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bryhoney · 4 days

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Recognisance pt. 4

Here she is! Not 100% pleased with it so may come back and change bits but otherwise!

Previous. Next

AO3

Please see the tags for TW - MDNI! (COD Typical TW)

The base was a series of sprawling, networking tunnels built into the mountain range. The lack of natural light and the pristine cleanliness of the facility gave it an uneasy, clinical feel.

You were free to wander around when Gabriel was away from the base, although the areas you were ‘authorised’ to enter were mainly communal spaces. Once the people occupying these spaces learned of your affiliation to Rorke, they became withdrawn and quiet - ignoring you when you walked through the door.

You don’t visit those rooms very often.

You were only barred from entering areas that contained their more recent advancements; notably their engineering and weaponry projects. No part of you wanted to be privy to that level of information. You’d been captured before, God knows what information you’d already gifted the Ghosts and their US superiors.

It had been that sinking realisation that stopped you from pouring over the blueprints someone had left out on their workspace. You had gotten lost on your way to yet another meeting Gabriel had invited you to on your third day. The office hadn’t looked like it belonged to one of the Generals. It had been unlocked and there, right in front of you, were the locations and plans for the Federation’s most important asset: weapon-based satellites.

LOKI

It was this kind of information that the Ghosts were after, possibly information you’d already fed to them - you wouldn’t give them any more. You had squeezed your eyes shut and stumbled away from the office, trying to wash away any memory of those files.

The meeting you had been making your way to was already underway by the time you’d found it. You recall how Rorke had glared at you, shaking his head once you entered. He had been sitting at the front, arms crossed and facing the rest of the personnel. The General who led the meeting had explained their concerns regarding the US Army’s recent movements.

It was a concern that echoed around the base in the days that followed.

The Americans were growing increasingly bold and the Federation’s forces still weren’t large enough to launch effective counterattacks. Let alone another attack like the one attempted two years ago.

The attack you’d been captured in.

The Federation had been forced underground to regroup and rebuild. Most of the manpower and the weaponry they’d been creating had also been lost that day.

The Federation was still effectively in ruins. You weren’t sure what Rorke’s plan was regarding the Ghosts, the most he had revealed was that he’d proposed the completion of the facility you were in. You couldn’t shake the feeling that there shouldn’t even be a base this close to the border, or at least, not one that Rorke inhabits.

You’d tried to make yourself useful around the base, the Federation higher-ups weren’t happy at Gabriel’s suggestion to put you on intelligence. Surveillance was more suited to you at the moment, something low stakes, watching the perimeter or keeping an eye on the entrances whilst boxed away in a stuffy, impenetrable room. You had no access to anything other than the screens in front of you. Occasionally you’d buzz in a squad team that had been sent out to patrol the area.

Sometimes, it was Rorke you buzzed in and out of the facility.

There were two others in the room, overlooking the base. It turned out that being infiltrated by the Ghosts multiple times had become a sore spot for the Federation.

Besides, it motivated you to stay on top of the video feed. Your safety depended on the work you were doing. Gabriel had made it clear that the Ghosts intended to re-capture you.

In the meantime, your routine largely stayed the same. You still found yourself locked away in a room facing your psychologist every morning. Regrettably, you still hadn’t warmed up to his emotionless approach, the same approach he was using today.

He asks the same questions each day and it takes a great deal of energy each day not to leap over the table and throttle him.

He’d just asked about your school life and realised you’d about reached your limit for the day.

“What’s it to you?” you couldn’t hide your intense dislike of this man. He was cold, reserved and unfeeling. He scrutinised you and never really told you why he was asking these questions, what you could be doing to aid your healing.

Just the same comment about your short-term memory improving.

“Can I ask why you’re being so combative today?” he asks, voice unchanging despite the deviation from his normal questioning.

“Am I not allowed to be?” your arms are crossed and you can’t bring yourself to sit upright in your chair.

He jots something down, and you roll your eyes. Pretentious.

“What’s your mother’s name?” he continues with familiar questions, thank God. You decide to just grin and bear the next few minutes with this man.

“I don’t know” You’re looking at him now, you hope he can tell that you don’t like him. You’d been so polite, so hopeful that he’d help you.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“I think so, I mean-? I told you, I don’t know” You knew with absolute certainty that you had brothers. You had brothers who loved you.

You felt the intense need to keep this to yourself, maybe you’d tell Gabriel about your recent revelations. He was colder at the moment, intently focused on achieving whatever it was he set out to do whilst he was here.

“How do you know Rorke?”

“He’s my commanding officer. He’s helping me to get better, he’s-” you trail off, what was he doing? It felt a lot like he was playing chess with you, although you weren’t his opponent, you were one of his pawns.

But he held you so carefully, comforted you-

“He’s?” the man prompts, as though you weren’t aware that you’d trailed off.

“He’s leading the Federation efforts against the Ghost faction of the US army, I trust him”. Each time you admitted that you trusted him, something roiled within you. You knew it was because you were unsettled that he seemed to know more about you than you did. He also seemed to be using this information against you, rather than simply telling you what he knew.

“Who is Elias Walker?” his voice monotone, clearly finding satisfaction with your previous answer.

“Elias! ELIAS!” It was the boy’s voice, your brother. Your brother knew Elias Walker.

Your chest caves in on itself, and you quickly find it within yourself to steel yourself and shrug it off as a cough.

Your brother had known Elias? Maybe he had been hunting him down? You’d need to ask Gabriel these questions if you wanted answers but everything in you told you to keep these fragments of your life quiet.

“He was the leader of the Ghosts, Rorke killed him two years ago”. That was a fact. Every board that had information on the Ghosts could tell you that. Rorke had told you upon the anniversary of the Scarecrow’s death. A celebration he said, damning the man to Hell over and over again for his betrayal. Elias Walker had deserved a death less merciful than the one Rorke had granted him, he told you. You didn’t push him to elaborate on what that meant.

“Who are Logan and Hesh Walker?” you knew this one too, the boards surrounding the offices were littered with pictures of them, sightings.

“They’re Elias’s sons, they’re Ghosts. Alive. Dangerous”. That’s all you do know, except that you heard someone yell his voice once, promising to kill someone. Likely promising to kill you. They’d be some of the people who’d destroyed your mind.

“Thomas Merrick?”

A shove, playful “You got it!” a new voice.

“Another Ghost, alive. He took over as commanding officer .” you roll your eyes, trying to remain calm at the flurry of new memories.

“Keegan Russ?”

“Don’t move, keep your head down” the deep gravelly voice, again. This one was beginning to annoy you.

Instead of closing the session down, he continues, “Do you remember being captured?”

You pause, “No. I know when I was captured but I don’t remember the actual incident”. You’ve often tried to remember the moment, to know where you had gone wrong. Why you’d been close enough for them to get to you.

“Do you remember what they did to you?” He asks,

“Yes. Bits and pieces. I- they-”. You breathe, taking a moment to compose yourself, “I remember some of what they did. I wasn’t trained to withstand it, I don’t-” You clear your throat, “They hurt me”. It’s all you manage, weirdly proud of your ability to compose yourself in front of this idiot who you’re barely restraining yourself from outright strangling.

You hated that despite giving him the same answers each day, they still made you emotional and scared.

“Can you tell me about it” he is furiously jotting down notes.

“Do I have to,” is all you can manage, your head pounding.

“If you could try for me- if you remember any details of where you were, who was there with you. I have given you enough time to process this”. He is calm, entirely unaware that your hands itch to hurt him. As though you could, the man is a soldier, and you’re not trained.

Prick.

“It was always the same room, there were no lights, except from above, when someone would enter. It was men in masks, the ghost masks - I never saw their faces but it was the masks from the photos it was-” You calm your breathing once again, cursing at yourself. “They would drug me, hurt me- they used knives or their fists or- I was interrogated, They knew how to hurt me but I don’t remember… It’s all so far away, it’s like it was a bad dream or”. You laugh at your rambling, which worries you further, you must be near hysterics.

“Good, good”. He writes, a part of you desperate to read his notes another wanting to rip them apart, “Do you remember signing up for the Federation?” he continues, you’re confused by the sudden change in topic.

“No”. These were the questions that upset you the most, the ones that truly unravelled the extent of the damage. You had no beginning, no solid memories of anything before being woken up by Rorke.

“What do you remember before you were captured” he continues, glossing over the brief response.

His body was pressed against yours, your back against a wall. His hands were holding your waist, “fuck” he moaned next to your ear. His hand move-

“How many times!? Nothing! All I have are pieces of memories that don’t fit! I have no idea who I was, what I liked or how I lived!” You are going to end this session before you burst into tears.

“Okay, that’ll do it for today, see you tomorrow morning, I expect-” his voice was cut off as you slammed the door shut behind you.

------

It had been almost two weeks since you’d arrived, and you knew nothing more about Gabriel’s mission than that first day on the landing pad. He frequently left the base while you were confined to the facility and its unwelcoming occupants.

Gabriel had tried to make time for you, but it was clear his priorities lay elsewhere. He was hunting the Ghosts and you were nothing more than a distraction during the day. He’d visit your room each night to check in with you before you politely kicked him out.

You were enrolled on weekly self-defence classes and weapons training at the request of Gabriel. He’d find a way to remind you in almost every conversation that the Ghosts had made themselves clear in their intention to recapture you.

The thought of being back there was almost unbearable but you were growing increasingly restless inside the base.

You were in the lower recesses of the compound, your daily walk during your surveillance shift break. Down here, you could peek your head out of an observation window and observe the guards walking around outside. It was the only real escape you could afford.

Reaching your arm out, you could feel the gentle breeze through your fingers. You sighed as you forced yourself away from the window, moving towards one of the stairwells.

It happened all at once.

The peaceful silence is shattered by the deafening blare of alarms. You all but scream at the abrupt chaos. Your head snaps back and forth, desperately searching for a threat. Your heart is in your throat, choking you.

As the corridor plunges into darkness you fill your lungs with a shaky breath, the onslaught of memories is unbearable. You were back with them.

A laugh, “Oh sweetheart, you’re awake. Good. We’ve still got some things to discuss”, the glint of a knife. Screaming. Laughing.

No. You can do this.

Move forward.

The base was under attack and you weren’t where you were supposed to be.

You did everything you could to regulate your breathing and remain calm despite the thunderous sound of your heart. Your hands were shaking as you reached for the handrail, to begin dragging yourself up the final flights of stairs.

The emergency lights activate and now the darkness is ruptured by a deep red glow that dips on and off intermittently and plays tricks on your vision. It feels as though the shadows move, as though each time the lights come back on you’ll see a Ghost striding towards you. As though-

Not real. Move. Keep moving.

You feel a tear run down your face.

After running up three flights of stairs, you slip quietly through the doors to your level, praying that whatever caused the alarm was nothing more than a fluke or an exercise. You tried to keep your heavy breathing quiet despite the alarm still going off.

You were halfway through the maze of servers that led to the surveillance room when your foot knocked against something heavy and soft.

A body. It’s a body.

You swallow a sob at the realisation that the body was a soldier. Someone you’d passed in the corridors - now they were gone. Gone. Gone.

