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ashersanity · 1 day

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— “IT’S ALL IN THE FAMILY.”

— summary. because you — you stupid little fuck, should have known better than to assume the worst out of this sick family you’ve been unwillingly forced into from your parents unfaithful divorce. well, guess what? you were fucking right, and now — you only have yourself to blame, baby brother.

— content warning! incest, step-cest, dub-con at best, non-con at worst, brief mentions of bullying and violence, alcohol intoxication, manipulation, big brother whitney being a creep, whiny little sister kylar, daddy bailey being bailey, loser male reader, semi-forced blow job, cream pie, shit writing, no editing, no nothing and shittier plot with two disconnected scenes, went a little overboard with kylar. a little.

— word count? wait, you guys count the fucking words and don’t raw dog it in the notes app? like, real long, I guess. I mean, fucking long.

— asher’s note. “I did it purely for the sister fucking. @princesstokyomoon kept encouraging the filthy thoughts so I had to churn something out. something filthy — and I mean fucking disgusting shit, y’know?”

Divorces papers hastily signed away, the ink dotted onto the lines promising that this was indeed reality along with leathered suitcases packed to the brim. Family problems never were easy, much less when it had all happened far too quickly. To your parents separating, the familiar grip of your mother’s hand stringing you far away from the house you had grew up in, it all seemed like one bad dream. Unfortunately it wasn’t, no. This was the harsh reality of things, hands clasped on your shoulders as you were forced to introduce yourself to the man she had vowed to marry and the children he bore.

Fuck, if only your mother hadn’t remarried.

“This is stupid.” You muttered beneath your breath to which your mother, sharp as ever had somehow heard.

“Oh please, this is necessary. Unless you wish for us to keep on living in that cramped apartment? I am only doing what is needed for us to survive.” She sharply retorted back, not leaving much room to argue with as it was the truth. Your lives had been much more difficult since the divorce, selfish father that took everything else with him and went away to god-knows-where, probably off to spend it all in one go at the sleazy brothel in town. Filthy bitch.

Yes, it had been hard, but if you had been given one more year, finished school for real, graduated and got a job — Perhaps then, you would’ve been able to provide for the two of you and—

“Why don’t you introduce yourself, dear?”

Breaking out of your reverie, you had faintly registered then that you had arrived into this overly large establishment your mom referred to as your new home. Standing before you was probably the man she had fussed about so much during the uneventful drive. Dark, slicked back hair and stern eyes that dragged over your lips down to the curve of your throat, almost as if to criticize. His outstretched arm and hand stuck out waiting, that was probably for yours to shake which you reluctantly did.

“It’s nice to meet you, sir..?” You uttered coolly, enduring the firm grasp he had on your fingers till he finally was the first to pull away.

“Bailey.”

“Bailey.” You repeated back the unfamiliar name as if to slowly get used to it, knowing you wouldn’t.

“Whitney, Kylar, come down here and properly greet your brother.”

One boy — you assumed to be Whitney, a little older than you, stood at the top of the oaky staircase, perched over the banister. Ruffled blonde hair and sharp blue eyes hidden behind his fringe, eyeing you with disinterest as he made his way down the creaking steps and over to you.

“Nice to meet you.” He grinned, taking ahold of your hand in his with what was evidently a faux smile, one that didn’t quite reach his mean eyes that matched his father, a lingering streak of maliciousness in them. Even his grip, barely restrained in its force, threatened to crush your hand before ultimately letting go.

“You too.” Forcing a smile back, both of you knew then, the stifling tension that brewed in the air — Neither of you were going to get along here.

“Hey freak, its your turn.”

Another, you had barely noticed, a smaller girl scuffling about in the background, anxiously fiddling with the ends of her oversized sleeves, skittish green eyes purposefully avoiding your gaze whenever you so much as glanced her way. That must be the only daughter, Kylar. Cute thing she was, though your mind couldn’t allow yourself to continue that stray thought any further considering the implications that’d involve after meeting your soon-to-be-step-sister. Fucking get your mind straight, will you?

“P-Pleasure to meet you..” In contrast to her brother’s confident strides, she shuffled towards you before clasping your soft palms together in a hold, weakly shaking it.

