cheeks heated just a little more. It was quickly becoming a game, to see how long it took for Rosie to get caught, and with each glance she found herself hoping they'd continue the game on a later date.

Hope paused in her tracks suddenly, turning to face Rosie more fully as she adjusted her bag on her shoulder. “This is my stop,” she gestured to the lecture hall they were standing outside of, students filing inside. “It was nice to meet you, Rosie,” she grinned, stretching her hand out in offering.

Rosie’s own eagerly clasped it, shaking the offered hand perhaps too forcefully. “You too!” She promptly dropped Hope’s hand, a flush on the back of her neck as she shifted from foot to foot, gaze dropping to stare at the floor. “Um, see you next week?” she tried, glancing up from beneath her lashes.

“As long as you keep my seat available,” Hope teased easily, as if this was a common occurrence in her daily life. And Rosie supposed it may be, that maybe there’s always someone following her around with wide eyes like a lost puppy.

In response, Rosie nodded vehemently, mouth curved in a barely suppressed grin as Hope laughed lightly, already turning away. She stalked inside, head held high and shoulders thrown back with a confidence that can’t help but catch your eye and one that Rosie couldn’t tear her gaze away from.

Like the sweater that disappeared into the hall, red. Like the heart that berated Rosie’s ribcage, red. Like the lips pulled into an impossibly wide smile, as much as she fought it, red.

Orange

Like the socks that covered kicking feet, orange. Like the setting sun outside, the watercolour of clouds, orange. Like the pen that scrawled on paper, jotting down notes and doodling when the words wouldn’t come, orange.

“Pop quiz!” Hope announced, flourishing a card and adjusting upright. Open textbooks, loose papers, a discarded laptop, and a dozen markers litter the bedspread around her.

Rosie groaned, faceplanting into her notes and sending a multitude of colourful pens scattering. “You’re incorrigible!” she whined into the paper, her hand that had been previously writing limp by the notebook.

“You asked to study! I’m studying!” Hope defended with a slight laugh, motioning with the brightly coloured flashcards in her hands.

Rosie’s head flopped to the side, cheek pressed into still-damp orange inked scribbles. “Clearly by study I meant halfarse rereading notes so we had an excuse to hang out.”

Hope paused for a beat, scrutinising Rosie from across the bed. “You needed an excuse to hang out with me?”

“Would you have agreed otherwise?”

“No,” she slowly answered. “But that’s just because I needed to study.”

“There is not a doubt in my mind that you were the most extreme teacher’s pet,” Rosie teased, pushing upright just to slump backwards, elbows positioned to support her weight. “I can picture it now, little Hope avoiding recess to do menial tasks.”

With a wistful sigh, Hope abandoned her flashcards, leaning back herself. “Oh, those were the good ol’ days.”

“Nerd.”

Hope clicked her tongue, fond exasperation etched in her face and soaked into her posture. “Well,” she drawled, climbing off the bed and popping to her feet. “Since we’re already taking an impromptu break, I’ll be right back.”

She disappeared out the door, leaving it wide open and lightly swinging on its hinges. A heavy sigh melts Rosie’s muscles as she stretched out on the bed in her absence, legs nudging the multitude of study supplies surrounding her.

She glanced about, eyes bouncing around curiously at the array of objects held in Hope’s bedroom. From the vanity, to the assortment of bottles and items splayed atop the dresser, to the meticulously organized bookshelf of textbooks and fiction, it was as if Rosie was getting a glimpse into the girl.

And somehow she felt there was more to uncover than ever before. From the tattered jacket full of memories draped over a chair, to the photo frames littering every available surface, to the picture book given prime shelf space, there’s so much life in the room that she’d never even heard about.

Hope stepped back into the room before her imagination could run truly wild, juggling a water bottle dotted in flower stickers and a few oranges. She dumps them all on the bed, tossing one of the small oranges to Rosie.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, catching it lightly.

“Mmhmm,” Hope hummed out of reflex as she jumped up to the bed, kicking her legs over the edge and toying with the lid of her water bottle. “You know, I don’t get why you of all people are a business major,” she commented, glancing up as she takes a drink.

Rosie chuckled, picking at the stubborn peel and pulling off chunks. “What makes you say that?”

“You just seem… not… businesslike? I don’t know,” she groaned, dipping her head to hide her face as Rosie laughed beside her.

“I think I’m plenty businesslike.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s cheeto dust on the edge of your notes.”

“Ah-ah-ah,” Rosie waggled her index finger, “Cheetos are made by a business, therefore, they are businesslike.”

Hope’s mouth curved in a grin, lips pressed together to try and stop it’s spread. “You should be an attorney instead.”

“Nah, it just wouldn’t be fair to the other lawyers,” Rosie’s tone was casual as she popped an orange slice in her mouth, speaking through it. “Like a pro athlete playing with a kiddie team.”

Hope snorted, her hand clapped up to her mouth as she fought a loud laugh. “You'd be a force to be reckoned with in a courtroom, I’m sure.”

“I’m telling you, I’d be unstoppable. Just sue everyone else before they can sue me!”

“I don’t think that’s how that works.”

“Well, you’re not a lawyer, are you?”

Hope’s hands raised placatingly, but the smile on her face was evident of her amusement. “Alright, alright you win.”

“What’s my prize?”

Hope’s face scrunched up as she considered, one nail rising to tap at her chin. “What do you want?” she finally responded.

“To not study.”

“Alright, I get it.” She closed the textbook she had been reading from and tossed it onto a nearby desk chair, sitting straight and peering about for a distraction. “You want to watch something instead?”

“Yes! No books! No words! No unreadable handwriting!” Rosie cheered, shoving her own notebooks and laptop across the bedspread in a dramatic show.

“That’s your handwriting that you can’t read.”

“Exactly!” her hands waved, eyes wild before her palms slapped down onto the duvet, “Do you see how mad this has driven me?”

Hope rolled her eyes, tossing a pale orange blanket over Rosie to quiet her, “Every day you get more over the top.”

Snickering, Rosie pulled the blanket off her head and scooted backwards until she hit the headboard. “Stick around and maybe you’ll find my limit.”

“Trust me, I don’t plan on going anywhere,” Hope joined her on the bed, tugging her laptop to rest before them. “Now here, since you’re sticking around too, let’s watch something.”

She started scrolling through a streaming service, clicking on random descriptions but never staying long enough for Rosie to catch up. She moved fast, but with more purpose than anyone Rosie had ever met. Every sharp action was backed by a precise thought, every decisive selection marked by careful consideration.

She finally clicked on some random sitcom, beginning to settle against the headrest and Rosie’s side. The blanket only exacerbated the heat between them, and Rosie found herself spending more time attempting glimpses of Rosie than she spent watching the show.

Like the scattered peels and smudged ink of abandoned pens, orange. Like the blanket draped over their laps, orange. Like the sensation of sunlight blasting away all your worries, orange.

Yellow

Like the sunshine on Hope’s skin as they laughed in the park, hours disappearing under the sun, yellow. Like the water bottles filled with too-sweet lemonade, yellow. Like the checkered blanket they lay on, sprawled across it and speaking softly beneath the sky, yellow.

“Ooh, look at that one!” Hope pointed at the sky, index finger outstretched toward a cloud floating in the distance. It was filled with them, the white blending with pale blue as they floated above the world, unbothered by the affairs of the ground.

Rosie’s eyes scanned futilely, following Hope’s finger to the expansive sky, “Where?”

“There!”

“Hope,” Rosie laughed, a lightness in her heart, “there’s like a hundred clouds, I need specifics.”

With a sigh, Hope’s hand wrapped around Rosie’s, their fingers tangled together as she gestured above and to the left. She angled Rosie’s finger, slipping closer on the picnic blanket to direct her line of sight. “That one,” her voice was quieter as she squeezed the hand in hers.

The breath left Rosie’s lungs at their proximity, at the gentleness always present in Hope’s voice, but especially so now. She tore her gaze from the warmth in Hope’s cheeks to search the sky, finally finding the shaped cloud. “A heart?”

“Mmhmm,” Hope hummed, squeezing her hand once more.

“Cute.”

“I know, right?” Hope turned briefly, her face still set in a bright grin before she was back to staring at the sky and all it held within it.

But Rosie wasn’t paying attention to the sky anymore, she hadn’t been for a while. Her eyes were glued to the smile on Hope’s face, the way her eyes flitted from cloud to cloud, the way her bottom lip slipped between her teeth, the way she refused to release Rosie’s hand.

“Do you come here often?” she supplied to fill the silence, breaking a tension only she may have felt.

Hope’s gaze flicked back to her, sparkled with amusement.“Is that a line?”

“Just making conversation.”

Hope chuckled beneath her breath, turning back to the puffs in the painted sky. “Not really. Used to when I was younger, but you know… Classes, work, responsibilities… They don’t really leave time for an afternoon of watching clouds float past.”

“Do you wish you could do this more?”

“Always.”

“Then I’m glad I could help, even just a little,” Rosie grinned, easy and relaxed as she nudged Hope’s shoulder with her own.

“Me too.”

Rosie settled back, letting the blues and whites and greys and yellows of the day fill her eyesight, a collision of pastel colours before her dark eyes. Occasionally, Hope’s hand would brush her own, or her elbow would nudge Rosie as she shifted, and every time it was like a shot of sunshine right into her veins, stronger than pure adrenaline.

“It’s getting kind of dark,” Hope mumbled after a long stretch of silence, a quiet only disrupted by the occasional murmur.

Rosie’s lashes had fluttered shut, the soft breeze and noise of the park enough to lose herself in. “The forecast said no rain,” she answered, followed by a groan as she stretched her limbs on the checkered blanket.

“You sure?”

Rosie shrugged, “That’s what the weather girl said.”

“Which weather girl?”

“That annoying one, Blaire or something.”

“You trust the annoying weather girl?”

“I trust science,” Rosie retorted. “Also that Swedish news anchor. He trusts her, and I trust him. He’s very trustworthy, I’ll have you know,” she elbowed Hope to accentuate her point.

Hope sighed, reluctantly mumbling out an agreement, “Alright.”

Everything stilled once more, their little corner of the park unbothered by the rest of the whirring world. Rosie’s arm rose to cover her face and block out the lessening sunlight, the day seeming to have spent both her energy and the available sunlight.

A drop pinged Rosie’s forearm as it lay overtop her face, a prick on her skin. Then another. And another. Until raindrops began to soak her skin, her clothes, the blanket that was beneath her and Hope.

“Shit!” Rosie sprung to her feet blindly, scrambling as the onslaught of water kept coming, and coming.

Hope was in a struggle to get to her feet as well, grabbing wildly at discarded water bottles, phones, a jacket - whatever lay in her reach. “Get the stuff! Get the stuff!”

“I am, I am!” Rosie grabbed the checkered blanket, shoved it into the backpack she had brought along as Hope piled up the little containers of snacks.

Digging in her own bag, Hope blinked up at Rosie in a brief panic, “Hurry!”

“Would you -?” Rosie swatted at her with the edge of the blanket, her words dying as she dissolved into laughter.

“Rosie!” she chided, waving away the swat as she finally found what she was looking for. She stood straight, shrugging her bag over her shoulder and fiddling with the object she pulled from it.

“C’mon!” the taller woman laughed, “This is funny! We get one afternoon to ourselves and it literally rains on our parade!” she gestured around, spinning to encompass the whole park in the motion, every drop of rain spilling down on it. “That’s funny!”