You're next if you don’t move. Move. Move.

You whisper an apology to the individual as you raid them for their weapons, closing their eyes as you turn to listen to the room. You try and drown out the loud thrum of the servers and the continuous drone of the alarm while you listen for movement. You inhale slowly, it’s now or never. You seize the opportunity of darkness and sprint across the open control space towards the bright glow of screens that lie just meters from the surveillance room.

You scan the screens, looking for any communication broadcasts that might indicate what has led to this situation.

Your head whips around as you hear a quiet thud behind you, your gun aimed out in front of you.

You’re staring down a barrel, but that’s not what makes you freeze.

The man holding the gun is a Ghost.

#keegan russ x reader #call of duty ghosts #cod keegan #keegan p russ #logan walker #hesh walker #tw violence #tw torture #tw memory loss #tw: panic attack #sorry for the delay!#cliffhanger? I don't know her

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interstellar-wanderer · 17 days

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Theory about The Ghoul/Cooper: Highly influenced and vulnerable to dishonesty.

Cooper Howard trusts deeply in the people he loves and the idea of the American Dream that was sold to him during the Sino-American war. He fought for those ideals, his country and the people he loved, and before the Great War and drop of the bombs he can't stand any other perspective for his own sanity.

The problem is, he is not a very good actor you see. He usually creates the character of a highly dignified cowboy because it is a projection of what he wants for himself, an ideal version of a man, openly criticizing the choice of the character not doing what he would do in real life (shooting someone), and in his other movie, he plays a role of a man with a dog, with the help of his own dog and not another random dog, I believe because he wanted to portray his own relationship with his loved pet rather than a random role.

He lives his characters and roles, to the point of turning one of them when becoming the Ghoul, this lone cowboy and bounty hunter hurt by his past and tired of the cruelty and dishonesty around the Wasterland.

He uses his emotions and all his heart for his roles and forgets everything else because through his roles he is showing a part of himself in the process, but with the consequence of leaving nothing to protect himself, because he has never created a facade around his person, he is honest and true, th same way we see The Ghoul as he is, no lies nor attempts at dishonesty; he is clear with his intentions to the very end.

But because of this, Cooper is vulnerable and ignorant to true deep dishonesty, to someone who would straight up lie to his face, to someone living two parallel life at the same time. He prides himself on knowing his wife's true motivations and never thinking bad about her, he also sees Lucy and believes her just as transparent but never thought of her surviving SnipSnip.

When Barb showed her real colors during the Vault-Tec meeting, declaring they should drop the bombs themselves, he broke in such a way he went into shock. One would believe he is in fact a good actor, and would try to be good in hiding it, but I would say Barb was a better one by playing two roles at the same time God knows how long and Cooper suspecting nothing of such. This happens when:

1) she convinces him to pose as Vault boy and be part of their promotional campaign

2) then when she invites everyone to the wrap party to their house without telling him, subsequently not showing remorse at him being abandoned by his Hollywood friends

3) then gatekeeping him regarding her status as worried housewife during the war in Anchorade and how stupid his idea of a ranch was

4) ultimately convincing him to accept his dog should go (something we all know made him suspect of Vault-tec and her), for the sake of their security.

But this caused a drift between them, him starting to suspect something was up when she told him they wouldn't be safe if they buy a bunker themselves because it wouldn't work, then trying hard to "put everyone in one of the GOOD vaults, one which would oversee all others".

This is when his world started to crumble. Not only her lying, but she not trusting him enough with the real truth of their situation, manipulating him instead with a dishonest facade.

The worst part is that it is very likely she knows this about him, his soul is rooter in honesty, fairness, and dignity, do the right thing the same way Lucy envisioned before coming out of Vault 33. He doesn't expect his wife to lie to him or represent a version of the world he fought against, he doesn't expect his country to betray him regarding their safety.

We can understand now why he became such a bitter man, and why he seems to avoid the old version of himself.

Maybe he thinks, if he had known, if he hadn't trusted so damn much, if he hasn't been so vulnerable and hasn't opened his heart expecting the same back, maybe he could have done something to stop it all.

Now every time he looks back, he seems to hate the man he was so very much.

#cooper howard #the ghoul #fallout #fallout theory #fallout spoilers #fallout amazon #fallout the ghoul #mytheory

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pommunist · 1 month

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No fucking way I'm seeing people throwing hate to Léa in my dash. That was the conclusion people got after reading all of that, that she was just making herself a martyr or that she was just making everything seem targeted than ''it probably was''. No fucking way.

I'm latin@ and I didn't find her comments xenophobic either nor I felt offended, or did I miss something? People just want her to phrase things in a perfect specific way?

What is going oooooon.

Yeah I’ve seen people saying that she’s still talking about these things just because she’s angry at Qstudios and like….God forbids you’re angry at something that made you go through so much shit 😭

On the topic of xenophobia, I actually have a favor to ask from the latin american community.

I would be very grateful if some of you could contact me (dms or asks, anon or not anything is fine) to offer me your perspective and thoughts on this issue regarding what was said during the interview.

1)I want to make sure some of these aren’t a result of a mistranslation, or lack of added context on my part. I’m not saying this is the case but I’d rather be 100% certain it isn’t.

2)I want to see if I can offer some perspective to clear some things up. An example would be that I’ve seen a lot of people be upset by Léa and Lumi talking about how Q’s stream was « in spanish and at 3 a.m ». A big part of the community also said the same things and I really want to say that Q stream was in spanish or late for us isn’t the problem (to be fair I’ve also seen few people being genuinely pissed that he spoke spanish, well, FUCK THEM). The issue was the absence of subtitles or official translations being released, making access to what Quackity said difficult for non spanish speakers, especially admins who are the first concerned by what he said. Of course this should be a concern when he uses english too, sadly it’s kinda the default language and because a lot of admins/fans are EN speakers the issue isn’t being talked about as much.

3) I genuinely want to educate myself more on this topic. Xenophobia against latin americans isn’t something that is talked about a lot here in France so I’m unfortunately not knowledgeable about this issue.

I also want to say a big thank you to @imnotasweetie , as well as to another one of my friends who’s also from latin america for taking the time and effort to educate and share their opinions with me already 🫶

#qsmp admins situation #i hope im not rude by asking this

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hareofhrair · 18 days

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Please tell me if you're a zionist or not. Because the notes on that post of yours are absolutely rancid regarding Palestinian people and I need to know before I submit your url to the zionist block list

No, I am not a zionist. Israel, like any ethnostate, should not exist and what they are doing to the Palestinians is unquestionably genocide. I fully support Palestine and their right to resist in the face of annihilation.

I am also not anti semetic, for the record, and stand with the many Jewish people who support Palestinian liberation.

I also recognize that while Biden or any president is unlikely to ever stop supporting Israel as it’s too critical to colonial and capitalist action in that area, Trump has voiced support for Israel straight up nuking Gaza.

There is unfortunately very little we can meaningfully do with this particular election for the Palestinian people. Continuing to pressure the democrats may mitigate the damage to a degree, but I’m aware how thin a comfort that is to a country currently being massacred.

But we cannot help ANYONE if our democracy is actively overthrown, as Trump has made extremely, unambiguously clear he intends to do. He has every intention of making himself a Putin style dictator, with the full support of Putin himself, who knows he can use Trump as a puppet, in a manner so like the way we’ve overthrown democratic countries and installed puppet dictators in the past that the dramatic irony would be heavy handed were it fictional. We almost deserve it.

But we are a country full of innocent people the same as any other, who don’t deserve to suffer and die to punish the idea of western imperialism, which the vast majority of have zero control over.

The one tiny bit of control we DO have is through voting.

This is not a situation I’m happy with, but this isn’t a situation of trading Palestinian lives for American ones. This is a situation where saving Palestinian lives isn’t even on the table, and refusing to acknowledge that is only going to make the situation worse. We can either save American lives and hope it doesn’t make the situation in Palestine actively worse. Or we can refuse to do anything like petulant children and watch everyone die.

Vote, and then get back to organizing your community, participating in protests and direct action, volunteering and donating to relief and evacuation funds, and voting in local elections so that we can maybe end up with some better options next time!

And if yall ever get the violent revolution off the ground, I’ll be right behind you! But if you tell me you’re not voting because the only moral action is firebombing a Walmart, you’d better firebomb the goddamn Walmart.

And to the assholes in the notes of that post and talking shit in my asks, for the record, I’m a disabled trans lesbian living in goddamn Louisiana, living on less than $1000 a month. Aside from my friends in Florida, no one is getting the ass end of this garbage government more than us. And for the record, yeah, I’m boycotting McDonald’s, and anything else I can. I’d boycott Starbucks too if there was one within 50 miles. I vote in every local election. I organize as much as I can in rural Louisiana. I take direct action whenever I get the chance, which isn’t often given my lack of mobility and remote location, but I’m willing to bet I’ve done more than most of the assholes in the notes.

Let me put it very plainly, TLDR: if you refuse to vote because you think it doesn’t make a difference or you think it’ll make you complicit in this country’s crimes, you are actively putting your personal comfort and moral purity above the lives of the Palestinian people, as well as above every vulnerable person in this country on top of it. If you want to save Palestine, start by not letting our god damn democracy go up in flames.

#us politics

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melodygatesauthor · 1 year

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Chapter 3: It's Wrong

prof!Steven Grant-Jake Lockley-Marc Spector X f!Reader

Edited by: @welcometostayingawake (she's the real MVP)

Mood Boards - Book Cover - Masterlist

Chapter Summary:

You have your first tutoring session with Steven. You both continue to struggle to keep it together.

Tags/Summary (these are for the ENTIRE fic):

college AU, no powers/not in MCU/no Khonshu, talk of mental illness, Marc has DID, forbidden relationship, age gap, reader is 21y/o, Boys are 38y/o, reader attends college in America but isn't necessarily American, smut, sex, masturbation, p in v, creampies galore, reader is on birth control, dubious consent due to identity issues, ANGST, romance, fluff and smut, oral sex, falling in love, reader is not race coded.

Word Count: 4.4k

It was Wednesday, and your eyes shot open no later than 6:30am. It wasn’t like you to be awake so early, but you knew you had history that morning and you hadn’t been able to shake your intrusive thoughts regarding your professor since you’d met him. Even Layla was surprised at your liveliness so early.

“God, you’re…peppy.” She said, rolling out of bed not long after you had.

It was hard sharing a small room and trying to stay quiet. You felt bad for waking her but you couldn’t help it.

“Yeah, sorry. Just trying to…” you couldn’t tell her the truth, “just trying to make a good impression on the new history professor so he’ll give me a good grade.”

Layla walked over to the wardrobe where you stood, putting on a little makeup for the day. She rifled through her clothes and pulled out a shirt. She held it out to you.

“I am never going to wear this, but if you want to make a good impression…this might do the trick.” She raised her eyebrows.

You held the shirt up in front of you. It had a low cut neckline, just enough to still leave something for the imagination. You scoffed and rolled your eyes.

“I can’t wear something like this.” You tried handing it back to her.