“..Pleasure is all mine.” You replied, matching her weirdly formal way of speaking.

Well, she didn’t seem so bad compared to the rest.

The introduction didn’t last very long, lacking any real warmth usually found between two shared families merging together as one. It felt more stiff than anything though you couldn’t spare the thought to think it any further, an ushered murmur said to make yourself at home.

As you made your way over to your new room, hauling your hefty luggage up the wooden stairs, something within the depths of your guts stirred from the shared eyes that bore into the shape of your back, intently observing your every move.

The walls here felt unbearably bare.

Like the people that lived in it.

Ironically enough, your new room was much bigger than your older one, leaving little room to complain as you did when your mother had announced you’d be moving into a new place. All the reasons, no matter how good had earned nothing but a gentle shake of her head, dead set on her decision to drag you along. And to say you hadn’t even told Robin you’d be moving away, best friends since childhood that shared everything between the two, except for this apparently. Imagining his freckled face, worry etched across his features had you wanting to go back to the town you knew, knowing you couldn’t.

Sighing lowly, you sat down onto your bed, hearing the slightest crinkle beneath your weight as you felt an uncomfortable, sharp lump underneath it. That.. Reaching for the covers, you threw aside the thick blankets that covered the suspicious looking lump, revealing fresh packets of condoms haphazardly scattered across the sheets and an old, raunchy magazine displaying a cute-looking school boy getting brutally fucked against the lockers by his own bully.

Heat burned your face at the lewd sight, quickly shoving your little “gift” under your pillow so you couldn’t spare another glance at it. Fucking bastards and their sick jokes, “gifting” you shit like that.

You weren’t like them. Fucking perverts.

Were you?

Whitney was the first to change that.

From the first time he laid his eyes on you, you knew then what he thought of you, distaste apparent over his features, the slight curve of his upper lip curled into a snarl. It was obvious, your step-brother didn’t like you. Shit, maybe hate would be a more appropriate word for the things he’d do. Whitney had made it clear from the get-go, the empty names you’d call each other were utterly meaningless, rarely slipping past his own lips. ‘Little brother’. Fuck, you were a pain in his side more than anything else, dropping by unannounced into his life just like that simply because your shitty mother happened to divorce, meeting his dead beat father who then strung up with yours.

The blonde didn’t attempt to hide his obvious disapproval of your presence in his house, blatantly knocking his shoulder into yours whenever he passed by, mouth cruelly drawn into a snide grin as you toppled down to the cold, hard, wooden floor with a dull thud. The bullying didn’t stop there either, often encountering the delinquent in the school hallways, surrounded by his usual cronies that stuck to his side like a bunch of desperate, panting puppies, eager for his approval. They simply wouldn’t leave you alone, went through your damn locker too, ransacking everything that sat in there before carelessly throwing aside the remnants into a nearby trash bin, left to fend for yourself.

Weak, useless. That’s what you were to him, and nothing else. Soon enough, he’d get rid of you, have you snap and run away, it was merely a matter of time.

Well, that was the initial plan he had made up in his mind — Too fucking bad for the poor bully that life didn’t go always as planned, not when he caught you fresh out of the shower, worn towel snugly tucked around yours hips, a bit lower and he’d catch a glimpse of your— Fucking snap out of it, Whitney! The fresh droplets of water that’d trickle down the curve of your back, cascading over the smooth surface before gently dripping onto the fuzzy carpet below. Fuck. Didn’t help that he was staring a tad bit too hard, forcing himself to tear his gaze away from your bare form shamelessly displayed before him. You were doing this on purpose, weren’t you? Tryna get him all distracted, fill his thoughts with nothing but your thighs sticky with his cum, your lips lightly parted to obediently suck on his fat cock, lapping away at the beads of pre-cum that trickled over the curved length.

Knew he had cracked the second his hand had reached for his cock, fisting his dick for all it was worth, hem of his shirt roughly held between his teeth as he jerked himself stupid to the thought of you. His annoying little brother, fucking bitch, oblivious to the effects you had on him whenever he came with a stifled curse, several strings of cum that’d messily splatter across the curve of his toned stomach and his cotton sheets, staining it.