Hope’s lips pressed together in a smile as she stepped forward, opening an umbrella and bringing it up to cover their heads. The bright yellow fabric echoed with each falling drop, but it was enough to prevent their soaked clothing from worsening.

“A little late for that,” Rosie chuckled from within her chest, heaving her hefty bag up her shoulder.

“Better late than never.” Hope paused, pursing her lips to the side as her free hand rose, brushing off a piece of wet grass from Rosie’s chest. Her touch lingered, the heel of her hand resting lightly.

“Hmm?” Rosie questioned wordlessly.

Hope’s fingers tightened in the front of her shirt, determination sparking in her eyes. “You want to go out sometime? For coffee, or lunch, or dinner?”

“I thought we already did that?” Rosie teased with a small smile.

“We do… But I was thinking it’d be a little different this time.” Hope’s eyes shimmered as they met Rosie’s from beneath heavy lashes, rain still shining like diamonds on them, on every part of her face.

Rosie smiled at the suggestive tone of the words, her expression so wide and bright, brighter than the umbrella held over their heads. “That sounds nice,” she feigned a casualty that wasn’t there, the smile lines around her mouth a dead giveaway.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, wet hair framing her face.

Hope’s face broke out in a smile to match Rosie’s, unrestrained under the transparent yellow umbrella over their heads. “Come on, then,” her hand slipped into the other girl’s, and she tugged Rosie towards a nearby awning, hands swinging lightly between them.

Like the shirt plastered to Rosie’s skin, soaked and damp, yellow. Like the umbrella that sheltered them from the storm, a brilliant, shining safety net, yellow. Like the happiness in her chest, bubbling and pounding inside her, yellow.

Green

Like the smile on Hope’s lips, as lively as a budding flower, green. Like the backdrop behind her, the painted walls and masses of house plants, green. Like the nausea that swirled in Rosie’s gut, foul and unsettling, green.

She lurched forward, stumbling to her feet before she darted across the flat towards the bathroom, slamming the door shut just as she collapsed to her knees. She retched, fingers gripping the edge of the toilet as bile stung at her throat.

With a moan, she slumped against the seat, eyes fluttered shut as a pounding in her head drowned out most of the flat. The brief ordeal weighed down her limbs, left her exhausted and drained on the bathroom floor.

“Hey, Rosie?” broke through her haze, a gentle question from the other side of the door.

She sighed, groaning out a “Hmm?”

“You okay in there?”

“Just peachy,” she chuckled weakly.

There was a brief pause before Hope’s voice returned, hesitant but laced with a caring that warmed Rosie’s heart, cleared her head momentarily. “I’m going to come in,” she announced, the knob twisting.

Rosie groaned once more in response, slumped against the toilet with her hair spilled over her shoulder in a messy flow. Her shirt now hung off her body awkwardly, a thin sweat having begun to coat her skin.

A cautious hand found her shoulder, squeezing lightly as Hope settled beside her, careful not to jostle her. “Are you sick?” her fingers delicately brushed over Rosie’s face as she spoke, tucking a stray braid behind her ear, her thumb running lightly over her cheek.

“No, I’m healthy as a horse, that’s why I’m voluntarily sitting with my face in the toilet,” Rosie bit back, more heat in the tone than ever before.

Hope huffed, her hand retracting from Rosie’s face and the taller woman immediately regretting the harshness of her previous words. “Quit with that for a second, would you?”

“Sorry,” she mumbled, turning to press her cheek in the crook of her elbow.

“It’s okay, just…” a sigh drooped Hope’s shoulders as she softly pressed the back of her hand to Rosie’s forehead. “What happened? Did you eat something bad? Were you sick earlier?” Her hand brushed over Rosie’s face repeatedly until she was swatted away.

“I don’t know,” Rosie brushed her off, pushing upright and slumping forward. “I was fine, I swear.”

“Do you need anything?” the smaller of the two continued to fuss, eyes searching for a visible cause of the crease between Rosie’s brows. “Oh - I’ll get water, I’ll go -” She awkwardly jumped up, bouncing back and forth on her feet in uncertainty for the girl on the floor before darting out the door.

She returned a few moments later, dropping back to the tile floor with a bottle of water and damp washcloth in her hands. “Rinse,” she instructed gently, pressing the bottle into Rosie’s grasp.

And she did as told, taking a swig and swishing it around her mouth before she spat into the toilet bowl. She repeated it a few more times before she scooted away, her thigh brushing Hope’s as her head dropped to Hope’s shoulder.

With her palm softly tracing Rosie’s spine, Hope didn’t dare move for a long moment. “You okay there?” she whispered, exhale brushing along Rosie’s forehead.

“Except for the spinning…” her head rolled in a tiny circle gesture, “everything, yes.”

“Can you stand?” Hope shifted onto her knees, still supporting Rosie’s weight carefully.

“I vomited, I didn’t break a leg.”

“What did I say about the sarcasm?” she sighed, “I’m just trying to help.”

“I know,” a groan fell from Rosie’s mouth, from deep in her throat as she slumped forward, head landing in her hands. “And I’m being an arse. Yes, I can stand.” She finally opened her eyes, looking up at Hope with a strained gaze.

Hope stood fully, offering her hands with a wiggle of her fingers, “Come on, then,” she urged.

Rosie moaned again, but placed her palms on Hope’s all the same. She let herself be gently tugged to her feet and led back into the living room of Hope’s flat, let herself be pushed into sitting back down and laying back, her eyelids fluttering shut.

Hope’s palm on her shoulder was a steady weight, a warmth soaking through to her skin. “Stay put,” and all too soon that weight disappeared as Hope stepped away from the sofa.

“Can I just go home?” Rosie asked, knowing full well she would never be granted permission to leave when she could barely keep her eyes open.

“No, you live alone,” Hope called over her shoulder, striding in the direction of the kitchen. “If you leave I can’t take care of you.”

“I’m not a baby.”

“You’re right. Babies don’t complain as much.”

“Are you saying you’d trade me for a baby?”

“Oh, never. You don’t have snot running down your face at the very least,” her voice echoed from the kitchen, familiar and playful in Rosie’s ears. “...If I come in there and there’s snot -!”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Rosie!” Hope’s chiding voice rang from the kitchen, alongside a loud, panicked clatter, which only served to provide Rosie with a brief laughing fit.

“I’d never,” her laughter died, replaced by an amused smile grounded in the comfort of the situation. “I think you’d break my nose before I got the chance.”

“Don’t even think about it and you’ll never have to find out.”

“Mmm,” Rosie hummed in acknowledgment, sinking further into the cushions of the sofa as Hope’s pleasant voice occasionally called out to her, alongside clatters and thuds.

Her lashes flickered open, blinking to clear the fleeting sleep from them as Hope stood over her, hands on her hips. “I was trying to make you soup, but you’re going right to bed.”

“I don’t live here,” she murmured without a thought, the imposing woman above her having stripped her of them.

“I know. Now, up.”

Hope pulled her to her feet again, let Rosie lean her bodyweight against her in her sick and sleepy haze as she was guided to Hope’s bedroom and directed to the bed. Hope yanked back the neatly made duvet, allowing Rosie to slip beneath it.

The bed dipped as Hope joined her on the edge, tracing her nail over her scalp, the hinge of her jaw, the length of her neck. Over, and over again, until the sleep that weighed Rosie down stole her again, until she could only manage a mumbled, “Thank you.”

Like the soft explosion of colour on her shut eyelids, flowing in whatever direction the light is pulled in, green. Like the doting nails as they ghosted along her skin, sweet and full of love, green. Like the peace now swirling in her once foul gut, green.

Blue

Like the rain falling from the dark clouds outside, blue. Like the melancholy that permeated the air as Rosie opened the door, blue. Like the tears in the corners of Hope’s eyes as she fought against the pressure behind them, blue.

Hope shouldered her way into the flat and into the living room, dropping herself onto the sofa before she sucked in a deep breath. “You can’t move,” her voice cracked as it escaped from her, each syllable heavy with sorrow.

Crossing the room, Rosie collapsed beside her, gaze stuck to her hands as she felt Hope’s bored into the side of her face. “Why not?” she mumbled beneath her breath, one nail picking the woven bracelet resting on her wrist.

“‘Cause I’ll miss you.”

She sighed heavily, twitching beneath Hope’s piercing eyes. “I’ll miss you too, but I kinda have to,” she shrugged, everything feeling useless in the moment. Everything had felt useless since that morning, since she had first told Hope and they had first begun this odd dance.

“It’s not the same.”

“Sure it is.”

“No, no it’s not,” Hope insisted, a spark in her voice as her own hands fidgeted wildly, unease seeping in every corner of the flat. “You’ll - You’ll be doing your thing, without me there, and I’ll be doing my thing without you here, and we’ll be in our little worlds and won’t - won’t realise until it’s too late and we… you know.” She fell off at the end, her bottom lip slipping between her teeth to worry it.

“Hope,” Rosie sighed, a hand dragging down her face, “We’re not gonna break up.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“How? How can you possibly know what’ll happen if you leave?” Hope’s features crumpled, deep creases marking worry lines.

“Hope…”

“Rosie, look at me.” She took Rosie’s hands, thumbs nervously circling her knuckles as her eyes poured into the dark irises across from her. “I know you, and I know me. I know I’m not good at being apart, and I know you get caught up in the moment. I adore that about you, I really do, but it’s also the most annoying thing imaginable.”

“Wha - Hey!” A surprised laugh bubbled out of Rosie, a bright smile gracing her features for the first time in the night.

“See?” A small smile illuminated Hope’s own expression, “Now you can’t go ‘cause you have to stay to get back at me.” The smile dissipated, replaced by a tight grip on Rosie’s hands. “Please don’t go.”

“I have to. Seriously,” Rosie squeezed back. “My mum… she needs me back home right now.”

Hope sagged, disheartened, letting her forehead bump into Rosie’s shoulder. “You’re too stubborn.”

Rosie snorted, “Says you. You showed up at my door at three in the morning.” Her arm wrapped around Hope without a thought, unconsciously urging her closer.

“I’m not stubborn, I’m romantic.”

“Yeah?” a chuckle vibrated throughout Rosie’s chest, “Then romance me.”

Hope visibly brightened, turning her head to smile into Rosie’s neck. “I’ll buy you roses tomorrow. Roses for my Rose,” she giggled radiantly.

“Cute,” Rosie hummed, her palm circling along her partner’s back.

“I thought so,” she preened.

Rosie inhaled deeply, rolling her neck to crack it before she fell backward suddenly. She held out her hands, making a grabbing motion at a slightly confused Hope. “C’mere,” waved relentlessly, until Hope gave in with a grin.

She shuffled forward, collapsing atop Rosie with a contented sigh, her head on the taller woman’s chest, right above her softly beating heart. She dragged her fingers up and down Rosie’s ribs, every breath of Hope’s a whisper along her skin.

“I didn’t think you ever wanted to leave London anyhow?” she exhaled after they settled, inquiring with nudge to Rosie’s chin.

“I didn’t. Not for forever, at least.”

“So you’ll come back to me?”

Rosie stalled, avoiding eye contact as she stared up at the ceiling. “...At some point.”

A frown dipped Hope’s lips almost instantaneously, “I don’t like the sound of that. That sounds like - like…” she struggled for words, her features pinched. “Like a goodbye with extra steps.”

“Nope,” Rosie’s head shook adamantly, finally meeting Hope’s gaze with a resolve in her own. “We’re not saying goodbye, I promise you that.”