She pushed it back at you. “Just try it. Worst case scenario, you wear something normal next time.”

“Fine.” You conceded.

The shirt would be covered anyway as you pulled a warm jacket over your shoulders and headed to Moonbean for your morning coffee. You were about to open the door when you saw him there through the glass. Your breath hitched in your throat, and you lost all confidence. If you just went to class, you could avoid a very awkward interaction.

You remembered going back to your dorm last night after your final class. You hadn’t been able to stop thinking about your interaction with Steven at the printer. How sweet he was, grinning at you like that. No one had ever looked at you like that. Steven looks at you like he sees you for the first time every time, like you brightened his day just by showing up, his whole face softening when his eyes land on you. Like he was seeing you, the real you, without you even saying anything, the attraction between you so strong you swore everyone in the room could feel it. It made your stomach twist in the best way, and made your body tingle all over. Walking away from him in the printer room was even harder than it should’ve been, as though he were a magnet, pulling you back.

You remembered using your finger again that night to quell your need for him. Once more you were covering your mouth to hide your scandalous activities from your sleeping roommate in her own bed just feet away from you.

Unbeknownst to you, Steven was in his apartment that same night, palming his own release once again, trying to satiate the lust burning inside his core. He hadn’t been able to shake the thought of your pert bum pressing against his groin in the printer room, couldn’t stop his mind from recalling the way you looked bent over right in front of him at the perfect angle.

You reached out to grab the door handle to the cafe, hand shaking from the fear of seeing him and him knowing you’d touched herself to thoughts of him?

No, you thought, no no. Go to class.

You chose to continue your walk, avoiding him all together. You were early enough to class that no one was there when you walked in. After finding your seat, you pulled out your laptop and opened it. Suddenly, you felt nervous. Fantasizing about Steven was one thing, but being around him in person was another. You were hoping it wouldn’t inhibit your ability to focus through class like a normal student.

But it did.

He stepped into the classroom some time later, but you were still the only one in the room. He had two paper mugs in hand and made a mad shuffle to his desk. You realized that he had spilled some of the hot liquid from one of the cups all over the front of his shirt. Quickly, and conveniently, you remembered having a couple of napkins in your bag from lunch the day before. You grabbed them and ran to the desk.

“Here.” You held out the napkins.

“Oh, thank you I-“

He went slackjaw tracing his eyes over your hand up to the v-neck of your shirt. You watched him gulp hard before shaking his head and finally looking at your face.

“T-thank you.” He took the napkins, but kept his eyes on you.

“Yeah, no problem.” You said, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks.

What the hell are you doing? You thought. You never should’ve worn this damn shirt, you’re playing with fire.

“I, erm, I opened the door and when I stepped in it whacked me in the back. Nearly knocked both cups outta my hands.” He laughed, patting his shirt with the paper.

“Good thing you got two then.” You chuckled.

“Oh, well, one of them is…” he looked at them both, turning them and eyeing the sides before choosing one and holding it in front of you. “Yours.” He said, beaming. “Makin’ up for the other day. I hope I got it right.”

You sipped from the hot cup. “A bit more empty than usual, but otherwise, it’s perfect.” You gave him a reassuring grin.

You watched the tension leave his shoulders for a moment, until you heard the door to the lecture hall open. You struggled to look casual as you practically ran from Steven back to your seat, sinking down in your seat.

It was impossible not to feel yourself becoming uncomfortably aroused while he paced back and forth during his lecture. At one point, you found yourself with the end of your pen in between your teeth suggestively, and your legs crossed with your hand tucked into the apex of your thighs. You were watching him openly, not thinking about what he was discussing in the slightest.

Steven caught your eye, and he saw you with the pen between your lips. The way you sat there basically devouring him with your eyes, your arms pushed your breasts up beautifully. Why did you have to wear that damn shirt? Did you do it on purpose? Surely, you didn’t. You wouldn’t.

You sunk down in your seat again, breaking his line of sight. He had been silently staring for too long and you noticed a couple students looking at you. He cleared his throat and continued the lecture. When you chanced a look up again, he was positioned behind his podium. You furrowed your brow.

You knew. Steven could tell by the way you looked at him with those piercing eyes of yours from above your computer screen. You knew that he was hiding an erection while he stood there. He felt his cheeks get hot. Somehow, he managed to get through the lecture, but to say it was difficult was an understatement. Did you really have to look at him like that? Your eyes were so beautiful, wandering and hungry. He could see, even from where you sat near the back, that you were looking him all over, gaze eating him up even from where he stood behind the podium.

It was so hard to sit there like that, you knowing what he was hiding behind the podium. You’d never had sex before, but you still thought about what it would be like to have him take you right there on his desk. You imagined him running his arm over the surface and knocking everything off with reckless abandon and having his way with you right then and there.

Class was over both too soon and not soon enough for the thoughts running through your mind. You sped out of there so that you wouldn’t put yourself in another situation where you were alone with him. Though, part of you wanted to be alone with him. A big part of you wanted to be the last student to leave so you could stop, lock the door, and see where this went, but the bigger part of you remembered the reason you were there. You would ruin your future if you kept up this nonsense. Having a harmless fantasy was one thing, acting on it was another, so you decided to let it go.

Until later that is. You hadn’t forgotten that you’d be in his lecture hall again that night around 7:00pm when it was dark, but you’d hoped the awkwardness around the day would be over by then.

You still couldn’t be certain if he had known what you were doing or not, but you remembered. You were still thinking about all the things you wanted to do to him when you walked through the door. He looked up from his papers and over his glasses when you walked in. He pulled the frames off his face and smiled at you, your name falling off his tongue making your spine tingle.

“Why don’t you have a seat,” He said, standing up and grabbing a chair from one of the nearby tables and putting it next to his.

“Yeah, sure.” You said, walking over and sitting down.

You took your laptop bag off your shoulder and put it on the floor. When you took off your jacket, you watched Steven’s eyes catch on to your chest immediately before quickly looking at your face. You watched his throat bob.

“I-I’m sorry but do you think you could put your jacket back on?” He asked, taking you by surprise. “Just a bit inappropriate, innit? That shirt…”

The shirt wasn’t even that revealing, if Steven was being honest with himself. There was a little cleavage, sure, but nothing he hadn’t seen on several other students that very same day. It was because of the way it made him feel, you wearing it, that made it so much harder for him to handle.

You felt embarrassment wash over you and you wished you’d just worn something more normal. You quickly pulled the jacket back on. It was understandable to you that after the podium situation in class earlier that he would want you to keep yourself covered. It was evident that you were a distraction to him. The thought made you happier than it should’ve.

“Y-yeah, sorry about that. Laundry day you know?” You chuckled, hoping he bought your little lie.

“Oh yeah, I get that. Sorry, wasn’t trying to imply anything it’s just-“

“No, it’s fine. I get it.”

You saw him adjust his pants before settling for crossing his legs. Bless him, he was trying so hard to push it all down and be a good professor. You decided for his sake, and for yours, you’d better try to behave yourself. This wasn’t like you anyway, to act so boldly and put yourself out there. You didn’t know what it was about him that made you want to throw caution to the wind. You pulled the jacket closer to your frame.

“It’s my roommate’s shirt anyway. I don’t wear stuff like that.” You said, breaking the silence.

“Right. So, what is your major?” You wondered if he was irritated by the topic or just trying to stop thinking about the shirt for other reasons.

“Creative writing.” You said. “I know a lot of people don’t think it’s a real major, but I like it.”

“I think that’s great!” His eyes lit up. “I don’t have an artistic bone in my body. Always appreciate someone who’s creative though.” He chuckled. “What do you like to write about?”

This felt more like an interview about you than a lesson on history. He really needed to stop looking at you like that. His eyelids were hooded, deep with longing. Steven was anything but subtle in his lusty gaze, the way his dark irises seemed to twinkle in the dim light of the desk lamp. His eyes were unwavering and focused only on you, like you were the only thing that he cared about. He seemed so genuinely interested in what you were about to tell him.

“All kinds of stuff. R-romance,” your eyes locked to his knowingly. You cleared your throat before you continued, “um, fantasy, sci-fi…” you trailed off, realizing you were picking the skin around your nail. “I don’t know, I don’t really talk about it much.”

“I’m sorry if I made you nervous, it wasn’t intentional.” He furrowed his brow. “I’ve learnt in my years of teachin’ that if I can help give some meaning to history, in relation to the student, it helps them learn it better. Y’know what I mean?”

“That actually makes a lot of sense.” You said, nodding. “So how are you going to relate history to an intergalactic human and alien romance novel?”

I can’t believe I just said that, you thought, feeling yourself get nervous. It’s not like you were trying to impress him or anything, but you also didn’t want him to think you were a total weirdo.

His eyebrows raised, “sorry what?” He stifled a laugh.

“And that’s why I don’t share my writing with anyone.” You felt the heat rising to your face.

“N-n-no, I didn’t mean to sound like I was poking fun, I thought…it sounded like you were joking.” He looked concerned that he actually might have offended you.

“It’s fine.” You smiled, “if I’m being honest though, I would like to see how you can connect the two.” You narrowed your eyes, challenging him.

“Alright…” he trailed off, his lips curling into a ghost of a smile. “Without knowing your plot, unexpected romances and even forbidden ones have been a prevalent part of history since…well…the beginning of time, really.”

When you’d challenged him, you hadn’t expected him to actually take you up on it. You wondered if he knew the irony of the connections he made as he started discussing famous forbidden loves in history. You also didn’t have the heart to remind him that this tutoring session he was putting you through was completely unrelated to his very own material that he was teaching in class earlier that day.

“I see I’ve lost you, I can see your eyes have sort of…” he waved a hand in front of you, “glazed over.”

You shook yourself out of your thoughts, “I’m really sorry, I was thinking about…something else.”

“Well, to be fair, it wasn’t really related to what we’re discussing in class anyhow.” So he knew he was going off on a tangent.

“That’s alright, clearly you like talking about it. I’m sorry, truly. I’d love to hear you talk more about history. You’re very…passionate.” Instinctively, your hand reached out to touch his shoulder in comfort without thinking.

You quickly pulled away as though you’d touched a hot flame. He gulped again, eyes glued to yours. You felt the heat rise to your cheeks. You cleared your throat and looked down at your notebook.

“Let’s get on with it then, shall we?” He asked, adjusting himself again and scooting his chair closer to the desk.

He looked down at his glasses on the table and stared at them as though he were glaring at his reflection. You didn’t think too much about it, finding yourself distracted by the way his eyes wrinkled on the sides. You liked the way they looked like that. You’d never been interested in older men before, this was all new territory for you, new forbidden territory. He turned to you, startling you out of your train of thought.

“So, tell me what happened, why do you think you failed your class?” He put a sheet of paper over his glasses and then listened to you intently.

You explained how hard it was for you to grasp different dates and how they correlated to certain historical events. Then you went on about how it was hard for you to care about what happened to the people that came before you. At some point while you were talking, you realized his eyes weren’t looking at yours anymore, they were instead fixated dreamily on your lips. Experimentally, you decided to lick them, and then bite your bottom lip. His mouth fell open slightly.