You, of course, lay ignorant to his frequent glances trailing over your frame, mistaking it for the hostility he had shown you over the past few weeks. You were partially right, except this time it was out of frustrated lust, cock stirring beneath his ripped jeans at the mere sight of his younger sibling now. God, not even the dumb whores that’d sloppily suck him off in the grimy bathroom stalls between classes did it for him anymore, eyes shut in a haze to imagine it was your mouth instead wrapped around the tip of his cock.

Dumb slut. Dumb fucking slut you were, didn’t know what he had in store for you. Take it as payback from having infested his mind with thoughts of you that stray to other thoughts and to other.. that’d eventually end in the same scenario, fucking your slutty mouth wide open.

Yeah.. Actually having you choke down on his cock didn’t sound half-bad now that he thought about it.

So why not make it happen?

It had been a mistake then to accept his offer over drinks, get to know each other better, he had cheerfully claimed with a friendly arm wrapped around your shoulder. Bullshit. Think he gave a shit about that? The only ache in his mind had gone straight down to his slowly hardening cock underneath his grey sweats as his plan was brought into motion, insistently pouring more and more of his friends stolen bottle into your cup until you had lost track of the exact number. Prideful as ever, you had gulped it all down, unrelenting despite the nausea that had crept in your guts and the dizzying blur of your vision.

A hint of a rosy flush had started to spread throughout your skin, lightly dusting your cheeks with half-lidded eyes intently gazing back at your older brother’s slouched form atop the cushioned couch. The dribbling liquid sloshed lazily in the glassy bottle that threatened to spill from your weakened grasp on it. TV faintly flickering in the background, playing some outdated show that had since long been forgotten by the two of you, leaving the remote abandoned on the coffee table.

“Cmon, don’t be such a baby.” Whitney would taunt whenever you hesitated in your sluggish movements, silently observing the rhythmic bobbing of your throat as you took quick shots from your half-full glass. Lightweight, he mused in his mind.

“I’m not a baby.” You retorted back with that fucking cute pouty expression he adored.

Fuck. That’s the look. That goddamn look of yours he was waiting for. Nothing better than some arrogant slut all fucked up, practically begging to be taken on his own fucking couch.

“Yeah, sure. Whatever you say.”

“Whitney?” Shit, the way you’d call his name all whiny too, slipping past your own lips. Had his cock twitch like fucking hell, painfully aching between his spread legs.

“Hm? What is it?”

“Why are you so mean to me all the time?? What did I ever.. What did I ever do to you?? I—I just don’t get it.” You hiccuped pathetically, stumbling over your own words, already half-drunk from the fizzling alcohol in your system.

Ah, so you didn’t seem to get it at all yet, did you?

How cute.

“‘Cuz I wanna fuck your noisy mouth, that’s why.”

“..What?”

Blinking back at him, you didn’t even get the chance to register or mutter out another word before he was upon you. Knees firmly planted to each side, increasingly aware of his encompassing frame that towered overs yours as his clothed crotch faced your drunken expression. If it had been any other time, perhaps the blonde would’ve paused then to greedily drink in the sight before him, but this was Whitney after all and he never liked to waste time on silly notions like foreplay, preferring the rougher options that came along with it.

So, fuck it all, right?

With practiced ease, he hurriedly shucked down the elastic waistband of his grey sweats past his hips, hefty cock confidently springing free from the constricting confines of the cotton fabric as it lightly smacked against the curve of his bare stomach. Fuck, you haven’t had the slightest idea how long he had waited for this. Merely a matter of a few weeks for you, though for him, your older brother was dying to sink his dick in that whorish mouth of yours. Looked like you’ve never taken a real cock either, snugly shoved down to the hilt of your inexperienced throat that he’d train till it became a sixth sense to you, gratefully swallowing down his salty cum.

Calloused fingertips tenderly dragged along the swollen flesh of your bottom lip, bloodied cut reopening from the time the bully had split your face open on his fists for the whole school to see in the busied courtyard on a particularly rainy day. Licked his knuckles clean too after that rough beating you took, savouring the heady taste of the crimson mess you left behind, groaning all the while. Had him stupidly hard for the rest of the day, itching to relieve some tension once he got back home. Great times, really.