That quieted Hope, her lashes fluttered shut as her hand on Rosie’s abdomen stilled. The flat went still as well, undisturbed in the late hour as light, nimble fingers traced a circle around her hip.

“What if I went with you?” Hope’s voice cracked the silence in half, shattering it like glass and simultaneously freezing it deeper into her bones.

There was no response, and she glanced up to find Rosie gawking, blinking upwards in surprise. Her jaw hung open, mouth working to form words that won’t come, no matter how hard she may try. Finally, her voice squeaked out, breathless with her disbelief, “You’d… move cities… for me?”

“Yes,” Hope answered in a heartbeat, not a second of hesitation.

“Why?”

“You know why.”

At that Rosie exploded back to life, her crooked grin lifting her lips. “Nuh-uh, you gotta say it,” she teased, her eyes burning with excitement.

“You’re the worst, you know that?” Hope laughed, fond exasperation filling her as she shook her head.

“Say it,” Rosie urged, pestering Hope with pokes to her sides. “Say it, say it, say it.”

“The worst!” A full laugh spilled from her lips, and Rosie pressed for more and more of it, the sound addictive to her. Hope freed herself from Rosie’s grasp, from her playful jabs, and kneeled above her, taking her face in her hands.

Hope’s thumbs brushed over her cheekbones, caress delicate and soothing. “I love you and don’t want to be without you, okay?” she whispered into the space between them, a clash of brilliant eyes alighting the gap like metal sparking.

“I love you too,” she murmured back, rising to peck Hope on the nose before she settled back down. “But you don’t have to move.”

“But I want to.”

“Hope…”

“Rosie…”

Rosie shook her head, incredulous at the persistence staring her down. “You’re going to change your mind in the morning,” she warned carefully.

“I won’t.”

“And how could you know that? How could you possibly know that?” Rosie teased, repeating Hope’s previous words.

“How many times do I have to tell you I love you for you to get it?”

“I won’t complain if you say it a few more times,” Rosie joked, languidly relaxed as she danced her fingers along Hope’s skin wherever she could reach, noting the twist in the dance between them. It was as if they stuck the landing, poised and graceful, rather than on their arse like they had been earlier in the day.

“So it’s settled, then?” Hope livened, “I’m coming with you?”

Mumbling under her breath, Rosie rolled her eyes, “Incorrigible…”

The shorter woman stretched out, her body overlapping with Rosie’s as she buried herself in her side. “I’m coming whether you agree or not, you can just make this easier for the both of us.”

“Fine,” Rosie grumbled. “If you really, truly, absolutely want to move to Margate with me, I don’t think I can do much to stop you.”

“Damn right you can’t.”

Like the cushions their bodies have melted into together, blue. Like the rain streaked down window panes right outside, blue. Like the waves of calm rolling through the flat, a gentle rhythm to match their exhales as they were carefully lulled to sleep, blue.

Purple

Like the cardigan wrapped around her body, the slightest amount too big, purple. Like the sandals padding along sand, feet running down the length of the beach, purple. Like the sky as the sun sets on the horizon, fading watercolours painted across the clouds, purple.

“Slow down, slow down!” Hope lamely chased after Rosie on the beach, her shoes sinking into the sand with each step.

“Not my fault you wore heels,” Rosie called over her shoulder, walking quickly down the shoreline as she tugged her cardigan closer to her body. A breeze swept over the waves, cold grazing her skin.

Hope’s bottom lip popped out in a pout, her legs working to free the sharp heels stuck in sand. “I was trying to look nice for date night.”

“You always look nice, you don’t need heels.”

“Aw,” Hope cooed, grinning at the taller woman. “Wait, seriously, stop,” she forced Rosie to retrace a few steps, her hand gripped in Rosie’s sleeve for balancing. She bounced on one foot as she tugged her heels off one by one, burying her toes in the smooth sand when they were freed. “Okay, now you get to hold them,” Hope smiled, jutting her arm out as the shoes dangled from her fingers.

“What? Why me?”

“You brought me here, it’s your fault I can’t walk anymore.” Hope swung the shoes, imploring them to be taken from her grasp.

“I brought you here to be romantic and you’ve spent the whole time complaining about your feet,” Rosie grumbled, but despite her protests, she took the outstretched shoes in one hand and offered Hope her other, tugging her along as soon as their palms met.

With her feet bare, Hope matched pace, sidling up to Rosie’s side and linking their arms. “Thank you, by the way,” she sighed softly, her cheek pressing to the woven fabric of Rosie’s cardigan. “It’s gorgeous out here.”

Rosie grinned cheekily, her chest puffed out for a joke, “Not as -”

“Gorgeous as me?” Hope interjected, head tilted as she peered up bemusedly.

“I was going to say the heels, but you too.”

“I can’t believe I’m dating you,” Hope groaned, burying her face further in pale purple fabric.

“Yeah, that was a really bad call on your part,” Rosie laughed loudly, squeezing the arm looped in hers tightly.

“I guess you have some good moments. Like when you buy me flowers, or take me to dinner on my night off, or bring me to the beach,” Hope emphasised her point by kicking up a small cloud of sand. “And that was only tonight. Are you up to something?” she joked, squinting up in faux suspicion.

Rosie avoided her gaze, turning to the horizon and softly setting sun instead. It’s rays stretched as far as the eye can see, basking the world in brilliant colour and reflecting off the rolling waves of the sea.

Hope’s jaw fell open, eyes scanning Rosie for any semblance of an answer, “Oh my god, you are. What is it? What’s this all about?”

With a halfhearted shrug, Rosie feigned nonchalance, “Just… setting the mood.”

Hope planted her feet, burying her toes in the sand and pulled on her partner’s sleeve as she continued walking, yanking her back. “Tell me or I’m not moving.”

“I had this whole thing planned, and now you’re trying to blackmail me into spoiling it?” Rosie chuckled, letting herself be reeled in by her baggy sleeve.

“Yep. Now tell me.”

A sigh broke from Rosie’s lips, “And you always called me stubborn. Okay, just -” she shook out her shoulders, rolling her neck. “Give me a minute, I thought I’d have more time.”

With a slight frown, Hope crossed her arms over her chest, but she obliged nevertheless. She watched Rosie drop the heels in her hand and fidget restlessly, fingers adjusting her cardigan, her dress, her hair. Until they slipped into her purse, digging around for a brief second before drawing out a small box.

It’s rolled in Rosie’s palms, her hands never stilling as long as it's in her grasp. She takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “The day I met you was… honestly, it was pretty embarrassing,” Rosie grinned, as crooked as ever. “But you didn’t hold it against me. And… that’s probably the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Probably?” Hope’s eyebrow quirked, her hip jutting out to the side in objection.

The taller woman glared up from beneath her long lashes, “You want the heartfelt speech or not?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Hope’s hands waved placatingly. “Please, continue.”

“Right, okay,” Rosie nodded, rebuilding her courage. “You are more than I ever expected and more special than I first thought. Every day I’ve known you has been better than the last, and it’s like - like brighter? Like everything’s just more colourful now, and I don’t know what you did, but I love you for it,” she grinned, bashful for once, with a blush dusting her cheeks.

“And I know this is a long time coming, but better late than never right?” she chuckled softly beneath her breath, eyes trained on the sand as the flush in her cheeks grew. “So I just have to ask, if after everything, you’d be willing to stick around and keep making everything brighter?”

Tears glittered in Hope’s eyes, a shine coating them as she sucked in a trembling breath. Her fingers carefully covered Rosie’s, a thumb traced the small rock embedded in the ring as she watched it shine in the low light.

Rosie shifted from foot to foot, staring down at the ring with a miniscule frown. “It’s not much, but…”

“It’s perfect,” Hope cut her off before she could finish, voice as sweet as ever. “Perfect,” she repeated as she gently took it from Rosie’s hands, slipping it on her finger. She turned it over carefully, movements as graceful as ever to Rosie’s peering gaze.

Abruptly, Hope’s arms curled around her waist, face burying in her shoulder. Rosie reciprocated without a thought, squeezing tight. “You know, I think I need an answer,” she breathed into Hope’s skin, lips slowly split into a smile.

“Oh!” Hope darted backwards, hands aimlessly fumbling until they landed on Rosie’s jaw, cupping her face warmly. “Yes! God, yes. I’m - I’m here to stay,” she beamed. “Always.”

Rosie’s forehead bumped against Hope’s, arms wound around her torso. “I told you no goodbyes, didn’t I?”

“You are ever true to your word,” she tapped the side of Rosie’s nose teasingly before retracting, rubbing her arms to warm them. “Come on, let’s go; I’m freezing out here,” she bounced on her feet expectantly.

“Yeah, the beach was more romantic in my head,” Rosie chuckled, tugging her cardigan off her body to drape it over Hope’s shoulders.

Taking the gifted cardigan, Hope turned on her heel, leading the way from the chilling breeze sweeping over the sea. She hooked her arm through Rosie’s once again as they walked in silence, a comfortable silence. It’s carried along the breeze, relaxed as the lapping waves that grow more and more distant.

“I still appreciate it,” Hope commented as they came to a stop by their car, folding her arms as she leaned against it, lavender wool dripping from her arms.

“The beach or the ring?”

“I can appreciate both.

Rosie laughed brightly, hooking an arm around Hope’s waist to draw her in. Her smile softened, from a burning wildfire to a fireplace, there to keep you warm and safe more than anything. Hope’s arms snaked around her neck in response, their bodies melding in a way that was more natural to them than breathing.

“Look at you,” Rosie whispered in private awe, her breath ghosted along Hope’s lips as one nail traced the curves shaping them.

Hope’s own smile was serene, full of her own hominess, “What do you see?”

With her gaze filled with nothing but the face before her, tracing over every bump and dip in skin, every line and colour in gleaming irises, she breathed, “Everything.”

Like the deep of the creeping night, stars glittering within the gradient of the sky, purple. Like the future laid out before them, infinite possibilities but an amethyst sitting at the centre of it all, purple. Like the feeling of contentment, peace swirling in the pit of your stomach, purple.

#ignore that this isn't roy g big lmao #i couldn't be bothered to do the accurate version #litg fanfic #litg hope #hope x mc #rosie mwendwa #hdn #idk how to tag #but thats nothing new #i had fun with the tumble text colours lmao #also i feel like i’m really bad at writing hope but i’m just gonna roll with it

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commie-eschatology · 3 years

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Return to Redcliffe

particularly proud of this Solas + Trevelyan scene from “Return to Redcliffe” so gonna do some shameless self-promotion. Ao3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/33444538

When all her companions are asleep, Trevelyan leaves the Inquisition camp. She isn’t sure if she’ll come back. Someone is clearly following her, but she ignores that for now. The road back to Redcliffe stretches in front of her, but she hesitates. This is an extraordinary bad idea, she tells herself, but when has that ever stopped her? Lydia used to complain about her tendency to just act on desire alone. But Lydia is dead, she tells herself, you broke her head open with your staff until her brains spilled all over the floor. You killed the woman who raised you, only for the rebellion to sell themselves into slavery. ` In the woods, she stumbles upon a templar caravan. Very fortunate for her, very unfortunate for them. Their screams echo through the Ferelden forest; she imagines getting incinerated from inferno magic would hurt quite a bit, but it’s certainly not her problem. Trevelyan leaps onto the, now empty, wagon, and finds a crate of apples. She takes a few bites of one and monologues, “I rebel, therefore I am,” to the half eaten piece of fruit.