“Erm, yeah, yep.” He shifted in his seat again. He let out a sharp exhale. “I’ve got to…” he put his jacket on. “I’ll be right back.”

Steven rushed to the bathroom. How was he supposed to get through a tutoring session with you when your eyes were staring up at him like that? Constantly hovering over his nether region, freezing on his lips from time to time. He was losing it, his own eyes stuck on your lips and how much he wanted to bite into your bottom lip, especially when you bit down on it. He must’ve looked so foolish trying to hide his growing erection as he nearly ran down the hall to the bathroom. Gripping the sink, he looked in the mirror, unable to understand what was coming over him. He’d never felt like this before, this out of control.

Steven. Marc said clearly from the headspace.

“Go away.” Steven ordered, shuffling into one of the stalls.

He ignored Marc, resolving to deal with him later. Right now he had something more pressing to tend to. He quickly undid his belt and brought his pants and boxer-briefs down to his thighs. His cock was leaking and erect already, it had been for a while. Steven wrapped his fingers around the base, ready to relieve himself but he didn’t know what came over him. This wasn’t like him, but there was something about you, something completely irresistible, something pulling him in that he couldn’t shake.

That shirt you wore really threw him off. The way your breasts sat perfectly in the V, demanding his attention. Then when you talked, seeing your perfect lips and the way your voice sounded while you playfully chatted with him. He grabbed the top of the bathroom stall for stability as he pumped his fist over himself.

He knew he shouldn’t, but he wondered what your lips would feel like in place of his fingers. That sweet mouth, your eyes staring up at him oh, wow, Steven thought, trembling. You were so young, too. Would you even know how to use your mouth on him? Would you look at him while you tried? Even if it was allowed, surely you wouldn’t be interested in him, an older man with an unhealthy history obsession and baggage to boot.

How wrong he was though.

You were wet and soaking through your panties. Just being around Steven had an effect on you like no other. You weren’t sure where he went, but when he didn’t come back right away you decided to go to the bathroom and clean yourself up and maybe splash some water on your face.

You cleaned yourself up quickly, wanting to make sure you got back to him before he realized you were gone. You kept thinking about the way he looked at your chest, how excited he was talking to you. You were sure you were wrong, but you liked to imagine that the reason he went to the bathroom was to jerk himself off.

“Stop it.” You said to yourself, pulling your pants back up and going to the sink.

Steven’s cock ached with a need to be buried inside of you, a hunger that his palm could only barely satisfy. The stall rattled under the pressure of his grip while he continued stroking his length to the thought of you. He felt dirty, he felt wrong, but it felt so good. And you were so pretty. He dropped a glob of saliva over the shaft to make his fingers slide easier.

You pooled the water in your hands and tossed it over your face. It felt refreshing against your hot cheeks.

“Oh, my…” Steven’s cock pumped spurts of cum into the toilet bowl.

His knuckles turned white around the stall. He hadn’t even taken how loud he was being into consideration, completely lost in the fantasy. It felt so good, he couldn’t help himself. You were dangerous for him, you were leading him to do things he wouldn’t normally do. Like jerk himself off to the thought of you in the bathroom on school grounds.

He looked in the mirror on his way out, staring at his reflection with a heavy frown while he rinsed his hands clean.

“I’m not saying it again, Marc, or Jake, whoever is listenin’.” He shook his hands dry. “You had the body for years. Leave me alone.”

When the two of you returned to the classroom, it was more awkward than when you’d left. There was no denying he had touched himself. His hair was more disheveled than before, skin so flushed he clearly had been sweating, and now he seemed more calm than when he’d left.

You looked a little flustered, and much more focused than before. Oddly enough, it gave him some semblance of comfort to think that you were both struggling, like you were in it together. He still hoped that this infatuation would fade though, he knew he could lose his job over pursuing it, and he knew that you could face expulsion.

Steven broke the awkwardness by actually tutoring you for the next hour. Now that the pent up sexual desire was temporarily dealt with, the two of you were able to get through a few chapters without a hitch.

“You’ll get it eventually. Takes a bit to memorize it all.” He said, giving you an encouraging smile.

“Thanks, Steven.” You looked down at the floor nervously. “I should probably get back to the dorm, it’s almost nine.”

You grabbed your notebook and pen, putting it in your bag long with your textbook. You stood up, pulling the strap over your shoulder and turning to leave. Steven’s voice stopped you in your tracks.

“Would you like me to walk you back? Pretty dark out, could be dangerous.” You turned and faced him. “I m-mean if you don’t want me-“

“No, um, I’d like that actually.” You said, smiling. “That would be really nice.”

It can be dangerous for a woman to walk home alone at night, you said to yourself as Steven smiled at you, opening the door. It’s a good idea, a genius idea even, to have him walk you home. You’d be an idiot not to take his help when it’s presented to you.

The two of you were awkwardly silent for a while, until you were nearing Moonbean Coffee. It surprised you when Steven brought up the irony of your meeting each other at the coffee shop.

“What are the odds that you of all people show up behind me and cover my coffee? Of anyone it could’ve been, my student.” He had an air of amusement in his tone.

You looked over at him, sharing in his amusement with a smile of your own.

“I know, like…could’ve been anyone else but it was…” you looked up into his eyes while you walked. “You.”

You both stopped walking and stared at each other for a moment. It may have been a moment too long, but to you it wasn’t long enough. You saw him turn his head and look into his reflection in a car window. His brow furrowed. He was either questioning his life choices, standing there walking his student home, or he was angry at his own image. Either way, he looked back at you finally and smirked.

“So, what do students do around here? Do you go to any…art galleries or…” The two of you started walking again.

Steven, you take her home now, and then never speak to her again outside of class, you hear me? Marc said loudly. Steven ignored him.

“I actually love art galleries, but no, we usually go out drinking or just…” You shrugged, “I don’t know, I guess sometimes I personally like to just read or write.”

“Oh? Do you have a favorite book?”

Steven? Are you listening?

You stopped in front of your dorm building door.

“That answer will have to wait for another day. This is my stop.”

You fantasized for a moment that Steven would just lean forward and kiss you. For just a moment, you lived in a world where nothing mattered except you and him and he could pull you close. Where he was just a sweet guy you met at the coffee shop who walked you home, bidding you goodnight. But it was just a fantasy, and instead he gave you an awkward and strained, “g’night!” with a wave before walking swiftly away from you.

What you didn’t see was Steven stopping on the street corner next to the rearview mirror of a parked car.

“Steven, I shouldn’t have to tell you that this is wrong.” Marc said, scowling at Steven in the reflection.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I don’t want to be, but you’re going to mess everything up...Steven, what are you…”

Steven wasn’t the angry type, and he wasn’t sure if it was the pent up guilt fueling his rage, or if it was something else, but he wasn’t going to let Marc run his life. He ripped the mirror off the car and threw it into the street. He’d already taken a backseat and let them ruin his life for long enough. He wasn’t going to do it again. Marc and Jake had the body for years, forcing him through a living hell, it was his turn now. They’d promised.

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mercutio-the-velaryon · 7 months

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*gen v spoilers*

I talk so much about Jordan on here for someone whose favourite character is actually Marie, so let me sing her praises.

Let me just say, it is so nice to have not only a woman but a black woman protagonist with vile violent powers. I know we've had a ton of strong female superheros with superstrength and what not. But Marie's power is viewed as "putrid" and "disgusting" (not to me I think they're cunty), its powerful but not marketable (hence Brink's rejection). There's something about that, it just feels cathartic to see someone so strong and powerful have their foil be that their powers aren't beautiful, flowery or socially acceptable. Like Marie as a person/supe innately rages against the system. It also kind of speaks to the way black women are conditioned to define their worth by the standards of white femininity through white supremacy and then are constantly denied it. Within the patriarchy, women are defined by their fragility, their delicateness, their innocence, their need for protection but when it comes to woc (Black women especially) they are considered to exist outside of those bounds, outside of those needs.

I just think a lot of care and consideration went into crafting such a dynamic layered character like more of this, actually, please, and thanks.

Diverging from the Marie praise:

Another interesting note, is that when the board is deciding what narrative they should use to cover up the Golden Boy incident, its specifically mentioned that Marie is being favoured by the public, for her beauty, mind you she was just standing there in the video, she didn't use her abilities at all. The reason she ended up in the top 10 is in spite of her powers, I wonder if the result would still be the same if she did use them (I honestly don't think so).

Diving into the top ten a little more, I don't think there's a single person on there who placed purely because of merit. I think there's a series of criteria that needs to be met regarding power, status, and popularity. We saw how quickly Andre got bodied by Sam. He's definitely top 10 because of nepotism as well as the fact that he's just attractive. Jordan Li is there because of their close relationship with Brink (albeit probably formed because of how strong Jordan is, but I digress). But their also the acceptable inoffensive kind of queer that can give God U points for diversity without offending its more conservative sponsors or benefactors. Jordan's also attractive, in both forms, so that helps as well. Golden Boy's an all-rounder, an all-American attractive white boy with an ability that's not only strong but makes for entertaining spectacle.

Andre, Golden Boy, and Jordan's powers are all powerful, but just as importantly, they're aesthetically pleasing and aspirational that, among other reasons, is why they're top 10.

Let me get into Cate and Emma another day.

#gen v #jordan li #marie moreau #gen v amazon #gen v spoilers #andre anderson #golden boy #luke riordan #gen v theories #overanalysis #sorry yall I have to put my media and comms degree that i haven't finished to work #i could go into heavy detail #and i did #I'm not reading this back #representation matters #black women in media

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religion-is-a-mental-illness · 4 months

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Since your chat settings prevent me from responding to you, I'm going to do it publicly. Because I can and I choose to.

Right off the bat, let's get this out of the way: the word is "your."

I find this attitude fascinating. Don't misunderstand, it doesn't reflect on me, it reflects on the smoothbrains spewing Ad Hominems.

But let's do a little analysis on the topics of my non-"anti-religion" posts, shall we?

I post about opposing medical mutilation of kids who are overwhelmingly gay, autistic, traumatized or just gender non-conforming. -- Are you saying that accurately diagnosing autism and trauma, letting gay kids be gay, not giving kids pornography in schools, and not cutting the breasts of tomboys or the testicles off femme boys is "MAGA"?

I post about the low quality evidence in so-called "gender affirming care," as demonstrated by the reviews in multiple European countries. -- Are you saying that a dogged commitment to science and evidence is "MAGA"?

I post about how, while gender dysphoria is a demonstrable medical condition, "gender identity" even conceptually is based on stereotypes, contradictory and self-refuting (if it's a "social construct," your "gender identity" would be different in a different society), and a "gender identity" that is untethered from all biology is ultimately indistinguishable from the Xian notion of a "soul" that is untethered from all biology. -- Are you saying that skepticism of things that can't be shown to be real is "MAGA"?