Now would’ve been the time then, probably— to sputter out your firm opposition over this, resist somewhat. Maybe kick the motherfucker in the balls, satisfyingly watch him writhe on the floor in agony before scrambling up the ancient staircase to hysterically yell about how you nearly got raped by your aforementioned step-brother, to your dozing mother. Christ, that would’ve been the sane decision to do then yet, the bubbling drinks coursing through your veins had thoroughly taken its effect on you, blood rushing down lower to the wrong region, the sinking realization nearly making you bolt upright.

Fucking fuck, you were hard.

And Whitney hadn’t failed to notice.

“Shit, are you getting hard from this?” The delinquent snickered hoarsely to himself, making a show to lightly tap at the growing bulge underneath your own jeans, all too visible despite the rough fabric that covered it. “Should’ve known you’d be into it. Your body speaks for itself, y’know. You want this, you cock whore craving slut.”

No, no. This was all wrong. Must’ve been. You liked girls, didn’t you? Squishy cunts and fat tits you could easily slip your cock into — god. Didn’t like guys and if you did, your step-brother who treated you like nothing but shit would’ve been last on the fucking list.

But you secretly do like being used this way, don’t you? Baby brother.

“I’m n-not fucking—“ Attempting to deny the harsh statement, you cut yourself off from the sudden intruding tip eagerly pressed against your lips, flushed cock head leaking thickly and smearing sticky pre-cum all over.

It wasn’t an order nor anything else that hung heavily in the air, a simple gesture, a subtle thrust of his hips that had his actions speak louder than any words would’ve been capable of. Either you do it or not, the delinquent couldn’t have cared less regardless, always used to getting what he wants and by god, if he wasn’t going to fucking get this. Because the signals alarmingly ringing through your head felt faint in the face of this, shakily inhaling the musky scent of your big brother’s throbbing cock subtly twitching in response to your feathered breaths against it, dribbling out more translucent pre-cum that melded with the scarlet stain of your bloodied lips.

Out of your damn mind — That’s what you were. To even properly consider the implication at hand here. Yet your lips won’t stop from parting, from sticking your pink tongue out, clumsily imitating the gestures of those submissive girls in the cheap porns you’d watch underneath your thin covers late at night, shamefully enough. Always thought you’d be on the receiving end of that one day, dutifully patting at the soft hair slotted between your thighs however here you were, shyly pawing at Whitney’s naked hips instead to steady yourself.

All your fault, all your damn fault so shut up and take it, alright? Shouldn’t have led him on like that, now you’re only reaping what you sow, slut.

A delighted sigh softly escaped from the blonde as you finally gave his dick some much needed attention, experimentally running the flat of your tongue along his leaking slit, coaxing out more dribbling fat globs of pre-cum before slowly and carefully taking his full girth in the warm depths of your tight, wet mouth. “Ah— Fuck. Yeah, that’s good.” No way can he hide the barely restrained, high-pitched, almost needy whimper that threatens to slither past him as you so prettily suck him down to the base, slobbering all over his throbbing balls that has him huffing out a cursed moan of satisfaction, eyes rolling back. “F-Fuckin’— god.” Can’t help the sheer guttural groan that slips out from how tightly his baby brother’s virgin lips sweetly glide around him, the uncertainty in your movements making it all the more endearing as you struggle to take him all in, saliva dripping over your chin to land in varying wet dots on the cushioned pillows. Looking so damn pretty like this with a mouthful of cock, your big brother’s pulsing cock specifically. So don’t blame him then when his hips automatically snap back, slender fingers instinctively reaching for the back of your head to entangle themselves through the soft strands of your hair, ruffling it.