There’s groaning from underneath the wheels, and a jumble of words that vaguely sound like “what the fuck?” so she asks, “Sorry, are you still alive down there?” There’s no response, so in the interest of being thorough, she throws a fireball at the voice. The smell of burnt flesh follows, so she assumes it got the job done, but then again, Ferelden usually smells like that. Really not a terrible scent, she considers. Or perhaps she’s just gone mad.

Trevelyan looks at the Mark on her hand- staying with the Inquisition is the clever choice, she tells herself. Only she can close the rifts, after all. The rebels have been utterly defeated, the movement badly needs allies if it’s to survive. Still, her logic feels cold and hollow. The Venatori ships are already in Redcliffe harbor. She asks herself, how many will be shipped up to the Imperium in chains, in just the time it takes to travel between the Hinterlands and Haven?

Fire burns underneath the wagon. It’s always been fire for Trevelyan- burning the family manor during a childhood nightmare, cremating Lydia’s mangled corpse with her own spells, and, most recently, incinerating more templars than she can count. It’s the same fire that she could use to burn those Tevinter slave ships tonight- despite Fiona and Linnea’s betrayal, she has no doubt that at least a few of her people would join her.

“Do you want to keep staring at me from the woods then?” she asks the person shadowing her. Solas steps out from the shadows, clearly surprised at being discovered, but he tries not to let it show. He’s usually far more subtle, she doesn't doubt she could be more stealthy if he wanted, but he clearly believes everyone around him is an utter idiot. Fair enough, she supposes. He gives a slight smile, the kind that might say “well done.”

As with everyone, Solas projects emotions into the Fade- but his are more tightly moderated than any other mage she’s ever seen. Now though, Trevelyan sees a wave of complex feelings she can barely sort through, radiating from him: rage at the Tevinters, intense all-consuming fear of something she can’t sense, great sadness for something lost, but all controlled, and directed by conscious purpose.

“These woods are dangerous,” he says, characteristically naming the obvious, “and you have the only means of closing the rifts.” He regards her for a moment. “I apologize if I intruded. You have proven yourself a capable fighter, but I have found it is far too easy to make rash mistakes when one is alone.” His actual meaning is not lost on her: don’t be an idiot and run, is what he wants to say.

He adds, “And in my defense, you did just eviscerate an entire troop of men.” She expects him to ask her why, but he doesn’t; apparently needing no explanation for her small act of rebellion.

“They were templars,” she explains anyways, “most are awful. The others just look away when the Circle rapes happen. Honestly, I’ve always preferred the former.”

“I can’t disagree with you,” Solas says, “my few interactions with templars have been... unpleasant. Either they are accustomed to following the worst orders, as you have said, or they just enjoy inflicting pain, especially upon those without recourse.” There is clear contempt and disgust in his voice, it’s as if he’s speaking from experience.

“That’s why we rebelled,” she says, taking another bite of the apple, “also, I was hungry. Inquisition rations weren’t doing it.” Solas actually laughs. Trevelyan idly wonders when murder became so casual for her. Kill the woman who raised you, and everyone else becomes easy, she supposes.

There’s a short, but not awkward, silence between them. She knows exactly why he is here, to prevent her from defecting back to the rebels, but his presence is, surprisingly, not unwelcome. They haven’t had much time to talk like this; the conversations they’ve had have so far been in either the shadow of Haven’s Chantry, or on the road with Cassandra.

She motions to the adjacent seat on the wagon. To her surprise, he nods, and walks, or more accurately, struts over, butt wiggle and all. Like most mages, he usually makes himself seem as small as possible, scuttling rather than walking, but unlike the rest, it’s almost as if he has to consciously remind himself to do so.

Solas likes questions, she reminds herself, so ask one. He jumps up on the wagon, and she says, “do you like apples?”

Solas doesn’t even blink. “Apples were first domesticated in this part of the world.” How the fuck does he even know that, she wonders. “I saw a memory once, of a horde of human barbarians, desperately defending a part of these woods they held sacred, from the legions of the Imperium. When the barbarians were slain, the Tevinters marched forward, only to find a simple apple orchard, one which hundreds gave their lives to protect.” He takes one out of the crate, and takes a bite. “However, if you were asking about the taste- no, I detest apples.” He takes another bite. “This one in particular tastes sort of like burnt human flesh.”

“Dying for a lost cause. You really never miss an opportunity to make a point, do you?” she says, “also, how do you even know what burnt human flesh tastes like?”

Solas smiles mischievously. “I don’t like to waste words,” he says. The other point he is suspiciously quiet on. I don’t judge, Trevelyan thinks, you go eat as much flesh as you like, Solas.

His words are somewhat slurred, and she smells something in the air, besides the burning templars of course. She recognizes it as the unmistakable stench of peach whiskey, suspiciously similar to the bottle she had nicked from Dennet yesterday. Solas seems to notice and says, “Master Dennet had many such bottles wasting away on the shelf. He will not miss one, or two, I suppose.” He shrugs.

On the topic, she notices a small bottle of ale in one of the templar crates; the cork is stuck when she pulls on it, so she simply uses a bit of force magic to smash the top of the bottle off. It smells absolutely wretched, and tastes even worse, but she drinks it anyway. Solas watches her, possibly judging her, but he’s always hard to read. “Been a shit day,” she explains. Linnea said, go back to your templars. Fuck her. Tevinter apologist. Shockingly flat ass. Terrible kisser.

“Was today your first time in Redcliffe?” she asks. Solas chuckles softly to himself, apparently a joke only he understands.

“A long time ago, before your rebellion,” he says, “it’s changed since, of course. But I assume you’re asking my opinion on the rebel mages, rather than the settlement itself.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Despair sticks to most of the mages like gnats.” He’s right, during the retreat from the Free Marches, every morning some mages wouldn’t wake up, taken by Despair demons in their sleep. And the war has only gotten worse. She can’t even imagine. “Still, they endure. Their fight against oppression is admirable, and utterly hopeless.” , “Hopeless?” Trevelyan raises an eyebrow. She should be angry, but more than anything she feels exhausted. “You seem rather certain.”

“Of course I am.” he says, matter of fact. Trevelyan picked up some dalish during the rebellion; she’s not ignorant as to the meaning of his name. “In my journeys through the Fade, I have seen countless rebellions rise up, confident in the just nature of their cause, only to be crushed mercilessly. Righteousness, unfortunately, is no match against steel.” Good poetry. She’ll give him that.

“And, yet, Recliffe is still standing,” she says, “for the first time in a thousand years, in this part of the world, mages govern ourselves. No templars. No Chantry. We built that. Isn’t that freedom worth defending?” Trevelyan spent most of her life in the Circle. No price can be too great, she thinks.

“You forget you aren’t speaking to Cassandra or Varric. We do not disagree on the necessity of rebellion,” he smiles, just a bit, mostly to himself, “but, in order for a rebellion to win its immediate demands, as well has change what it is possible in the long term, something you once told me that you seek to do, they must do one thing.” He pauses for dramatic effect, and honestly it works. “They must win.”

“Even failed revolutions can teach lessons,” she says, the only dogma she’s ever needed to believe in, “no matter what Varric says, the mage rebellion didn’t manifest spontaneously.” She thinks of the thousand year struggle for freedom, and what feels like generations of the dead on her shoulders. In the distance, Trevelyan can just make out the flag of the Venatori, waving from the ramparts of Redcliffe. The ships are not far behind.

“No,” Solas says, suddenly melancholy, “or if they do, it is always the wrong lessons.” He’s silent for a long moment, staring into the ground. “I saw a memory once in the Fade. A man who sought to overthrow a tyrant. Then, a half-hearted assassination attempt, tailored for drama, instead of results. It of course failed. The man himself was burned alive, defiant at first, but when the flames reached his body, when his skin began to melt off, he screamed for mercy that never came.”

Trevelyan takes a long drink. Solas adds, eerily calm, “In the end, martyrdom is just melted flesh upon a wooden stake, and a name utterly forgotten.” She drains the rest of the bottle.

“I killed my mother,” she says, suddenly, without really meaning to, “when the Circle was annulled, I tried to give her the courtesy of a quick spell, but the tower wards blocked magic so…” she makes a motion with her staff “I, well, had improvise.”

“Your first murder?” he asks. She shakes her head. Definitely not. “If you want absolution, I’m not the person to give it.”

“Oh fuck no, I’m not Andrastian,” Trevelyan scoffs, and Solas chuckles softly. The Andrastians think they can solve all the world’s evils, all their many personal failings, through a song. It’s childish. Besides, Trevelyan would rather hold onto her sins for now- keep them close like a badge of honor. She looks down at the dead templars, corpses bathed in green light from her Mark.

“I don’t regret it,” she says, and she thinks she means it, “not if it served a purpose.” Trevelyan looks again towards Redcliffe, and thinks, everything I am, I owe to them. “In just the time it takes to travel back to Haven, how many will already be on the ships?”

“Likely a few dozen,” Solas answers, “there will be far more, thousands, if these Venatori are not defeated, which is a battle only the Inquisition has the resources to win. It is fortunate, then, that you have a position where you can speak on behalf of the rebel mages.”

The sun begins to rise, bathing the forest in dim orange light. “We should get back then ,” she forces herself to say, though every word is like a block of lead. Solas exhales in relief.

“One final thing,” she says as Solas moves to get up. She looks at her counterpart, studying him best she can, sensing his projections into the Fade. He’s unlike any other apostate she’s ever met, and there’s something about him she can’t quite put her finger on, much less vocalize. “You know quite a bit about rebellions,” she says.

“I have seen much in my travels,” he says, pausing as he considers his next words, “and you could say I had a dramatic youth.”

“One I’d be interested in hearing about,” she says, genuinely. “Especially if it involves more surprisingly melancholy stories about apple domestication.” Solas seems taken aback for a moment, but recovers quickly, chucking politely at her joke. He then smiles quietly to himself.

The two apostates return to the Inquisition camp, though Trevelyan keeps Redcliffe in her sight for as long as she can.

Ao3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/33444538

#dragon age #solas #f!trevelyan #tara trevelyan #mage trevelyan #mage rights #mage rebellion #enchanter lydia #redcliffe #hinterland #dragon age inquisition #in your heart shall burn

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haro-whumps · 4 years

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Box Boy Order Form

(Inspired by @shameless-whumper and @sweetwhumpandhellacomf

CW: slavery, brainwashing, dehumanization, implied noncon)

Ren knew, Ren knew that the reason companies sent out free products to popular youtubers was to get fans to buy said products. Ren knew that. And they absolutely hated that it was working. They loved Host, they’d been an avid follower since well before Colton had entered the picture, but nooooow.

Ugh.

It wasn’t like they couldn’t. Ren was a real momma’s-child, and had the vast depths of her pockets at their disposal, plus the job they’d inherited--pardon, utilized their connections in order to acquire--paid well. And the way Host played with Colton, it just looked so… terribly fun.

So here Ren was, staring down a couple different websites, filtering their searches and scrolling through half-mindlessly, @just-horrible-things‘ unboxing video playing as a quiet form of background noise. Ren had been consuming all sorts of Box Boy unboxing videos ever since Host had done it, and it just made the itch of want worse and worse.

They almost scrolled past him.

It was the hair, hilariously enough, that made them double take, scrolling back up so the top half was re-exposed on their screen, and then they just stared, disbelieving, for a long moment, eyes locked on the image. That was Soren. Ren clicked on the thumbnail and clicked through the pictures, zooming in on the birthmark on his jaw. That was definitely Soren.