I post about Claudine Gay being protected from criticism for her skin color, despite demonstrated career-long plagiarism, overseeing the steadfast suppression of free speech (as shown by FIRE's rankings where Harvard got a zero) and imposition of a specific postmodern orthodoxy, and her hypocrisy over her retreat regarding antisemitism at Harvard to the same "free speech" she systematically suppressed. -- Are you saying that consistent expectations, consistent standards, is "MAGA"?

I post about racial discrimination in STEM programs which disproportionately disadvantages Asian kids. -- Are you saying that opposition to racial discrimination is "MAGA"?

I post about male suicides, male victims of domestic violence, male victims of sexual assault, male victims of false accusations, and the statistics surrounding them that don't get the attention they need. -- Are you saying that equality and recognising statistics and evidence to inform reality and public policy is "MAGA"?

I post about how authoritarianism, narcissistic personality disorder, controlling others and even mistreating others are reliably the motivations for activists who don't have a pro-social motivation. -- Are you saying that not submitting to or giving power to those with malevolent, narcissistic and psychopathic intent is "MAGA"?

I post about how Kendi and Gay promote a victimhood and defeatist mindset in black Americans based on a grand conspiracy theory, one which perpetuates problems in society, solves nothing and only serves to inflate the standing and bank balances of elites who don't understand the actual problems or causes (e.g. crime, fatherlessness, literacy), don't care to, and will call you names if you try to. -- Are you saying that responsibility, empowerment, and the rejection of "god did it" faux-answers is "MAGA"?

I post about how nuts it is for western college students and even LGBT people to support a terrorist organization that has the explicitly stated goal of conquering the world and forcing everyone to adopt Islam, who would be thrown off the nearest roof if they ever actually stepped foot on their territory, while excoriating and chanting for the destruction of the only country in the region with the same values as they pretend to hold. -- Are you saying that not supporting religious fundamentalist terrorists and not endorsing a global jihad is "MAGA"?

I post about MLK Jr's speech-writer being frustrated at King's message being lost, with people pretending that nothing has gotten better, and with current-day messaging that society is irredeemably damaged (sinful) and preaching a form of nihilism that the same results that they use to justify their ideology in the first place (self-fulfilling). -- Are you saying that black empowerment and personal excellence is "MAGA"?

And the one I strongly suspect instigated this in the first place, but I wasn't about to let you get away that easily... I post about Chris Rufo working to reinstate merit, color blind policy ("the content of their character"), outlaw racial discrimination, rejection of both left-wing and right-wing identarianism, and refocus institutions back to their original mission, which is inquiry, knowledge production and the pursuit of truth, and away from their current obsession with producing nothing but grievance-motivated identity politics bullshit and fragile, mentally ill activists. -- Are you saying that merit, colorblindness, rejection of racial discrimination and the pursuit of objective truth are "MAGA"?

You may wonder why I read, share and endorse a post from a conservative. Aside from this being literally the Genetic Fallacy, I have a much better question: why do I have to? Why do I have to go to a conservative like Chris Rufo to see a commitment to objective reality, non-discrimination, freedom of speech, academic integrity, institutional neutrality and, you know, stuff like adhering to the U.S. Constitution and the Fourteenth Amendment in higher education institutions? And why am I not seeing it from cheerleaders and publications from "the left"; the once, but possibly no longer, "trust the science" side?

I would probably disagree with Mr. Rufo on a number of topics, but I don't care. What I know is that while he's a conservative, he's a liberal conservative. Yes, that's a thing - "liberal" as a synonym for "left-wing" is an American oddity.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Liberalism

Liberalism is a political and moral philosophy based on the rights of the individual, liberty, consent of the governed, political equality, right to private property and equality before the law. Liberals espouse various and often mutually warring views depending on their understanding of these principles but generally support private property, market economies, individual rights (including civil rights and human rights), liberal democracy, secularism, rule of law, economic and political freedom, freedom of speech, freedom of the press, freedom of assembly, and freedom of religion, constitutional government and privacy rights.

Liberalism doesn't prescribe "progressivism" or "conservatism," much less that you are one thing all the time, rather than being generally "progressive" or "conservative" on an issue-by-issue basis.

Which is how I find myself often having more in common, generally, with Mr. Rufo than with liars, frauds and con artists such as Kendi, Gay, DiAngelo, Turban, Montgomerie and their ilk. Because while we might disagree on how to do liberalism, we at least agree on its shared values as a starting point. Liberal progressives and liberal conservatives can actually communicate and work together. Illiberal fantasists, grifters and authoritarians - on both sides - are irrational zealots.

I'll pick a conservative liberal over a radical, social constructivist, relativist, illiberal windbag every. single. time. Without any guilt. Because I'm not a tribalist. I think for myself, and I don't just "go along" in order to obtain and keep the tribe's approval, or out of fear of tribal retribution if I don't signal the acceptable ways. For I am not a sheep.

During the nonsense that was the 2+2=5 war a couple of years ago, an insane activist said, and I quote, "you know who else is deeply invested in math's 'neutrality'? Literal white supremacists." Sure. Because the KKK and Nazis were absolute sticklers for objective reality, evidence and empiricism. That sure sounds right. /s

You sound the same. As I said in the beginning, taking merit, color blindness, rejection of identarianism, removal of authoritarian thought-police, adherence to constitutional law, reinstatement of academic freedom and integrity, and pursuit of truth... and then casting them as values of "MAGA" reflects on you, not on me.

How the hell did you get here? How did you become so morally confused? Do you even know?

[ Source: Colin Wright ]

I'm where I've always been. Posting the above topics and posting "anti religious views" are entirely, completely consistent. They're based on the same values. For example, Xian creationism isn't any more true than the so-called "sex spectrum" - both are a denial of evolution.

Somewhere, only you can determine where, you absolutely lost your way.

One thing I do find amusing is that you're not really doing yourself any favors here. Calling people names so that they want nothing to do with you will only result in you wailing and crying when you find nobody wants to align themselves with you. It's self-defeating and deranged.

Unsurprisingly, it's also a tactic adopted by Hollywood.

Note that this is fake, but is the same "strategy" consistently adopted by Hollywood for every project in recent iterations of what-used-to-be-Star Wars, what-was-once-Marvel, what's-called-but-is-no-longer-Doctor Who: attack the fans who made the franchise what it was, call them names and say they're not welcome, then pretend you're the victim rather than the villain when your project fails. DARVO means Deny, Attack, Reverse Victim and Offender.

Xians call atheists "sinners' and "wicked" in order to convince them to convert to Xianity. You know, because atheists who don't believe in a magical space imp sure believe in the magical space imp's dungeon. That's the same tactic you're using. How's that working out for them, and how's that working for you?

What I would also point out is that the people who were calling everyone "Nazis" (e.g. people who know that 2+2=4) and declaring for themselves an unchallengeable right to physically assault anyone they decided was one... turned out to be the real Nazis, marching in the street, calling for the extermination of Jews.

Something to think about in regard to where you're heading.

#private messages #you might be the villain #liberalism #liberal ethics #religion is a mental illness

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seenoversundown · 4 months

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Sparrow Of the Dawn : Chapter 4

Sam Kiszka x Willa (Female OC) Warnings: Teasing (in the making fun of each other way), dark humor, subtle pining, cursing, mentions of drinking/alcohol, and a lot of clumsy girl behavior.

Word Count: 7.6k

Summary : Sam unfortunately finds himself in not so meet cute with Willa. Hopeful that he doesn't cross her path again; the world works in mysterious ways and not always in your favor.

Author's Note: Just wanted to take a second to leave some resources in regards to learning about and assisting those affected by the genocide in Palestine. There aren’t words strong enough to convey how devastating the loss is. I will leave a few resources I have found linked and always remember that we’re not free until Palestine is free. #Ceasefire #FreePalestine 🇵🇸

• Six Ways To Help

• Carrd Full of helpful Links and Resources

• Daily Click!

Gives You Hell - All American Rejects “When you see my face, hope it gives you hell, gives you hell.”

I feel like I could fight God when my alarm clock goes off in the morning and my first thought is that I'll have to see Sam all day. Oh, great ruler of the Cosmos, please grant me the strength to get through this day. So mote it be.

I slither out of bed like the morning gremlin I am, pull on my robe, and head out to the kitchen, where I know Quinn is already waiting.

Quinn and I developed this cute morning routine back in college, where we met. We attended SCAD together and were lucky enough that we got along so well, both being art majors. Them in Art History and me in Photography. We used to cross the campus early enough to beat the lines, almost regretfully. We’re not exactly the greatest of morning people. I’d get the drinks, though, and they get the food. Only back then, it was just them assembling the breakfast sandwiches in the cafeteria while I tried to make the instant coffee drinkable. These days, it’s homemade lattes and skillfully grilled sandwiches. A vast improvement from our younger days.

“Good morning, Willard,” They beam at me through heavily hooded eyes, already pulling out a pan.

“Morning,” comes out of my mouth in a choppy groan.

“Breakfast sammies?” They wiggle the pan a little.

“Don’t!” I hold up my finger, “That is a banned word in this house.” I sit down on one of the stools at our island and place my head in my hands.

“Breakfast?” they inquire.

“No, Sammy.”

“Okayyyy.. Do you want a breakfast ‘he-who-shall-not-be-named?” they let out a chuckle.

“HA HA, very funny,” I roll my eyes, “- but yes, please.”

I make my way to the espresso machine, grabbing the portafilter and grinding up some fresh beans. I tamp down the grinds and place them back in their rightful spot before pressing the button to queue up the process. Repeating for Quinn’s second shot. Quinn is the complete opposite of basic in every aspect except their coffee order. A Vanilla Oat Milk latte, every time. I make it with extra love because that’s how it should be made. I quickly move on to my latte, only slightly adjacent to basic with toasted marshmallow flavoring instead.

Finishing at roughly the same time we trade specialties and they say “Okay, all wrapped and ready to go when you are.”

“No, I have the time to sit and eat with you Quinny the Pooh, so that’s what I’m going to do.” I smile and make my way to the island in our kitchen. I prop up on my same stool and unwrap my sandwich. God, this looks good. If they weren’t an art teacher, they could hack it as a chef.

Taking the first bite and rolling my eyes in the back of my head, “Good GOD, Quinn, you have outdone yourself again.”

“Thank you, Thank you. So tell me, how prepared are you to see Childish Sambino today?”

The glare I send them over my sandwich is deadly. “Do you have to talk about him?”

“We could talk about his mouth instead,” sending me a sideways glance.

“Oh, would you look at that,” I glance down at my bare wrist as if it contained the most interesting watch. “I’m actually running late. I need to get ready for work.” I set my sandwich back down on the paper and rewrap it to take it to go.

“Have a good day. Make good choices because we just paid rent and I don’t have bail money,” They laugh maniacally. I send them a snarky glare back before shutting my bedroom door behind me.

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When I make it to the Portland Press Herald office, I open the door, and I’m greeted with the sweet face of an older woman working the desk. Thank god it’s not another Daisy. I’d rather jump off the building than have to watch Sam flirt with another girl all day.

She leads me through the hallways until we reach a set of cubicles in the back corner.