Felt more like he was plainly fucking your mouth than you were sucking him off, sharp, punishing thrusts meeting your open mouthed lips to drive himself deeper in that warm throat that reflexively tightened around his length whenever he hit a particularly sensitive spot — drawing another string of adorable, strangled whimpers from you. “Shit, you sure this your first time? You’ve got the mouth of a — hah, fuckin’ filthy glory hole.” Heat prickling up the nape of your neck at the direct statement uttered, the brief realization of your inexperience being taken away like this, from a blowjob. On the giving end. A first, that will mostly likely not be the only first after this, not when you’re unconsciously getting off to the thought for more in store despite your haze filled brain begging you to reason. Ah, fuck. He’s gone and got you stupidly cock drunk now, didn’t he? The bastard. Slurred mutterings tumbling out above you, almost hasty in how he handles you, wanting to truly savor this never-ending moment when his body can’t stop on its own, too eager to be fulfilled of this yearning pleasure he sought out from you firstly. Thankful for your lack of gag reflex that somehow has you forcefully endure the ruthless slam of his hips, struggling grip straining onto his thighs to brace yourself, promising to leave a fresh set of bruising marks on the tanned flesh.

“Gon’ be my lil’ cockwhore, huh? My fuckin’ slut. Goin’ to be so good for— fuck, big brother, yeah?” If treating you so obscenely like this grants him the privilege to have you beneath him, so stupidly on your knees then, fuck, is it goddamn worth it. Every multicoloured bruise splotched along the length of your legs to your elbows, inflicted from his unfortunate beatings took on at every turn. The cold indifference muddled across your features warping to an earnest scowl from simply acknowledging his presence alone, precisely what he wants. To finally recognize your older brother, the churning fear instilling within you, forced to submit to him and worship him rightfully so.

It’ll be more than that though, the sick realization dawning upon him of this opportunity handed to him on a silver plater, free of his taking, of course. Not some other replaceable slut he can find anywhere else by chance, but one forcefully bound to him whether they like it or not since what can you possibly do? Come running with tears in your eyes to your mommy about what your big, mean, older brother did to you? His father will certainly not be one to help you for that matter, that’s for damn sure. Who the hell will believe you then? No one. Fucking nobody. Inadvertently handing him free range to do whatever he so pleases with you, whenever, where the fuck ever. Oh, but it won’t only stop there, y’know. Ruining you fully for the sake of his own selfish pleasure, corrupt that naive view of yours that has you blush bashfully at a bunch of lewd illustrations plastered onto the printed pages. Soon enough, the majority of your days will be lazily spent in his room, leaking cock dribbling profusely from the kitten licks you’ll so cutely give him then while he absentmindedly scrolls on his phone, grinning proudly as you inevitably beg for more of him. And shit, Whitney isn’t one to disappoint either — he’ll have you rightfully rewarded for such behaviour, in public to be exact. Clip a nice, leathered collar around your neck along with a leash too, tug at it a bit to show off his newfound pet, his loyal little brother that sloppily sucks him off and happily sinks onto his hefty cock at a mere snap of his fingers. Drives him fuckin’ crazy merely thinking about it.

That’s right, suck on your big brother’s fat cock to selfishly earn his twisted love, his blind adoration and protection of your being. His pet. His slut. His beloved baby brother. His now blood, flesh and soul tainted thoroughly by him himself. Personally service him on your knees like the whore that he knows you are. Fucking get on your knees and earn it.

All too soon, despite wanting to stretch this further solely to ingrain the addictive noises of your stifled whimpers and drooling mouth inside his perverted mind, visibly struggling to take him all in as he shamelessly used your throat like some sort of flesh light stretched to the hilt — He can feel himself reach the brink of his limit, confident hips stuttering in their steady thrusts to greedily bury the tip of his quivering cock into the back of your throat one last time. “F-Fuck. Stay like that — just fucking stay like that.” He hissed sharply between strained curses, head thrown back like some cheap virgin whore who’s just received his first ever mind blowing blow job. The familiar overwhelming heat curling in the curve of his belly, like a coiling string on the verge of popping. Balls tightening in need, pulsing spurts of his fat load squirting out of the head of his cock to messily splatter across the surface of your pretty fucking face, ruining you for his own amusement.

Should’ve busted his load down your throat just to hungrily watch you swallow it down, though he supposes that the cum stained look adorning your pretty face is a sight to behold on its own, taking a good minute to appreciate the mess before him.