Sweet Soren, gentle Soren, darling precious Soren who’d had a hard time of it when they were teenagers. Soren had always been so nice to everyone he met, with the most beautiful long hair, a sort of dusty gold, and heavy freckles. He’d never been proud, either, he’d never called the nice things Ren did for him charity or rejected their generosity like those other washed-up, penniless nobodies. Soren had always been grateful and thankful and sweet.

Ren had tried, really really tried, back when they were teens, but they’d been fumbling, their efforts graceless and new. They’d tried their hand at manipulating Soren, but it never seemed to stick. He’d put up with Ren’s gentle teasing and playful roughhousing, but always called Ren out whenever he felt they’d pushed too far, and trying to guilt him with how nice they’d otherwise been never worked. He’d been… too secure. Poor and a little underfed, but still confident that he’d have a warm home to go back to that night with a nice family, nice like him. Ren had never gotten him eating out of their palm like the brown-nosers and the toads. And when Ren had blown their lid when he cut his hair, he’d cut them off.

Oh, but Soren wasn’t so secure now, was he? He, ha, he wouldn’t even remember who Ren was! Oh that was perfect! A second chance. But this time, he’d love them the way they deserved, he would adore them, them exclusively. He’d grow his hair out as long as they wanted him to, nothing like the short and charming mockery staring up at them from the promotional photographs.

They put their name and credit card down on his profile the moment they stopped being shocked by that cute little birthmark, and went into the customization options.

“You don’t get to reject me this time…” Ren muttered to themself, indicating that they wanted the processors to make him grow his hair out nice and long. They probably had products that promoted hair-growth?

I’d like it if you could make him, I guess touch-starved is a good word? Clingy? Needy! Needy’s the word. I want him hanging off of me. Sweet and doe-eyed, yeah?

They opened each photograph in a new tab, and saved them to their computer. They didn’t hit buy just yet, didn’t want to send off the customization requests before they’d had a chance to specify everything.

Eager and accommodating would also be nice, though I’m sure I can train that myself if you feel like that’s going to take up too much time. But then again, I’m not exactly in a rush.

It was true, Ren hadn’t seen sweet Soren in years, but they weren’t in any hurry. They wanted this to be perfect. They pulled up Host’s unboxing video with little fawnish Colton, who didn’t even have his name yet in that one. They’d seen it a dozen times, but now they were watching it like it was a rehearsal. Soon, they’d be doing this with Soren, and he would be their Soren.

They weren’t a youtuber, personally, but Ren thought about all the unboxing videos they’d been watching and decided to order a high quality camera while they were in a spending mood. They wanted to immortalize the moments when Soren first came to them. Ren also searched for subtle “elf on the shelf” type nannycams, but discreet. They didn’t actually want Soren to know that they were recording him, that they’d be saving the footage, watching his every move, keeping it like a dragon with its hoard. They found some cute decorative pieces, the camera holes so small or seamlessly integrated into the design that Soren would never know. Plus the items themselves were cute. Ren had been thinking of adding some more decoration to their home, anyway. They hit order.

I know you keep yourselves to stringent standards of ethics, and I of course would never doubt that. But if you feel like you need to, I won’t mind if you rough him up a little during training. It might make him even more grateful to be owned by me, haha! Don’t tell him I said that though ;)

The playlist automatically went to “First day with my box boy” and Ren watched it, nerves alight. They watched Host strike Colton, their own breath catching and a pleasant little shiver crawling up their spine, imagining doing that to Soren. They would be doing that to Soren, soon. They wondered what number Soren would have, but discarded the thought. It would never matter.

Could you also please make sure he doesn’t remember his old name, at all? I know sometimes your pretty box boys have foggy memories, at least the quick turnarounds do, but I would like mine to be as blank as possible.

Host went over the positions with Colton, and Ren’s mouth watered. They’d get a whole booklet of positions they could just say and Soren would do them. When Ren told Soren position twenty-three, would he flush and hesitate? Would he smile and duck his head, loose lock of hair falling over his left eye, like how he used to do when Ren bought him roasted almonds or offered to share their fleece when it got unexpectedly cold out?

What had happened to Soren? Sure, he’d never been well-off, but it was hard to imagine life getting so hard for sweet, precious Soren that he would sign himself over to who-knew-what. He could’ve always come crawling back to Ren! They would have forgiven him for acting unreasonable, just because they got mad. He could’ve been their pet and kept his memories, if he’d only asked.

Well, too bad, Soren. He was a pet now, and people that used to know him knew. One person specifically, knew, and now, he would be theirs.

Submit order.

They grinned, and clicked.

#box boy universe #bbu #whump #locked in a box #slave #slavery #pet #brainwashing #mine #writing #Box #dehumanization #ren #soren

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welllpthisishappening · 4 years

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Welllp This is...Sports Fic

Oh hai there, internet. I hope you all are staying safe and healthy and there’s plenty of your favorite drink in your cabinets. If you, like me, miss sports, I have a vaguely shameless self-promotion for you because I have written just...a copious amount of sports-type fanfiction. Mostly Captain Swan, but I’ve started to tread into Bellarke and now arrive with this almost well-organized list.

We run the gamut here, so there’s everything from hockey to lacrosse to soccer and basketball. And, you know, if there’s something else you want to see or read about, I’m running out of features to write in the real world.

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Tripping Over the Blue Line Rating: Mature Chapters: 40

It's a transition. That's what Emma's calling it. She's transitioning from one team to another, from one coast to another and she's definitely not worried. Nope. She's fine. Really. She's promised Mary Margaret ten times already. So she got fired. Whatever. She's fine, ready to settle into life with the New York Rangers. She's got a job to do. And she doesn't care about Killian Jones, captain of the New York Rangers. At all.

He's done. One more season and he's a free agent and he's out. It's win or nothing for Killian. He's going to win a Stanley Cup and then he's going to stop being the face of the franchise and he's going to go play for some other garbage team where his name won't be used as puns in New York Post headlines. That's the plan. And Emma Swan, director of New York Rangers community relations isn't going to change that. At all.

They are both horrible liars.

More under the cut, because seriously there’s a lot

More in the Tripping Over the Blue Line Universe

We'll Take a Cup (defense) of Kindness Rating: Mature Chapters: 2

It's one night. New Year's Eve. And a whole list of rules. Because Regina might have actually lost her mind. Or maybe that's just Emma. Because they've played a million games in two days, or it's at least felt that way, and planning an outdoor practice a few weeks before the Olympics seemed like a good idea at one point. Now it just seems insane. So she's going to wear this dress and kiss her boyfriend. A lot.

He's good. Better than good. Great. The greatest. It's New Year's Day and, yeah, sure it's freezing, but Killian hasn't actually tried to push Scarlet on the Subway tracks yet so that seems like a step in the right direction. So he's a little distracted a few weeks before the Olympics, but that's fine. It's good. Or it'll be good. Eventually. Soon. In the meantime he's probably just going to kiss his girlfriend. A lot.

The PyeongChang Triple Rating: Mature Chapters 15

It’s the Olympics. The. Olympics. And Emma’s running out of post-it notes to write schedules and plans on and there are more games and more expectations and not enough time for any of it. She’s fine. Totally. Absolutely. If she could just sleep. Or stop feeling as if her knees are going to give out every time she stands up. Or get Ruby to stop staring at her like that. It’s fine. After all Killian Jones, captain of Team USA, keeps promising it will be.

He’s going to win. Again. At the Olympics. And Killian’s not nervous. Not about that. It’s hockey. He could play hockey in his sleep. Probably. He’s never tried that. But he probably could. And, sure, there are expectations and games and schedules and barely any time for what he wants to actually be doing, but winning a Gold medal isn’t bad. After all, Emma Swan, temporary New York Rangers Olympics team social media manager, keeps promising it will be.

They’re fine. They’re going to win. Together.

Going Top Shelf Rating: Mature Chapters: 20

It's more than just one season.

It's hits and goals and being the face of the franchise and events and family and road trip facts. It's on-ice injuries and off-ice dramas and weddings and cross-country flights and shouting in the stands. It's games and holidays and traditions and athletic-based superstition.

It's life and it's not just hockey and as far as Emma and Killian are concerned, that makes it even better.

A collection of 'Tripping Over the Blue Line' one shots from before, during and after the original story.

A Biscuit in the Basket

Or: the AU of the AU where Will and Belle adopt a kid

Also Blue Line one shots are under 4K stories that only get posted to Tumblr.

OTHER HOCKEY STORIES

Whistled for Icing Canon One Shot

Elsa leaves a bit of magic in the forest just outside of Storybrooke and it’s reason enough for the town to investigate. Or start up a game of hockey.

What Used to Be Limes Rating: Teen One Shot

Killian Jones is only a little worried that he’s not going to survive his first season in the NHL. With a snarky roommate and a fridge that’s barely boasting a few limes, it’s going to be a close call. At least he’s got one thing going for him: his best friend Emma Swan.

Who he just happens to be in love with.

A Rooting Interest Rating: Teen One Shot

This is all Ruby’s fault. Emma doesn’t normally work behind the bar, but Ruby’s sick and there’s something happening at the Garden this weekend and she knows she can help.

She gets behind the bar and starts making drinks and it isn’t so bad when some guy who only wants water shows up.

Or when he leaves a pretty good tip. Two tickets to the hockey game. She assumes that’s what’s happening at the Garden.

BELLARKE HOCKEY Connecting on the Wraparound Rating: Mature Chapters: 15, WIP

Bellamy Blake is exhausted.

Sick of the game that’s been at the center of his life for as long as he can remember, and the reputation he’s garnered because of it, Bellamy is desperate to get away from the ice during the NHL All-Star break. So, without much thought to what he’s doing or why he’s doing it, Bellamy heads home, to the place he thought he could never come back to.

It’s a stupid idea, really, or so Octavia has told him seventy-six times, but then Clarke Griffin is standing in front of him and her daughter is an even better skater than Bellamy is and, all of the sudden, Arkadia seems like the most important place in the world.

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BASEBALL

You Play Ball Like a Girl Rating: Mature Chapters: 47

Emma Swan had a plan. Get the story. Get the byline. Up her Twitter follower count. It was simple – she was going to take over the New York City journalism world. And she was going to do it from the sideline with a credential around her neck and a pen stuffed in her hair and a fierce determination no one was going to be able to put a dent in.It was the perfect plan.That plan just failed to factor in Killian Jones.

Sliding Down the Hill Rating: General

Emma Swan's phone rings and she makes a quick, split second decision. She keeps doing that. She makes choice after choice and change after change and, suddenly, she's crying on ESPN. That's probably the last thing she expects.

Or: A not-quite a Little League World Series AU.

Back in the Swing of Things Rating: General

The Sliding Down the Hill sequel.

Safe Upon Review Rating: General One Shot

Henry won’t stop crying. And Emma can’t sleep. Or stop worrying. And it’s snowing. Of course it’s snowing. She’s not sure what she thinks Mary Margaret can do, but she’s certain she can fix it and the drive across campus should only take ten minutes and….Mary Margaret isn’t there.

It’s the anniversary of something. And Killian is in the room by himself. With a questionable amount of takeout food. And it’s snowing. Of course it’s snowing. He’s not sure when David will get back, but he’s certain it’s too early when he hears the noise in the hall and…David isn’t there.

Step Right Up and Greet the Mets Rating: General One Shot

Emma doesn’t want to go.