“Alright, this one is yours,” She points to the closest cubicle. “And this one,” she points to the cubicle diagonally across from it. “Is Samuel’s. I’ll send him over when he gets here and you can point it out to him if he gets lost.” Well, at least I won’t have to look directly at him.

I start unloading my belongings onto my new desk and trying to arrange them perfectly. When Sam makes his appearance, he rounds the corner looking so good it's painful. The slim, dark blue slacks on his legs just hit the tops of his black Chelsea boots. A mixed red and blue sweater makes home on his chest, don’t think about his chest, with a navy linen winter jacket over top. God, he looks good. Annoying. No man my age looks like that let alone knows how to actually dress themselves.

When I come to my senses, he’s standing expectantly next to my desk. Looking at me like he’s waiting for my reply to a question I haven’t heard him ask. Not willing to give in and appear like I’ve just been thinking about how hot this man I hate is, I dodge.

I point to the clock reading 7:58 am, “Cutting it a little close, huh, Sammy boy.”

“It might not have been so close if you were sitting here staring at me like I’m a piece of meat.” He chides. Internally, I cringe. Yep, I was definitely not subtle. “I had car troubles,” He mumbles in a low tone, “Can you just show me which desk I’m supposed to sit at.” I wave my arm over toward his desk, and he walks away to get settled in his own space. Far away from me.. Well, okay, it's not that far, but it's far enough for me.

He’s in a monumentally bad mood this morning, and after a while the sighs of frustration he's letting out start to tick me off. Who breathes that loudly on a normal day? We’re stuck inside the building researching things until we have an event or idea to even photograph, which is bad enough without the sound of his mouth. I just hope we can get it together sooner rather than later. The faster we find a subject matter, the more time we have to capture it. I hear another loud sigh.

“Could you be any louder, Sam? All I can hear is your huffing?” I stand to get him in my eyeline over the divider. Big mistake. He’s wearing glasses now? I didn’t know he wore glasses. It should be illegal, to be honest, for him to look that good.

“I’m just existing, Willa. Sorry that my existence annoys you.” He pauses, “Actually, I’m not sorry at all. I take great pleasure in the fact that my mere presence sends you into a fit of rage.” He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms with a cocky smile.

Oh dear god, I definitely didn't prepare for this, this morning.

“This is not a fit of rage.” I sit back down calmly. Nope, not entertaining this today.

After a few minutes, it’s Sam’s turn to stand. If I lift my head, then I have to talk to him, so I stare at my computer screen where I’m currently researching different parks in the area. He clears his throat, and I don’t move. I will not be beckoned by his antics. He clears his throat louder this time.

“Yes, Samuel.” I finally stop and clasp my hands together, annoyed.

“When did that cafe open up? The new down the road?”

“A couple months ago. Why? Are you going to buy me a coffee to make up for annoying me this morning?” A pleasantly sarcastic smile makes its way to my lips.

“HAH, you wish. No, I thought it could be something to check out for the project.”

“I would hardly call that cafe something that is notable about Maine. It just opened.”

Clearly offended, he states, “Alright, let’s hear your big idea then?”

Sighing heavily, “I know I opened the dialogue here with you Sam, but I’ve suddenly realized that I am far too under-caffeinated to continue to be annoyed by you.”

“Well,” he laughs a little, adding fuel to the fire that is my irritation, “Aren’t you just a breath of vile air this morning.” he snarks.

“I might be more pleasant if your voice wasn’t so grating.” I shoot back. If tension were a physical entity in this moment, someone would be slicing it like a block of cheese being prepped for a charcuterie board. My stomach grumbles slightly. Oh, I am not going to let this man ruin charcuterie boards for me just because I am hangry.

“Shhhh,” someone a few isles extends their distaste for our conversation.

“See, look at what you’ve done.”

“Oh, what I’ve done. I didn’t realize I was talking to myself here.” He defends.

I sit back down in a huff. I cannot believe I have to spend the next few days with this man. A fact that makes it very hard not to get increasingly frustrated by the task at hand. It's March, there’s not a whole lot going on in the city and instead of a partner who is easy to collaborate with, I'm stuck with him.

Just as I get ready to do more digging, I get an email.

Samuel F. Kiszka shared a document with you.

I wonder what the F stands for. I click the link. Compelled by my own nonsense, I sing in my head ‘Wheezy F baby and the F is for front door.’

The document is titled ‘Ideas’ and a singular sentence is typed.

Since you can’t stand the sound of my voice and we can’t talk without getting heavily shushed by Susan B. NoseyPants, does this work?

Why is this simultaneously endearing and aggravating? Because yes, yes, it does work.

We take the time over what feels like a few hours bouncing ideas back and forth, and nothing seems to land with either of us.

Sam: Museums, theaters, ect, ect we even have Funtown for the kids?

Me: You want to lead with Funtown? Palace Playland is better AND by the beach even? If you don’t believe in it, neither will the people at the newspaper.

Sam: I’m not even going to entertain that argument because Palace Playland is definitely NOT better. Have you ever been on the Excalibur?

We both stare at the document, watching the line blink on the screen when the banter is no longer fun. He stands suddenly. “I’m hungry.” He states plainly. “It's almost lunchtime.”

“Astute observation, Samuel. Should we promote you to Captain Obvious?”

“You’re actually the funniest person I’ve ever met, you know. No. I know a place, you and I are going to go get lunch.” He puts on his coat and grabs his bag walking over to my side of the desks.

“We are? When did I agree to that?” skepticism heavy in my tone.

“Just now.” The manner in which he speaks matter-of-factly almost has me giving in instantly. Almost. “We need to get out of these little satanic cubes of torture and do some brainstorming. But we need brain food. I’m hungry. You’re hungry. We’re going, but you have to drive.”

“How do you know I’m hungry?”

“I’ve heard your stomach growling for over an hour.”

“Fine.” I concede. “But you’re paying.” I grab my heavy cardigan, slipping it on, and then grabbing my purse.

“That’s the spirit.” He says jovially, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. I try not to think too hard about the grip he has on me as we make our way downstairs.

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The atmosphere of the restaurant he picked, “La Fromage”, is almost a bit uppity. How stuck up can you really be if you name your restaurant literally just ‘the cheese’. The lighting is low, even for the daytime, despite the two main windows in the front. The antique sconces create a nice, warm ambiance. It's a small room with bar seating and a few booths, which is where we take up residence right next to one of the windows. We’re tucked away in the corner but not too close to the front door. I slide into the booth against the wall while Sam takes the chair nearest to the walkway.

“This place looks nice. I’ve never heard of it before. How’d you find it?” I’d be a fool to think he hasn't taken a girl here on a date before. He's young and attractive. A fact I would never admit out loud because it would just inflate his already massive ego. I’m sure he doesn’t have a problem dating, something I clearly can’t relate to. He did seem to hit it off with Daisy. I imagine this place in the evening; with the street lights coming in through the windows mixing with the amber lighting, it definitely sets a romantic tone. Much different than the tone of an afternoon in the middle of a work week. It would be lovely to come here on a date instead of a bar.

“They have a location in Boston, not far from where I went to school. I heard they opened a location up here not too long ago, but I haven’t come by yet. This seemed like the perfect opportunity.” He picks up the menu, giving it a once over before settling on the alcoholic portion. So he hasn’t been here on a date.. Yet. Ugh. Stop it. “You should get a glass of wine or something.” Not bothering to glance up at me.

“I’m driving, Sam,” I state plainly.

“If one glass of wine gets you drunk enough to not be able to drive you have other things to worry about,” he looks almost concerned for a moment before his face completely shifts. “Is that why you spilled your drink all over your date the other night?”

God, must I relive this? Why is he bringing it up? As if he has no idea it was his fault. “Sam, you snuck up behind me and scared me half to death. I jumped, it tipped. That’s it.”

“If that’s your story.” The Cheshire cat smile painted on his lips looks almost good enough to smack. With my hand. Definitely my hand.

I’m about to make a case for myself when the waiter approaches.

“Afternoon, I’m Hunter. I'll be taking care of you today.” He looks over at me and winks. .. okay??? “Can I start you off with something to drink?”

Sam answers before my mouth even opens. “We’ll have two glasses of the 19 crimes red, please.” Why is he ordering for me? Hunter glances over at me like he’s trying to get a read on me. I realize then that my mouth is hung open slightly in disbelief.

“Is that okay with you?” Hunter asks me. Sam scoffs.

“Uh yes, yes, that’s fine.” I gain my composure and continue. “I’ll just also have a glass of water with no lemon, please. Thank you.” And with that, he turns and walks away. I don’t say anything. I just stare at Sam. He’s still gazing at his menu, brow furrowed a bit like he's mulling through his choices and can’t figure out what sounds good.

“19 crimes.” I chime. “Sounds devious. Did you commit all 19 by yourself? Or are you trying to drag me with you now?”

He laughs. “You know you have to look at the menu in order to find something to eat, Willa.” The sound of my name on his tongue is jarring. Again, he’s not looking at me. I take his advice hastily grabbing my menu, peering at him over the top. There’s a smirk on his face. What is his deal?

Hunter appears with our wine and my water with a lemon. Not wanting to create a fuss over a lemon I can very easily remove, I just say thank you when he sets it down on the oakwood table.

“She asked for water without a lemon,” Sam’s face is serious; I sit there, horrified at the inconvenience to the waiter.

“Oh, it's fine, really. Don’t-” he cuts my protest short, and I fidget, tucking my hair behind my ears.

“You asked for water with no lemon, Willa. This isn’t what you asked for.” Hunter takes the glass from his hand. When he turns and heads toward the kitchen, I whisper, “You didn’t have to do that, Sam. It’s not a big deal. Plus, that was kind of rude.”

“It’s not rude to expect to get what you asked for. You wanted water with no lemon, so you’ll get water with no lemon.” He says with finality. Why is that… attractive? I think he mistakes my stare as distaste for his commentary and quickly follows it up with, “If it makes you feel better, I’ll make sure to tip him well.” He shrugs a little.

I exhale heavily through my nose and change the subject, “What are you gonna get to eat?”

“The Gnocchi alla Sorrentini. What about you?”

“I was thinking of the Saffron Risotto aux Champignons. Have you tried it?” My mind drifts back to how many times he’s probably been to the other location and with whom. Wondering how many of these dishes he’s tried or if the menu is different there. How many glasses of wine he’s had or shared.

“I have. It’s my favorite dish here. It’s very good,” When he flashes me a small, slightly lopsided smile, my heart squeezes in my chest. “I think you’ll like it.”

We place our orders when Hunter comes back with my corrected water. He doesn’t make eye contact with Sam, but Sam looks directly at him when he tells him what he wants. There’s an obvious confidence about him that I like and something under the surface that feels almost like a challenge. Daring Hunter to look at him to know he has the upper hand on.. what, I can't figure out. Is this just some weird macho alpha male thing? I feel like one of them might start peeing on the floor to mark their territory in a minute.