A blank, pristine canvas that he had helped ruin and stain with the filth of his very own actions.

It suits you, really.

“That’s a — hah, good boy.” Whitney heaved roughly between ragged breaths, the uncharacteristically gentle praise laced in his tone differing from his usually sadistic nature. If it weren’t for the sticky mess that obscured your vision along with the heat of his sweating palm placed flat across your forehead, you’d notice the strange fond, warmth that had settled into his softening gaze, a sort of reverence in of itself. “My good fucking boy.”

“So good for big brother, aren’t you?” He smirks knowingly at your hitched gasps of breaths, struggling so stupidly to form back a snarky insult as per usual.

Ah, he gets it now — really fucking gets it, glazed over eyes settling onto your evidently hard, twitching cock still tented pitifully against the front of your jeans, frantically humping at the air like some sort of rabid, horny and untrained puppy in heat, tongue lolling out. Aw, so fuckin’ cute when you’re cock drunk and needy for big brother. Makes him wanna do it all over again.

For that, he should be properly training you then.

“Whitney— fuckin’ cmon, please.” Whining so pathetically in a way that sends a jolt straight down through his spent cock, immediately standing up to attention once more. You’re really asking for it, fuck.

So damn cute, but so impatient too. Maybe he should fuck your virgin ass next, stuff it full of his cum and see what happens to that bratty mouth of yours then. Shut you up a bit.

“Yeah, yeah. I got it. Just— keep still for me.”

Well, can’t be having his little new pet go frustratingly neglected like that, can he?

—

Kylar, your precious little sister, all too eager to be the first, but the second to sink her mark into you. Convince you a bit more.

Needy as she was, she wasn’t as bad as the rest that inhabited this sick place you reluctantly called home, a flicker of warmth among the distant coldness that resided in this house. Much unlike her brother, the dark haired girl didn’t seem to dislike you in the slightest, often shooting you the smallest of smiles whenever you two briefly locked eyes at the dinner table or in the shared hallways by mere coincidence.

‘Course, she did have her questionable moments whenever you caught her rifling through your drawers, namely the ones where your underwear lay neatly folded in the cubicle space. Promptly muttering out an unbelievable excuse as to why she needed your boxers before bolting past your stunned self, red in the face. Or that time she had decided to curl up onto your bed, lovingly burying her nose into the warm, silken sheets that you slept in, relishing in that sweet scent of yours she’d catch a whiff of as you drew closer next to her at the table.

..Yeah, she certainly had unresolved issues, but it beat the constant poking fun at that Whitney would do. The rough shoving into the metallic lockers that’d clank heavily from your weight, the shared snickering that came along with it and the forced blow jobs that you had somehow eased into over time despite yourself. Fuck, why were you even thinking of that asshole?

Freak or not, she didn’t harbour any of the senseless cruelty this town had to selflessly offer and that was good enough. Enough so that you had found yourself increasingly spending more and more of your time with Kylar whenever you weren’t forcibly dragged along to some shoddy place your big brother roped you into, leaving the loner to her own whims for the day.

So it was no surprise then when the two of you grew closer, a little more than you had expected so to be the one sat onto her worn out bed, her hideaway — she’d call it, a moment of respite from the constant teasing she had to go through from her older brother. A means of escape, perhaps? And for you, it was no different either, all the same. Gladly listening to her overexcited rambling about this and that, about the fine mangas she had newly bought at the local, dusty library, the half priced anime figurines she had found on display beyond the glassy windows that separated them — matching pearly bracelets made of shiny gems and rocks carefully picked at the park she’d sow together to gleefully tuck around your wrist, whining sorrowfully at her own being too loose for her delicate wrists. Cute. Your little sister was real fucking cute, more so than you’d like to admit at times.