It’s going to be a goddamn disaster because the Mets really aren’t that great and no one on that team will give Jacob deGrom any run support and she doesn’t want Killian to freak out when he sees Mary Margaret live and in action at Citi Field. Mary Margaret is not actually playing the game.

Mary Margaret doesn’t know that.

But none of those things seem to matter and Killian agreed to the invitation and now, a few months into a relationship that sees Emma thinking all kinds of things, they’re going to Queens. Batter up, or whatever.

Start Spreading the News Rating: Teen One Shot

Emma Swan is just looking for something that’s hers. She’s fairly certain she’s found it in New York, with a group of friends and a good job and picture frames on her apartment walls. But then the past she’s spent so long trying to ignore shows up where she least expects to find it – wearing pinstripes in right field at Yankee Stadium.

More Famous Than a Yankee Can Rating: Teen One Shot

The sequel to Start Spreading the News from Killian’s POV

Batting a Thousand Rating: Teen One Shot

If asked, Emma would promise she doesn’t mean to start dating her brother’s sworn baseball enemy. But she also knows David didn’t mean to hit Killian that one time in college and, well, you can’t predict baseball.

and it’s subsequent Tumblr-only one shot sequels

Puppy Love The Yankees host an adoption event. Killian wants to adopt a puppy.

The One Where They Elope Basically what’s on the tin.

Pace of Play

She can’t believe she’s never noticed it before. Because, honestly, Emma can’t even come up with a number to try and calculate how often she’s watched Killian step into the batters box. And that’s the thing. He never really steps out, either. It’s a weird approach, but that could be the subheadline for their lives at this point and she’s mostly concerned with the power behind that swing.

A Long-Standing Rivalry Killian and David start buying the other’s kid merch for the opposing team. It’s absurd.

Hitting Against the Shift Rating: Teen One Shot

She has no idea how this works. She doesn’t know what’s a hit or what’s an error or how, exactly, to cope with the way he looks in those pants. Seriously, they’re good pants.

But when Killian showed up at her door that morning, promising “we just need someone to play, love,” Emma couldn’t figure out a reason to say no. So, here she is, playing the game on the field and off it, with half a hope and, honestly, far too many thoughts about his pants.

She’s a mess, really.

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LACROSSE

Playing Man Down Rating: Teen Chapters: Two

Emma’s boyfriend, ex-boyfriend, thank you very much, makes the incredibly large mistake of telling she shouldn’t want to coach at the prestigious lacrosse camp he’s working at this summer. So, she sets out to prove girls can check just as well as guys.

Even if she’s not admitting she’s a girl.

Or: a “She’s the Man” AU, but with lacrosse

Marking Up Rating: Teen One Shot

Killian had no expectations going in.

Mostly, he’s just made his teammates stole his phone. But then that leads to this and a date and Emma Swan and...she doesn’t know anything about lacrosse. He can work with that.

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ESPORTS

Where You Can Still Remember Dreaming Rating: Mature Chapters: 35

Killian Jones, former crime reporter, was not happy to be home. It hadn’t been home in a very long time, after all. Home was an abstract construct that existed for people who didn’t know as many adjectives for blood as he did. Home wasn’t New York City, but it certainly wasn’t Boston or New Orleans either and he’d always gone where the story was. And he was positive Emma Swan was one hell of a story.

Emma Swan, pro video game player, desperately wanted to find home. She thought she had, a million years ago in the back corner of a barn and a town and faces she trusted. But that had all blown up in her face and it didn’t take long for her to decide she was going to control the pyrotechnics from here on out. So now she was in New York City and a different corner and she kind of wanted to trust Killian Jones.

Neither one of them expected a year of of video games and feature stories to dredge up old enemies and even older feelings, but, together, they made a pretty good team.

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BASKETBALL

A Touch of (March) Madness Rating: Teen Chapters: Two

Emma can't quite remember how it started or why it happened, just that it did and she wants to win. Desperately. To prove something. Probably.

Or just to beat Killian. Either or. It doesn't matter.

She's picked her teams and her upsets and she's got a string of trash talk ready for any potential on-court situation. They're not playing the game, but they're playing a game and this one might change everything.

Or: The March Madness AU about questionably competitive friends and very strong college basketball opinions.

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SOCCER

It's a Funny Old Game Rating: Teen Chapters: Two

Killian's not sure why he agreed to this. Well, no, that's not true. He does. Because Henry asked. And, well, maybe they're some kind of family now.

Emma's not sure why she hasn't said anything. Well, no, that's not true. She does. Because she's not supposed to. And, well, things were pretty good already.

Or: A quasi Out of the Frying Pan sequel with soccer.

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THE OLYMPICS

Holding the Edge Rating: Teen One Shot

Killian Jones does not want the questions. He doesn't want the interviews or the spotlight or the sky-high expectations.

The world, however, does not seem to care. The world, after all, loves a good comeback story.

And Killian Jones is one heck of a comeback story. With his eyes on gold. And maybe slightly gold'ish hair and green eyes and, yeah, maybe he's got some questions of his own.

Almost Believing, This One's Not Pretend Rating: Teen Chapters: Two

They don’t grow up skating together.

They don’t even want to start skating together.

But then life happens and they kind of need each other and maybe that sentence means a lot more than either one of them are willing to admit at first. Or ever. So they keep skating and, sometimes, winning and, always, ignoring the questions. There are a lot of questions.

Because how could two people have so much chemistry on the ice when they’re just partners?

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BOXING

Pulling Your Punches Rating: Teen One Shot

It’s not meant to be a secret relationship. But Emma can’t help that her and Killian’s friends are incredibly unobservant. And then it becomes something of a game, waiting to see how long they notice. Until Killian gets hurt. Emma can’t help anything after that.

#cs ff #captain swan #bellarke ff #listen the sports #i like them #seriously i hope you guys are all staying healthy!#here's a lot of kissing too #as if you'd expect anything else from me really

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ir0n-angel · 4 years

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Thirsty Thursday

Time for some shameless self promotion, the thirstier the better (doesn’t have to be, though).

Tagged by @

Tagging @

The fic: A Way with Machines (Nick Valentine/Female Sole Survivor)

Length and Rating: 3980 words, rated E for fluffy, romantic smut with a robot.

The hype: The sole survivor gives Nick a helping hand, and the pair finally do something about those Feelings™ . Part 1 of a trio of smut fics, and my first smut ever. (Part 2: Thank You, Monsieur DuPont Part 3: Flowers for My Valentine.)

Where to read it: Here on AO3.

A snippet:

He usually wasn't keen on having someone work on him, much less watching them do it, but he couldn't help watching her. Despite having just reassured her that she couldn't hurt him, she was still careful. She was normally very quick, disassembling and reassembling her scrap projects in a blink. With him, she was slow and methodical. Gentle.

She didn't stop when she had his fingers back on and the screws replaced. Holding his wrist -- he did have sensors along the wires there, and oh how warm her fingers felt -- she flexed his fingers back and forth, testing them. She gave a small dissatisfied grunt and grabbed the grease can from the shelf above the bench, working the lubrication into his joints.

When she released him, he inspected her work himself, wiggling the digits. "I don't think they've moved so smoothly in years," he said, a little awestruck. "I have half a mind to let you have a go at the other one."

She beamed. "While I can't say I'm not interested, I wouldn't want to risk accidentally damaging your sensors." Her gaze fell to his good hand, holding hers out for it. "May I?"

He hesitated for a split second, then held it out for her to take. Her fingers were soft, though her palms were calloused. She traced the ridge of his knuckles, then flipping it palm up to individually caress each finger.

His sensors were firing rapidly, and he knew his heart would be racing if he still had one. He was no stranger to the curiosity of others. Before the anti-synth sentiments, there were many -- mostly kids -- that were interested in how he worked. He tolerated the kids. He didn't like that kind of attention from adults. They were always too rough with him. He was just a machine to them.

Nora was different.

"Amazing," she whispered to herself. She trailed her fingers over his palm again, to his wrist and under his sleeve.

It felt so good.

Suddenly, she was withdrawing her hand as if she'd been burned. The lost of contact was so startling, he snapped open his eyes -- when had he closed them? -- and met her alarmed gaze.

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to!" she said hurriedly.

"Didn't mean to, what?" he asked, confused.

She clasped her hands together as if to keep herself from touching anything else. "You made a noise like I'd hurt you."

He'd made a noise? Oh god. He'd been so lost in the pleasure of her touch, he hadn't realized he'd moaned. This was just going to be his day for embarrassment, it seemed.

He could've shrugged it off and let her assume what she would. Maybe have chuckled and made a joke. He didn't want to, though. He freely admitted to himself that he was taken with her, especially after all she had gone through to help him put to rest the Winter case. She never shied away from his subtle flirting, even throwing a little his way. And this was one of those rare times he had her this close and alone. He didn't want to miss this opportunity.

"You didn't hurt me, doll. Been a very long time since I had such a beautiful dame touch me. It felt really nice." He offered his hand back to her. "I wouldn't mind more."

#my writing #self promo #Nick Valentine #Fallout 4 #there's not enough positive Valentine love lately

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complicatedandstained · 5 years

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The Other Day at Hot Topic: Claire’s

Axel steps out of Hot Topic with a guilty conscience and a pleased smile that he cannot quite contain.

“Let It Snow” ironically graces the island mall’s speakers overhead, as he traces the familiar path over to Claire’s. He finds himself caught up in the surge of people mid-morning brings to their two story, air-conditioned corner of paradise. Locals and tourists alike beginning their holiday shopping clad in pompom hats and red and green Hawaiian shirts. Above their spirited chatter, Axel can already hear the staccato grumble of Vanitas giving Roxas hell back in Hot Topic.

Dumbass is going to have to cut that out quick if he wants to get Aqua her job back.

Axel hammers a few more exclamation points into the ‘hurry up’ message he’s composing before firing it off to Demyx.

Axel would have liked to stay with Roxas and Vanitas himself, but his own shift has already begun, and the children of Claire’s can’t pierce their own ears. Or so Marluxia tells him. And he needs to play nice with Marly today, for Saïx’s sake.

Anyway, it’s Dem’s day off, and Xigbar can only take so many of his distractions at the tattoo parlor before he starts barking like his German Shepherd. So Dem’d jumped at the chance to come in and continue wooing another potential Organization member. Never mind that the band already has a singer...

And that would turn off Vanitas to the conversation, for sure. No way was he getting caught in Demyx’s web of rehearsals, demos, and shameless merch promotion. No way in hell.

Roxas can probably hold his own until then. Vanitas might wind up in a neck brace, but it’s a sacrifice Axel is willing to make.

And it’d be Aqua’s fault, really, for getting a little too into her part and storming out instead of babysitting Hot Topic’s newest rivals for him.

God. Saïx is going to throw a fit if he finds out about any of this.

And Axel figures his introverted boyfriend is already going to be in a rare state from his long day of meetings, margs, and sucking up.

Of course, Axel will have to tell him something.

He just might have to temper it first. Nothing will be too over the top tonight. He’s thinking red wine, candles, massage oil, bubble bath…

Then Saïx can just drown me.

Axel snickers to himself and then laughs outright, recalling Roxas’ flat out refusal to believe that Saïx would date him. A soccer mom trips over her Adidas slides at Axel’s sudden outburst, and, used to being stared at, Axel winks at her—which does not help her catch her footing—before ducking into Claire’s.