I tell Hunter my order and then switch my gaze to the window. Something I’ve always loved about Maine is the water. Across the street, back behind the sidewalk, is a relatively short dock. You can walk down it and see some of the boats lined up. There aren’t many since the area is narrow, but you can see out toward the river. Sometimes, you can see people in smaller fast boats; other times, it's the larger fishing boats. I once took a walk down that dock with an out-of-town friend of mine, and there was a lone man on his fishing boat throwing some lobsters back into the river. He offered to let us hold one for a photo which absolutely tickled my friend pink.

Hunter brings our food out and disappears without any other commentary. I’m not sure I could handle another moment of ‘big men puff out chest be intimidating’ behavior. I take a bite of the risotto, which tastes as good as it looks. God, I’m going to have to take Quinn here. They'd absolutely love it.

My thoughts are interrupted when a bird perched on the ledge just at the edge of the window catches my eye. And suddenly..

“Sam.” My eyes were fixated on the bird. He hums. “Do you .. hike?” Unsure if he’s an outdoorsy kind of guy, given how well he dresses himself.

“Yeah, all the time, why?”

“Maine is the pine tree state.” He sends me another mhm, not fully following my thought, “You know what one of my favorite things to shoot on hikes is?” I point toward the bird in the window, not giving him a chance to respond.

“Nature. Literally, Maine is full of it. Like Acadia National Park? ‘Bah habah’” I say, mocking the more northern pronunciation of Bar Harbor.

Finally, he reaches me at the mental finish line, “Nature! Birds, Trees, Parks, Woods.. No, you’re right? That’s what makes Maine, Maine.”

“Okay, but also beyond this little bird in the window, there’s the dock. Maine is incredibly coastal, lobsters and allathat. We could do both. Like the duality of the State. Woods and Water.”

“Woods and water.” He repeats, taking a bite of his gnocchi. “Actually, you know what else could be a good idea? Old and New.”

“Old and new? What do you mean?”

“Digital and Print. I have a bunch of old film cameras. I kind of collect them,” a slight rosy tint covers his cheeks. “We could take an assortment of both digital and film photos and present both to the editors.”

“Sam, that's brilliant!” It takes us approximately three seconds to realize in my excitement, I’ve grabbed his hand that was laid on the table. We both pull away at the same time.

He clears his throat, “If you wanted, when we’re done, we could drive to my apartment, and we can take a look at the cameras I have and then figure out a plan.”

“Yeah, that sounds great,” my meal suddenly becoming the most interesting thing to look at.

After a small bit of silence, Hunter comes back with our checks. Yep, checks. Plural. Sam noticeably shifts in his seat. He is apparently incredibly put off by this, and he bites out, “Just one check will do, Heath.”

“It’s Hunter.” He corrects, unamused, as he grabs the checks.

“Sure.” is all Sam says.

I laugh. I giggle, actually. Profusely. The situation at hand is far too entertaining to hold it in any longer.

“What?” Sam grills me.

“Heath! You know his name is Hunter.” I try to cover my giggle with my hand.

“I do, but I had to knock him down a peg. Assuming that I’d make you pay for your food?” he scoffs.

“I am not breaking up a fight, so reel it in, buddy.” I shake my head.

Hunter arrives with a corrected, singular check, sending us off with a ‘have a very pleasant day.’ Probably trying to play up a last-ditch effort of hospitality to ensure a decent tip still. Sam’s brow furrows as he looks over the check, he sets it down and runs his hand through his hair. No man should have hair that beautiful. My hair isn't even that beautiful. He starts to furiously pat himself down.

“I.. think I left my wallet in the office.” Oh great. Wonderful. Annoys me all morning, cons me into driving, and now I have to pay.

He winks at me, “Just kidding.” Tucking a few bills into the check holder and standing. What’s with everyone winking at me?

“Asshole.” I roll my eyes, grab my jacket, and slide out of the booth. As I stand, my foot catches on the leg of the table, and I slip. Sam rushes over to steady me upright back on my feet.

“Wow, you really are a cheap date, huh?” he jests. I try not to think about that too hard. “You sure you’re okay to drive?”

“I’m fine. My foot got caught, okay? I am not drunk. It was one glass.”

“Sounds like something a drunk person would say.” His laugh is infectious, and I hate it. It's very hard to stay annoyed at someone who laughs like they’re high on edibles all the time. But not in a Beavis and Butthead kind of way, in a carefree kind of way.

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The drive to Sam’s apartment is short; he lives closer than he made it seem which makes it easy. What is not easy, however, is the fact that there's off-street parking. I end up parking my Silver Honda CRV down the road a little by a very creepy looking ally, and we make the short walk back to his apartment. He lives on the second floor, so we at least avoid being locked in an elevator again and just take the stairs.

“Soo, I wasn’t expecting company, so don’t expect it to be too clean. And I should also warn you…”

“Warn me about what,” I say nervously. He opens the door in lieu of a response, and one of the largest dogs I’ve ever seen comes skidding across the floor. The dog jumps on Sam as he gently coos, “Woah down girl, down.” He scratches her behind the ears and continues his adoration. “How’s my girl today, huh? Did you miss me? Daddy missed you so much while he was gone.” Oh.

I step into the apartment and close the door behind me, coming into her view. She switches gears and suddenly jumps at me with full force. Given her size, and me being the least graceful person on the planet. I almost fall on my ass.

“Op,” I blow a puff of air toward my nose, trying to get some of her hair out of the way. When I steady myself on two solid feet, thank you very much, I ask, “And what’s your name, pretty girl? I didn’t know you had a dog.”

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me. It’s Penelope, by the way.” Sam replies. “Or Duchess, or Penny, Penny girl. Whichever you prefer.”

“Penelope is a pretty name. You hear that? Pretty name for a pretty girl huh?” I coo in a slight baby voice. She is a gorgeous dog even if she is large. Her coat is incredibly soft. It's covered in black and brown with white all down her belly and just a bit on her nose.

“You know you can come in, right? You don’t have to stand by the door?” He waves me in.

“Uhm, actually. I have to use the bathroom, do you mind?” I hate this part. The awkward, I don't know you that well, and now we're talking about bodily functions, part of getting to know someone.

“Yeah, but it's actually through my bedroom.” He points to the doorway behind me. “First door is my closet, the second door is the bathroom.”

I walk through the doorway and take in my surroundings. Sam’s room is different than I expected and somehow exactly like I expected it to be. Not that I’ve pictured it, because I definitely have not. He has a king-sized bed with boring gray sheets. Typical. His deep wood nightstand sits just below one of 2 windows in his room, both without curtains. It’s pretty bare just an alarm clock, a lamp, and a charging pad for his phone. He has a few small plants in the window, which I should have expected given there’s a handful of plants in his kitchen. The walls are bare, apart from the few prints above his bed that’s sat on a frame with no headboard. I wonder if they’re his photos? He has a dresser that matches his nightstand and a TV on top with a gaming console. A very standard boy room apart from the few totes of his film strips that hang around. I suddenly realize I’ve been lingering too long in a space that isn’t mine, and I make my way to the bathroom, but not before I accidentally open his closet. Wow, he has a lot of clothes? I start to finger my way through the various fabrics. A man with a sense of style, so uncommon for this area. I close the closet door and choose the right door this time.

I rinse my hands under the warm faucet, letting my eyes close, and the water start to warm me. This is going to be fine. I look at myself in the mirror. It's going to be fine. The project will be fine. You and Sam will get along… eventually. You’ll get the job and you’ll never have to talk to him again. It’ll be fine. If I say the words enough, maybe I’ll start to believe them. I dry my hands off and exit the bathroom with a silent wish that I took less time than it feels like I did.

I pop my head back into the kitchen area where I first walked in, but I don’t see him.. Or Penelope. I take small, cautious steps toward what I assume is the living room. Just as I’m about to enter, I run full-bodied into Sam, causing my forehead to bounce right off his collarbone. A mixture of frustrated sounds escapes the two of us before he plants both his large hands on my shoulders and steps an arm’s length away from me. I rub at the pain between my eyes. Ouch.

“I thought you got lost for a minute.”

“No I just.. Didn’t know where you were. I wasn’t trying to invade your space.”

“Little late for that, isn’t it,” he gestures a hand between us, referring to our closeness. “Plus, there are only so many rooms, Willa. You would have found me eventually.” I hate it when he says my name. He turns and walks farther into the room calling after me, “You comin?”

I enter the room and it’s actually fairly large for it being in the city. Good, decent-sized apartments are hard to find here. There’s a half-brick wall behind the orange couch. The large windows set above it let in a ton of light but somehow don’t reflect off the TV screen sitting opposite it. He has records stored in a few different places and an old-style record player. A Fender Bass guitar and a small amp sit in the corner. I didn't know he could play an instrument. A small standing desk in the corner where his laptop sits among various other papers and notebooks. And to the left, there's a beautiful wall of shelves set up with a handful of film cameras. All old, each serving a unique purpose. It’s heaven for a person like me. I don't know why I've never thought to collect film cameras before.

“Wow.” It comes out of my mouth barely above a whisper.

“I know. It's my favorite part of my house.” He’s proud. And he should be. I can feel the weight of his eyes on me, studying my reaction.

“Where did you get them all?” I question, reaching to touch one before I pull my hand back. It would be rude to just touch something so delicate and important, but the desire in me is burning.

“Flea markets and vintage shops. Ebay. I even bought one off Etsy, oddly enough.”

The anticipation is killing me, and I start to shift anxiously on my feet. I feel like a child at a candy store waiting for permission to let loose and stock my bag full. I’m sure from the outside I look like a child at a candy store, but I don’t care. If Sam didn’t annoy me so much, I might try to con my way into being friends with him just so I can test each one out. Every old camera has its own quirks it has developed over the years. Like it curated its own personality, stealing bits from each person that has held it. It’s a fun experience to learn a camera.

“Go ahead.” he stifles his chuckle.

I run my fingers over the few cameras on the bottom shelf. He has a few different cameras from a few different decades, definitely older than both of us combined. I settle on a ‘1981 vintage Kiev camera Jupiter’; it doesn't shoot in 35mm like most standard film cameras. It shoots in 8m, creating a wider shot, not quite like today's panorama views.

“I love that one. She creates these really beautiful wide shots. You gotta make sure you press quick and hard, though, or you won’t actually capture the photo.” He steps behind me and places his hand on mine, tilting the camera upwards before pointing at the button he’s referencing. His hands are so warm. When I inhale to disrupt my own thoughts, my back touches his chest. His chest is warm, too. Oh God. It's too warm in here. I step forward and turn around, facing him again.

“She’s beautiful. I think I’ll go with this one. Thank you, Sam.” I dare to look at his coffee-colored eyes. “I know lending out something this special is a big deal. So thank you.”

“Just be careful. Josephine was a hard find." He grabs the camera from my hand and walks over to the couch where his camera bag is, slipping it inside.

“Josephine?” I question, “Do you.. name all your cameras?”

“Don’t judge me, okay. You’re telling me you don’t name yours? What about your car huh?” Oh, he’s got me there.

“I.. have named every car I’ve ever had.” I raise my hands in defeat and bow my head in amusement.

“Alright then. Take your judgy pants off and leave 'em at home.”

“Hey, aren’t you going to grab one?” avoiding the previous comment entirely.