So much so you couldn’t ignore the growing knots in the pit of your stomach whenever your knees fortuitously bumped against each other, a sign — a silent, repetitive warning of your shared proximity that was crossing past the treacherous line of two mere siblings. Yeah. Okay. So you found her cute, so what? Big fucking deal. Plenty of guys found a girl cute, didn’t mean jack shit, didn’t mean they wanted to fuck her till she clenched pathetically around them, sniffling miserably at being fucked brutally by their kind, soft-spoken big brother they naively put their trust into. Right, that’s what you were. Nothing more. A responsible big brother she could certainly put her faith into since her other piece of shit brother couldn’t bother with that shitty role, something you’d curse him for on the daily. One she could seek out at a moment’s notice, spend time with to her heart’s content like a normal, unsuspecting relationship between siblings should be.

Not some perverted creep of a big brother who’d steal periodic glances her way, instinctively trailing down to the soft, plump and pink flesh of her parted lips, glistening sinfully from the wetness of her saliva — a habit she unconsciously did despite claiming not to. Gulping thickly, you hadn’t registered how her seamless chatter had ceased to a stop, deafening silence befalling upon the both of you as you stared at each other like some sort of stiff actors awaiting for the next act on stage. Wait, were you staring? Fuck, you were — and she hadn’t failed to notice by the looks of it, blooming flush adorning her pretty, pale cheeks you’d like to press gentle, reassuring kisses to, squeeze under the weight of your palm. Maybe have her spill a few stray droplets of tears across the rosy surface while you’re at it, make her cry the same way Whitney did.

Oh, you’re such a fucking bastard for this one.

“W-What is it? Do I have something on my face?” Her sudden squeak had you stilling in your tracks, twisting the spread sheets without meaning to from the timid pitch of her shrill voice. Look at her, trying to hide behind her torn sleeves in an attempt to draw attention away from her bashful blush, becoming a fidgeting mess under your gaze.

Fuck, no. It was more than that, Kylar. It was the pout of your lips that you wore, the black strands of hair that frames your face so beautifully, the exposed sliver of skin of your thighs from that short skirt you slipped on. It was all you, but dammit all — fuck.

“Hm? No, it’s nothing — really.” Liar. Drawing back to create a manageable amount of space between you both, a reminder not to act upon those disgusting urges of yours, better not to. Bad idea to be thinking with your dick, no man’s ever made a reliable decision with that one. Even so, Whitney did it with you and — nothing particularly bad happened, did it? Would it be so wrong, if you were to do the same? Selfishly grasp for what you so dangerously desire, drop meaningless hints here and there to care for her wants, such a gentler option than any other boy could ever treat your dearest little sister?

Would it?

Too lost in your endless train of thoughts, your eyes connecting with Kylar’s green own that bore with such intensity you hadn’t seen before, almost as if contemplating — no, waiting for something to happen. Though you couldn’t tell what it was, her actions were enough so to speak on their own with how she shifted considerably towards you, used mattress dipping from the creaking weight over the wooden floorboards. Ah, was she..?

“Ky—?”

Before your mind was even fully given the chance to process it, like the leap taken before the shuddering dip of a waterfall, her inexperienced, virgin lips clumsily smashed into yours, knocking the wind out of the both of you from the abrupt step taken by your little sister. Sweet. So sweet. Pink tongue tentatively swiping along the scarlet cut of your bottom lip, ushered gasps accompanied by startled squeaks as she timidly gave you what she thought was a simple kiss, but felt more like a pornographic make out session with how she so desperately shoved her tongue deeper. More. Wants more of this, more of that honeyed taste she yearned to savour, to finally enjoy while her other dumb brother so greedily took you away every time she wished to be the one at your side instead. It wasn’t fair, not fair at all! He’s so mean, so why does he get to string you along whenever he so pleases? Should be her, only be her to fill that solemn space. Only her, only her—

“W-Wait, wait— Kyl— fuck.”

As if struck by the weight of what she had just done, the loner recoiled back instantly in a fit of panic from the sheer brashness of her actions. Oh, how could she let herself so easily fall to such temptations? What if you hated her now? Or worse, were repulsed by the kiss? Wouldn’t be able to live it down then, quivering lips and bubbling tears threatening to spill freely down the length of her flushing cheeks from her overactive imagination running rampant — because she’d rather die than to have you loathe her so.