Axel’s smirk finds its way back out as he surveys the moderately busy store. Everything smells like spilt sugar plum perfume. One cluster of small fries gathers around the metallic green and red tinsel hair accessories and another around the tourist faves—cowrie shell bracelets, puka shell necklaces, silver starfish shaped earrings—all strategically located near the entrance. Axel weaves easily between them, too absorbed to notice the lanky, red-headed freak in their midst, and sidles up to the side of the register, where an athletic blonde woman with a pixie cut is finishing up a sales transaction.

“Larxene, you light up my world like nobody else,” Axel croons to his coworker, overtop the One Direction lyrics floating through the speakers. “The way that you flip your hair gets me overwhelmed!”

He leans fairly close to her ear, his arms crossing on the counter, but she ignores him in favor of straightening a stack of coupons, a scowl forming across glossy pink lips. “You’re late,” she says.

A dry sound escapes his throat. “Missed you too.”

Larxene puts in beaucoup hours at both Claire’s and Hot Topic to pay for her apartment fees and architecture courses, and, therefore, Axel sees entirely too much of her, and vice versa.

She replaces the 15% off stack atop the cash drawer and checks for anyone else in line before turning around and leaning back to speak to him. “I was hoping you weren’t coming.” Her smile is not charming, but he returns it with vigor.

“Sometimes life disappoints us.”

Her smirk twists, and an eyebrow rises. “That why you look like crap today?”

“Hm?” Axel glances toward one of the thousand mirrors atop their neat white accessory displays and sights his swept back, unstyled hair, the shock of golden freckles sprinkling his nose, the foreign, childlike quality of his eyes without their cat eye liner.

He’d almost forgotten. Saïx, Xigbar, Roxas…Why hadn’t they said anything about it?

Xigbar’d told him once he prefers his men without makeup. But of course now he’s dating Demyx and his glitter bronzer loving self, so what the hell does he know. Saïx has seen him with and without and everything in between and would never have said anything. Vanitas and Aqua had been a smidge distracted what with his threats to fire them and all. But Roxas…

Huh. Curiouser and curiouser.

“Saïx monopolized the bathroom this morning,” Axel tells Larxene with a playful touch of bitterness.

“Taste of your own medicine, hm?” teases a voice, approaching from his other side.

Axel doesn’t need to look up to recognize his manager—Saïx’s closest friend.

An arm inked with a familiar black, brown, and forest green pattern of vines, leaves, and thorns wraps Axel’s shoulders and gives a brief squeeze. Axel raises a hand to press Marly’s wrist, turning and narrowing his eyes at him skeptically.

“Hello, Marluxia.”

“You look good,” Marly insists in his easy, confident way, stepping back to observe him. “Natural beauty.”

They are all acutely aware he is only saying this because Axel is not breaking as much of the dress code as usual.

“Don’t listen to him,” Larxene cuts in, tapping Axel’s chin. “You look like crap.”

Axel raises his hands defensively to either side, eyelids shutting them out, “There’s this hoity-toity Hot Topic management conference today. I am a good boyfriend and let Sai primp for an extra hour.”

“And Axel spent the extra time squeezing into those pants,” Larxene quips to her boss, pinching the tight gold denim in question, opposite hand propped on her hip.

“Unquestionably.” Marluxia smirks, eyes flitting through the store to ensure he’s not neglecting his head managerly duties.

Axel balks, shooing away Larxene’s loose grip on his thigh. “You don’t like the pants?”

“No,” both say in unison, horrified, wide eyes back on Axel and the outfit in question. “We’re obsessed with the pants,” Larxene corrects quickly on both of their behalves. “It’s your face that’s the problem.”

Marluxia chuckles despite his earlier disagreement, as Axel’s arms cross, and he steps off in the direction of his piercing station.

“Boss,” he growls, “I’d like to report one of my coworkers for unsportsmanlike conduct.”

Larxene pauses in rooting through a fringed black pleather handbag to stick her tongue out at him, flashing the lime green plastic of the tongue piercing he’d done for her. “Then maybe you should go work at Dick’s.”

“I hope you mean Dick’s Sporting Goods,” Axel raps his knuckles against the top of her head, grinning thinly.

“Either way,” she interrupts, smirking up from her handbag, from which she’s produced a tube of liquid eyeliner.

Axel opens his palm for it with a sheepish smile. “You’re an absolute darling, you know.”

“Screw yourself,” she snipes pleasantly, but releases the tube into his palm. He snatches and pockets it hastily, lest she change her mind.

“Children. Please,” Marluxia’s hand raises to rub his forehead beneath his neat bubblegum pink bangs. “You primadonnas are making me miss my old job managing White Castle.” Marluxia’s elegant nose crinkles as if he can still smell the burger place’s unique onion stench. “If I’d had to manage both their incompetence and your drama, I think I would have taken an early grave.”

Axel rubs at the back of his neck and chuckles good-naturedly, and Larxene scowls and elbows him in the ribs.

Marly winces at this interaction and rolls his eyes. His throat clears with a neat little cough. “Regardless, there are a few things I’d like to discuss with you both while I have you here. First and foremost, we are running our flower crown promo through this weekend. You are encouraged to wear a crown to advertise the sale and may take one from the display or bring one from home if you like.”

Marly straightens the ring of red roses crowning the shoulder length, sharply layered pink hair he’s undone from his usual ponytail.

Axel’s lips tip up just as Larxene’s tip down.

“I’ll do it if she does.”

“Douchebag.”

For a moment, Larxene’s glare could set off a smoke alarm, but noting Marly’s noble attempt to cover a groan with his hand, her expression softens. Larxene sighs. “Fine. I’ll do it for you, Marly.”

“And the children,” Axel prompts with an alligator smile, eyes following a trio currently knocking over Naminé’s elaborate pyramid of bug-eyed Beanie Boos. “Do it for the sweet little children.”

“Sure, yeah, whatever,” she flicks her wrist toward another group of their miniature customers, pulling down a shelf of earrings whole, “and the bratty little children.”

Axel snorts, though he knows deep down she doesn’t mean it. Larxene enjoys seeing little kids smile over stupid little cute things and helping preteens accessorize for their first dates. She would just stab him with a stiletto heel for saying so.

“And another thing,” Marly continues, loudly enough to pause their squabble, and ushers them toward the back of the store. They pause near the wall length, color-coded flower crown display, where conversations are less likely to be overheard and customer complaint surveys less likely to be filed. “We need to discuss your timeliness.”

Axel blanches and then wonders why Larxene does too.

“Larxene, I know that you picked up Kairi’s shift at the last minute,” Marly begins, sweeping a few strands of hair behind his ear and pretending not to notice Axel’s shoulder jutting into hers.

“And Axel, I’m aware that Saïx asked you to check up on Hot Topic in his absence.”

Axel nods and tries not to scowl at the reminder.

“Ordinarily, as you know, I’m happy to let these things slide,” Marly continues, folding his hands in front of him above his short violet half-apron.

“And we appreciate it Marly—” Axel puts in, though it doesn’t stop the man’s expression from growing steelier, and there’s a reason he gets on so well with Saïx.

“However,” Marly interrupts, “with the holiday season upon us and new recruits starting out, I’m going to need you, my more experienced warriors to lead the charge.” He gives each of them a measured look and nods with approval at their attentiveness. “I hope I can count on you.”

“Of course, boss,” Axel purrs easily, patting the man’s bicep.

Larxene crosses her arms and nods as well. “Anything you need.”

“Good,” Marly’s smile grows jagged fangs, “because in Kairi’s absence, I’ll need one of you to train our new employee later today.”

Larxene groans loud enough that a passing service dog yips back. “Anything but that,” she corrects.

Marluxia laughs a villainous sort of laugh, before he walks off to take over ringing on the register, waving his fingers at them like a noble might a peasant. “Work it out, darlings.”

* *

Axel and Larxene duck into the narrow lavender painted staff lounge, mid-argument. He heads for the time clock, while she props herself up on her knees on the sleek, black sofa that feels much like a slab of stone in an old timey prison, to try on flower crowns in the mirror above it.

“I’m not training another Kairi clone,” she repeats.

“Naminé and Kairi have completely different personalities,” Axel interjects readily, having had this conversation, regarding Marluxia’s interest in hiring doppelgängers, more than once already.

“Then you train Kairi 3.0.”

The first crown has golden leaves that stick up from Larxene’s head like horns, and she swaps it out for another with black and purple blossoms and silver stems. She seems to prefer that. He has to admit it’s striking with her skinny black jeggings and slinky white camisole.

“I’m happy to train Kairi 3.0.” Axel shrugs turning around as he ties off his Claire’s apron. She beckons him forward and he bows his head so that she can crown him with a ring of ocean blue and seafoam white blooms.

“What,” her hand near slips, setting the flower crown slightly askew, “seriously?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to subject anyone to you.” Axel joins her, kneeling on the couch to get at the mirror. Shifting her eyeliner from his pocket, he begins tracing a lid as she readjusts his crown. “But if she doesn’t want to pierce ears, sweetie, you don’t have much of a choice.”

She tugs the crown half off, down below his ear, and smacks him with it. The line above his eye smudges hopelessly.

Glancing back at the mirror, he frowns at the flowers tangled in his hair, scoffs at his single charcoal raccoon eye, and abruptly starts to laugh. Larxene joins in, clapping him on the shoulder. “You suck,” she says, “do you know that?”

“I know,” he says after a minute, tugging at the crown and further upsetting his hair, “just help me fix this.”

“Fine,” she pushes him by the shoulder down onto his ass, and loosens his ponytail, wrapping the band around her wrist, “but I want to hear the latest Hot Topic drama.”

“Drama?” His shoulders stiffen though he attempts to hide it as he combs fingers through his hair. “No drama. When has there ever been drama?”

“You were 15 minutes late, genius.” She lifts the flowers and tugs harshly at a snarl. “Tell me the drama.”

Axel hisses, hands raising in attempt to stop her. She removes the crown entirely and gently smooths back his auburn locks. He lowers his hands. “Alright, alright, gees.” He exhales and his hands fold neatly in his lap. “His name is Roxas.”

#kingdom hearts #axel #larxene #marluxia #saix #roxas #akusai #akuroku #organization xiii #the other day at hot topic #my writing #claire's #edited #because i forgot i'm not supposed to curse on tumblr #xigdem

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rixxy8173571m3w1p3 · 5 years

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Out Of The Woods (2/?)

This multi chap fic has been one that I've wanted to write for a while. I'm hoping to connect a few loose ends, since my series is getting closer to the end. Don't worry, I still got a couple of fics left in me. I'd love to thank @xerxezra whose conversations with me are always inspirational. I'd also like to thank @dorkydisappointment whose writing got my creative juice flowing and @hoodoo12 who continues to inspire me all the time.

Reference to the crystal necklace a can be found in my fic The Language Of Flowers and to safety measures in Sentimental Reasons. And finally, references to the woman in Ricks journal is from What You Found Amongst The Pages. I know, that was shameless self promotion ;P

If you haven't read part 1, then heres a link (Read Chapter 1)

In this fic the reader tries to uncover the mystery of the artist behind Zeta-7s portrait.

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

Chapter 2: The Girl Who Loved Him Before

You couldn't sleep. It wasn't so much the bed, which was much harder than the one you had back home, but your thoughts. Ugh, why couldn't you just turn your brain off? If you could, then maybe you wouldn't be up at 2 in the morning questioning your life choices; that or it was because you were in an unfamiliar place.