“Nah, I always have my Olympus on me. I shoot on film any chance I can get.” He picks up his bag and slides it back on his shoulder.

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Back in my car and buckling our seat belts, he says, “So I was thinking about the woods and water idea, and maybe we can shoot in town to save time and then, uhm, tomorrow.. uhh, if you’re free, we could do the woods stuff.” He seems nervous, and I can’t quite place my finger on why. I agree, placing my car in reverse and backing onto the main road.

“I know of a nice place we can go… For tomorrow, I mean.”

“Should I be concerned you’re going to murder me in the woods?”

“I would never do that.”

“Sounds like something a murderer would say to a potential victim.” I side-eye him before returning my gaze to the road. “Don’t try anything, I most definitely will be bringing pepper spray tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m on sabbatical. Even serial killers need a break.” He flashes me a cocky smile and winks at me once again. The next person who winks at me is going to end up with their eyeball on a skewer. I SWEAR.

“Okay, now we're taking separate cars. That is, if you can even make it.”

“How dare you talk about Edith like that.” Raising his eyebrows in offense. “She is a gem and has been through a lot. She just needs TLC is all.”

“Edith? Josephine? What is this, the 1940s?”

“Hey! Edith and Josephine are great names. They’re vintage– my truck is older than I am, so it makes sense.” He shrugs. “What’s your car's name, huh?”

“Jon Bon Silver Fox.” I try not to smile at the ridiculousness of it, but it’s sentimental, sort of. And it makes me laugh.

“Jon Bon… Silver Fox..” repeating my words slowly. “Like Jon Bon Jovi?”

“Like Jon Bon Jovi. My mom loved him when I was growing up so she always had his music playing, I grew up loving him too. Nowadays he's a silver fox, my car is silver, therefore: Jon Bon Silver Fox.”

“You would like mom-rock,” we both laugh, and I send him a small eye-roll to follow.

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After finding another off-street parking spot, god, I hate Portland. We have a small huddle before deciding to split up and see what we can find. Our version of splitting up is just heading the same way down the road and shooting on opposite sides of the sidewalk, but it works.

As annoying as the parking situation is in this city, it's absolutely beautiful here. Every building is made up of tattered red bricks because everything in this city is old. Old, but beautiful. There’s a history here, every spot has a story. Every small restaurant is owned by someone's grandfather or great-grandfather and passed down through generations. Sidewalks with initials carved into them, we even have our own version of the ‘love locks’.

The evening breathes a different light, though. It’s painted with character right down to the cobblestone streets the drunk girls wobble down during the summer nights. The “cobble wobble” will never not be funny to me, especially since I’ve been that girl a time or two.

I spot a Song Sparrow; at least I think that’s the correct bird. It's a small little thing with a tan body and dark brown spots, and it's absolutely beautiful. I crouch down, trying to make myself small so he doesn’t get scared and fly away. Aiming for a shot on the vintage camera I’ve borrowed from Sam, I realize the view is far too wide for what I need.

“Sam!” I whisper-shout, looking around for him. When I don’t see him I call his name again a little louder. He pops his head up from behind a bush and I frantically wave him over pressing a finger to my lips to quiet him. He kneels down behind me.

“I need this,” I say, grabbing his camera, still attached to his neck by his camera strap. He leans into me further as I pull the viewfinder close to my eye. I adjust the settings as quickly as I can so I don’t miss it.

He's far too close to my ear when he whispers to me, “I can take it off, you know?” A shiver runs down my back from the heat of his breath. Focus, Willa.

“There’s no time. I don’t want him to fly away,” I click a couple times, and he shifts on his feet, crinkling whatever wrapper is trapped between his shoe and the pavement.

“Shhhh,” I reach my hand across my body and grab his face blindly, my eye still glued to the camera. “Don't. Move.” I release him. One more click, and I’m certain I’ve got a good shot.

“Did you get it?” He whispers in my ear again. I turn to face him, and he is so close to me. I follow his eyes as they meet mine and drop down to my lips. Oh, no.

I clear my throat, “Yeah, I think I did. Uhm,” I squeeze my lids shut and pause, trying to center myself. We both rush to stand at the same time. In the flurry of limbs, I seem to trip over my own foot, losing my balance completely. Sam lunges toward me but isn’t quick enough. I have no idea how I am the least graceful person alive. I grab the antique camera around my neck and on my way to the ground and try my best to hold it in the air. My ass takes all the damage in the fall but the camera remains perfectly intact. I breathe a sigh of relief, if Josephine was hard to find once, she'd be hard to find twice.

“Jesus christ, Willa,” he hurries to my side. His next words don’t match the concern on his face. “You have to be more careful. You could have broken something!” He scolds me. His camera? That’s what he's worried about? I look down at the palm on my left hand, it's scuffed and bleeding slightly. Small rocks embedded in my skin. My ass is definitely going to have a bruise.

“Don’t worry, Sunshine. Your camera is fine,” I roll my eyes and brush myself off before standing. I hiss as my hand starts to throb. “Ah fuck” I mutter under my breath, waving my hand, trying to shake off the pain.

“No..” a prolonged deep sigh escapes his lips. “Never mind, just be more careful,” reiterating his initial point.

“Yeah, Got it.” I snap. Annoyance settles through me to my core once again. A constant state of being when I’m around him. Does he really think I’d be the type of person to let his shit break? “No, you know what. You always have some slick comments to say. Like you might just spontaneously combust if the world doesn’t hear your shitty commentary. Why are you always a jerk?”

“Telling you to be careful, is me being a jerk?” He defends.

“I wouldn’t let anything happen to your camera, Sam. So, please, can you not think I’m an idiot for five seconds?” I huff out.

“I don’t think you’re an idiot? I think you’re a klutz and definitely way too cranky for your own good, but I definitely don’t think you’re stupid.” Sounding slightly confused. For the love of god, why is he confused?

“Whatever, it doesn’t matter. Can we go? I got what I needed, and I definitely don’t want to look at you anymore.” I start to head back toward my car.

“I hope it gives you hell when you do, Birdie.” he follows in my footsteps. Birdie? What the hell is that?

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I somehow have found myself back at the Caravel Tavern. I say somehow but what I really mean is Quinn forced me, and I really can never say no to them. They know that and pull the ‘I’m your best friend’ card constantly. They’re lucky I love them so much.

“I cannot believe you made me come back here.” I shrink in my seat, trying to appear as small as possible. We’re sitting toward the back but not entirely in the corner. I face the door so I can see most of the bar to try and prevent someone from sneaking up on me. A thing that I learned does not actually work when it comes to this place.

“Please, you act like I'm not at all nosy and don’t want to see the face of the man who keeps you lying awake at night.” Quinn teases.

“I do not lie awake at night. He just annoys me every waking moment of every waking day that I have to interact with him. Did I tell you he wore glasses today? It’s bad enough that he knows how to dress himself, but then to wear glasses? It made his face extra punchable.”

“Babes, that’s called cuteness aggression.”

“No, Absolutely not. He’s annoying, not cute. He also started calling me Birdie today. No idea why. Birdie??” In the middle of my defense, I notice Quinn’s eyes go wide and then the bartender I haven’t met yet appears from behind me, effectively scaring me. What is it with this place?

“Welcome, Welcome!” he says, as cheerful as if sunshine itself had manifested in our presence.

“Is it written in the manual as a requirement that you sneak up behind your guests and scare them?” I inquire.

“Ahh yes, actually. It's in the section of the manual right next to ‘How to deal with cheeky customers’,” He throws me an equally cheeky side eye and a smile.

“Ya know, I like you. At least one of you can grow a mustache around here.”

“I’m not Employee of the Month for nothing. Be on the lookout for a framed photo of yours truly on the wall over there.” He makes a small gesture toward the bathrooms.

“So what, can I get you started with today?” At least one person who works here is funny. He’s charming in a way that Sam wishes he was. Effortlessly so. He’s not cocky or arrogant, he’s just funny and warm. Warm in a way that if all the people of the world were like that, it would be a better place. He takes our orders, making us laugh through the whole interaction, which is a nice change of pace from the last few days. He pauses a moment before he leaves and his gaze lingers on Quinn a bit. Interesting.

“I think he thinks you’re cute, Q,” I whisper to them like a gossiping old bitty.

“He’s related to the owner.” They tell me, whispering back.

“Jesus Christ, there’s three of them?”

“Three of them?”

“Yeah, the one who can’t grow a mustache owns the bar, and Sam is his brother. If this one is related to the owner too, then they’re all brothers.” I pause.

“Wait, how do you know he’s related to the owner?” I look over toward the bar and accidentally make eye contact with Sam. “Oh god.” I whisper, “That’s him. Quinn, don’t look, he's coming over here.”

“What happened to not wanting to look at me? Change your mind and come to gaze at my devilish handsomeness?” Sam exudes cockiness from every orifice. What a tool.

“Devilish, yes. Handsome, debatable. I came for a drink. Had to unwind after dealing with the world's worst coworker today.” I flutter my eyelashes and throw him a sarcastic smile.

“Yeah, that Susan is an uptight bitch, huh?” He takes notice of Quinn, looking them up and down in their striped, earth-toned sweater and mocha-colored overalls. Their hair in their signature pixie cut curls.

“And who is this?” He asks while maintaining his gaze on Quinn.

“Uh, Sam, this is my roommate, Quinn. Quinn, this is my project partner, Sam.” He reaches out to shake their hand, which they return apprehensively.

“Birdie, you didn’t tell me your roommate was hot.” I would pay money to have had someone record this interaction because Quinn’s face is priceless. Maybe now they understand the hell I go through.

The third brother appears from out behind Sam, then in the sneaky way they all seem to have perfected.

“OKAY.” He says loudly, clamping his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Don’t you have some shit to take care of? Like your job.” Sam starts to try, and pull his shoulder away. By the grimace he’s making, he has a tight grip on his brother. Sam breaks free and rubs at his shoulder.

“Ow, Josh,” He says, not low enough to escape my ears. What a baby. I wonder if he’ll complain about that, too. Probably.

“So, sorry about him. He doesn’t get out much. He acts a bit rabid when he sees real people.” Josh pads off to return to his other duties.

“Do you see what I mean? He’s intolerable.”

“Absolutely, completely intolerable.”

“Thank you.”

“No, you’re right, Wilson. Sam IS cute.” They say a bit too loud for my taste. “Shhhhh. I never said that!” I look around frantically to see if any of the brothers are within earshot and regretfully notice a smirk on Sam’s lips. Curse Quinn and their antics.

<- Chapter Three Chapter Five

Masterpost | Taglist

Taglist 💜 :

(I don't know what happened last week with the tags I double checked this week 😅)

@gvfsstardust @myleftsock @mindastreamofcolours @imleavingyoufornewyork @dont-go-home-without-me@literal-dead-leaf, @lizzys-sunflower @threadofstars @mackalah @klarxtr @ourlovesdesire, @writingcold @edgingthedarkness @takenbythemadness @i-love-gvf @ladywhimsymoon @earthgrlsreasy @peaceloveunitygvf, @violet-hayes @anythingforjtk

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