You thought of taking out your laptop to type out the draft for a new story idea you had, or to take another sedative, but you decided that maybe you could read one of the magazines you saw on the coffee table instead. Carefully, you cracked the door to your room open, checked to see if the coast was clear before you tiptoed towards the living room. Next to the couch, was a rustic coffee table created out of an old tree trunk; on it were coasters made from a young pine. Next to the pile of coasters were old science fiction magazines; all of them older than yourself. And since you couldn't find the book you saw earlier, you picked up the stack and slipped back into your room.

Just like you did when you were a kid, you hid under the duvet with a flashlight. Each magazine was in its own sleeve, and you shuffled through them until you found a hand full you liked. The one with Gort on the cover had original stories that had been sent in by fans; your favorite being The Day The Earth Stood Stupefied, which was a story about how Gort and Klaatu managed to control the masses with charisma and Rock n Roll. Another one had a series of stories which revolved around a lonely dendrologist, who alienated everyone he knew in his pursuit of knowledge; whose increased disdain for humans had led him to madness; a marriage to the forest, and whose offspring walked the earth, searching for their place in the world. The other magazines turned out to be comic books, laced with outdated tropes and humorous ads for sea monkeys and x-ray goggles. Though, the one that interested you most was the small booklet for a funeral home.

Strange, why would this be here?

You pulled the covers down, glanced at the door just to make sure it wouldn't open before you hid again, and flipped through the booklet. From different burial arrangements to simple and ornate caskets, you assumed that either he helped with a burial or had planned one. Poor man. You placed it back in the middle of the stack where you had found it and returned the lot of it to its original place. Maybe trying to write might help quiet your brain after all.

____________________

You woke up; the cause being from the sounds which came from outside. Slipping your feet into some slippers, you stepped out of your bedroom, finding that Rick was neither in his room, kitchen, or living room. The noises got louder and seemed to be coming from the back of the house. So feeling brave, because you could totally take care of yourself, you grabbed the silly dancing moose statue from the dining table which doubled as a banana holder and stepped outside, only to find Rick pause; his ax lifted above his head, with raised brow perplexed as to what you were doing before returning to his task. “Oh, you're chopping wood.”

Log after log, he split them into smaller pieces. You had never seen him chop wood, but at the rate and diligence in which he was, made you wonder if he had cybernetic enhancements like other Ricks did; it certainly would explain a few things. When you realized that you were still holding the statue, you could only giggle at your silliness and set it down beside you as you took a seat on the porch steps; not only relieved there wasn't an intruder but pleasantly surprised by this display of masculinity. “Rick, why are you chopping wood? It's not to impress me, is it? Cause if it is, it's totally working.”

Leaning the ax against the stump, he pulled off his sweater, having warmed up from the exertion, using it to wipe his sweaty face. The t-shirt that was underneath his sweater clung to him, outlining the shape of his lean torso. Wow. “There's n-no central heating and there's going to be a cold front t-t-t-tonight. I um - I wanted to make sure there would be enough firewood.”

“Well, nothing warm hands and a pillow fort couldn't solve. Right?”

“Hohoho, n-no. Though it would be nice if that's all it - it took.”

Goodness, did you love what you were seeing, regretful that you didn't have your phone to take a pic. If he was more confident, then he'd certainly be the death of you, strolling over with a confident swagger but it didn't matter. You were so lucky to have him; dorky and all. “Rick, could you come here for a moment? I want to show you something.”

By now, you'd think he'd catch on to your mischief, but even so, he obeyed; how cute. He walked towards you, unassuming, and you stood and waited for him to be close enough so that you could lean over and kiss him. He squirmed when you did this because he was all sweaty and wanted to be all nice and clean before making any attempts of being affectionate, but you wrapped your arms around him and held him tight, determined not to let him go. “I got you, Ricky.”

“Gosh, but I'm - I-I-I shouldn't. I'm all sweaty.”

“It's okay,” you cooed, brushing his bangs away from his forehead. “I kinda like it. Besides, everyone sweats. It's only natural, and if we didn't we'd die, right? So calm down my little manly man. I'm not grossed out.”

It took him a few seconds to let this sink in.“Is there anything y-you don't like?” he wondered; neither reciprocating nor initiating.

“I don't like mosquito bites, but what does that have to do with anything? I really like you. That's what matters.”

“Th-that's - thank you. I appreciate it.”

You pressed your nose right into his hair, breathing in the scent which was naturally his intermingling with that of the forest. You knew this made him nervous, but you adored the way he smelled, especially right now; as though he'd been birthed from the ashes of pine. “You're welcome. Have you been rolling around in pine needles?” you giggled, picking out a stray leaf. “Or have you been hugging trees again? If you aren't, then maybe I should encourage it.”

“No,” he answered matter of factly. “it's um - it's from the wood. Th-they produce chemicals called terpenes, which give them their special, distinctive scent.”

“Oh Rick, when are you going to understand when I'm flirting with you?”

Scratching the back of his neck, he mumbled sheepishly. “Gee, I-I-I don't - I'm sorry.”

Reluctantly you let go, deciding that you should let him be before you had a chance to get any other mischievous ideas. “Aw, don't be sorry. You still have plenty of time to understand me. Until then, how about I make us some breakfast. Banana pancakes sound good?”

Smiling warmly down at you, he nodded. “It s-sure does.”

_______________

After breakfast, Rick informed you that he needed to go somewhere, and you were ready to go along but he confessed. “I-I-I have to get some supplies to do a couple of repairs. I've been so busy lately that I didn't realize that there were still a-a few things t-t-to do around here before I can relax. I should be back this afternoon.”

“Rick, it sounds like you're leaving me here.”

Giving your hand a squeeze, he admitted. “I am, though only because I want to return as soon as possible. I want t-to spend as much time with you as I can. I mean, I'm going t-t-to be making repairs after I return, but in other words…..”

“You're busy,” you interrupted, pulling your hand away so you could put away the dishes. “and you wanted to take care of your errands without distractions. Fine, it's whatever. I'll be here I guess.”

The mismatched dishes were an odd contrast in comparison to the many other decorations about the place, and you were relieved by this, but annoyed that you weren't tall enough to put away the mixing bowl in its respective place on the top shelf. Seeing this, chair legs scraped against the floor, creaking in complaint as Zeta-7 crossed the room; gently removing it from your hands and putting it away. If he wasn't so darn sweet, you might actually manage to stay upset at him. “Thanks.”

Studying you, he placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “I'm s-s-so sorry princess. I promise I'll make it up to you.”

You knew he would for he always did and you followed him outside towards the car. Opening the driver's side door, he stood there, fiddling with the keychains, glancing at you, at the keys, then back at you. “It won't be long. Y-y-y-y-you know where I put the freeze ray, and where the switch for the security system is.”

“Yeah,” you answered, tugging lightly on the chain about your neck, revealing the lovely crystal you carried with you always. “and I still have the crystal necklace that I only have to squeeze to be transported to the safe room just in case.”

“Th-that's good. And the Meeseeks box is in the closet. I um - they'll help if you need them.”

“Got it. I guess I'll see you later then. Drive safely.”

You turned around to head back, having heard the car door close, thinking he was ready to go, but to your surprise, he spun you around and pulled you in for a kiss. Undemanding, he sought forgiveness on your lips, supporting you as you melted into him. When he pulled away a few seconds later, he softened. “Please don't be mad a-at me. I couldn't bear it if y-you were.”

“I'm not. Annoyed maybe, but not mad. I just wish you would've told me earlier. “ you admitted in your girlish voice. “It's nice to know these things. I had plans for us to go apple picking and thought we'd bake some apple pies together. I was really looking forward to it.”

Pressing a kiss on your temple, he sighed. “Gosh, th-that sounds perfect, but it's going to have to wait. I shouldn't neglect the repairs or else one of us c-could get hurt. I hope y-you understand.”

“I do. It's a good thing you're the responsible one. Someone has to be. Just, promise you'll be safe okay?”

“I-I will. Be careful on the front porch and inside the laundry room. There are a-a few old boards that have to be replaced.”

“Okay.”

Brushing a lock of hair away from your face, he nodded. “Bye, m-mi corazón.”

Leaning into his touch, you softened. “Return soon.”

“I will.”

You pulled away so that he would go, for he would never deliberately leave until he knew everything was alright. And when you couldn't see the car anymore, you stepped back into the house, avoiding the loose boards he had mentioned. Honestly, you didn't enjoy the idea of being left alone, especially in the middle of nowhere, but it did give you the time you needed to explore the place.

_____________

You glanced at the painting again, wishing it would talk back to you. What secrets did it hold? And why Rick, your Rick and not anyone else? Did they know there were others, or were they only acquainted with yours? Ugh, this was frustrating.

You sat back for a while, thinking of what you knew; Zeta-7 wasn't the type to pose for pictures let alone a painting, so this might've been done by memory. If it was done in the afternoon light, anytime after 4 would've been comfortable if it was done outside, but what if the lighting was symbolic as to timing and not so much literal? Oh, what did you know, except that you really hoped he wasn't holding a torch for her; if he was, it'd probably kill you.

However, since you were here, you decided to check out the other paintings. There were a few that you realized also weren't signed and done in a similar style. There was one of a Morpho butterfly, eating a ripe banana. Then there was one of a half-eaten picnic and a cake covered in bees. The one next to it was of a labcoat draped over a chair and a forgotten candy wrapper lying on the floor. And the last one on this wall was of a diseased blue rose bush.

How odd. The familiarity of these subjects and scenes filled you with a warm nostalgia of past adventures. Was it possible that their story was similar to yours? Of course, everyone had their story, and if your assumptions were correct, then all these unsigned pieces were by her as well as these memories that she portrayed; funny and uncanny that they should like Morphos, blue roses, picnics, and Rick just like you. The only difference is that you weren't an artist, but then while they were, they didn't think so either.

Maybe you could almost forgive this person because they had good taste in both men and painting subjects. Then again, maybe not.

____________

Unlike the movies, the basement was well furnished and pleasant. There was a couch, a bunch of boxes stacked in the closet, and a wall of books; as could be expected from a prolific reader. You tested the couch for comfort, finding that it was way better than the bed in your room. Getting up, you perused the shelves, happy to find all your favorites as well as a couple from your wishlist; lucky you.

Picking up a leather-bound copy of Persuasion, you laid back on the couch, fluffing up the old, but clean pillows. In your hands was a well-loved copy, possibly read more times than your own. The reasons this particular Jane Austen classic held much appeal was extensive, but the main ones were because it was a story waiting, of misunderstanding, forgiveness, and reconciliation. You always got lost in the old-fashioned customs and words and it never failed to move you. However, what moved you this time when you cracked opened the book were not elegant sayings or humorous witticisms but the photographs.

Used as bookmarks, there were several Polaroids of Rick; of him dancing in an ugly sweater; of him cooking; of him playing the ukulele; of him standing as his figure was filtered amongst spring blooms; of his hands full of sunflower seeds; and of a yard full of sunflowers. You stared at these photos, dumbfounded at the similarities between the subjects and your favorite things. This book and photos must've been from her too and Ricks age in these photos matched that of the painting. Damn it.

It couldn't be true, but even inside the cover, there was a small note from Zeta-7 explaining why he gifted this book; signed with love. No, none of it could be true. However, photographs didn't lie and it meant you weren't all that special. Not caring if you stained the beginning pages with your tears, your chest ached with regret and you couldn't breathe. All this time, when your wonderful Zeta-7 paid special attention to what you loved, claiming to love only you, never wanting to lose you had turned out to be a cruel game and a lie; you being beaten by the girl who loved him before; someone who was way better than you.

TBC

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