“I-I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to— umm.. I thought that maybe you.. wanted me to—“ The girl stuttered uselessly, trailing off in an aimless direction only to shrink back in her unbecoming position. Silence only answered her in return which she took as the harsh reality of rejection, mustering up all the courage she possibly had in her lithe frame to at the very least subtly peek at the current expression painted along your face. Would it be anger? Disgust? Disappointment even? Surely if you hated it that much, you’d have plainly kicked her right off the bed by now, right? Storm out in a fit of shock and never so much as glance her way again.

The sight to greet her instead wasn’t an unwelcome one though — no, far from it actually, her gaze deliberately falling upon the blazing flush of your face down to the evident bulge straining painfully between your legs, palm nervously placed over it in a half-assed attempt to keep your dignity at bay — shit. It’s one thing to be kissed by your younger sister but to get fucking hard from it is like shameful admission on its own, a visceral reaction that could not be denied no matter what reasonable excuses may tumble from your lips. “..It’s fine. I don’t mind, actually.” You’re really no better than Whitney in that aspect, but when an opportunity presents itself, it’s only fair to mindlessly grasp for it, is it not? More worrying is the debauched idea that forms in your mind in regard to the enamoured expression worn by her wobbly lips and wide-eyed look, not-so-subtly rubbing her plush thighs together in a hint of arousal. Oh, so that’s how it is. If the sloppy kiss itself didn’t confirm it then this surely did, a surge of confidence rushing momentarily through your body at your next actions. “Like I said, it’s fine, Ky.” That fucking nickname again. Unable to stop yourself from dragging your cute little sister closer towards you till she consequently found herself comfortably placed onto your lap, blinking stupidly at the bold move done by her normally gloomy, big brother. Silly girl.

“Siblings do it all the time, it’s not weird. It’s natural.” Lying through your goddamn teeth with a certain ease that even surprises you internally, but oh, is it so worth it as her viridescent eyes glimmer brightly to the whispered reassurance in your casual tone, acceptance easily slipping through. “But Whitney and I don’t—“ She starts, only for you to immediately latch onto her endless questioning with the seed having already been planted, too late to fucking back out now. “You and I are different. I’m nice to you and you’re nice to me, so it’s normal if you want to. We can do that cuz’ everyone else does it, alright? You don’t have to be shy with me about it, Ky.” Every carefully measured word to make it seem as though this was the norm, knowing fully you’d be seen as freaks and degenerates by your peers attending the nearby school. Not that they didn’t already think so with Kylar, the rumors having grown out to such an unhealthy proportion that it pestered the poor girl at every corner in the narrow hallways. Poor thing.

So isn’t it your job as her big brother to make it all go away? Make her feel better.

“Shh, just let me..” Soothing circles rhythmically rubbed in a recognizable pattern along the edges of her skirt, repeated affirmations of want so as to ease her chattering mind over the possible morality of this newfound situation. Could’ve said no if she didn’t secretly desire this, though her actions seem to say so otherwise with how she earnestly complies, willingly tucking her arms to her sides to let your hands do the rest. Good girl. So docile, like a porcelain doll, sharpening breaths noticeably deepening from the careful tugs of her short skirt, revealing the confirmation of her depraved wants as the wet patch of slick soaking through her plain, white panties is bared. Your adorable little sister isn’t so innocent as you thought, is she? Contrary to her modest choice of underwear. Getting fucking wet solely from being leered at so openly by her step brother, even going so far as to spread her soft legs for better viewing.

“See? Isn’t it frustrating to be left all worked up like this?” Agreeing nods promptly interrupted by the press of your thumb against her clothed slit, such a sweet, hitched gasp elicited from the lazy circles traced onto her swollen, twitching clit. A free view of your younger sister’s scrunched up expression morphing to one of pure, unadulterated pleasure, scarred fingertips tightly clutching at the fabric of your shirt, but that’s the least of your concerns at the moment, really. “This good?” There’s no real need to ask when you can naturally rely on the shivering of her dainty figure, breathy moans of y-yes and feels good! along with the guiding of her needy fingers, flush against her slicked heat. A flick of your thumb is all it takes to have her turn into a babbling mess, bucking her hips up to meet your cupped palm, incidentally grinding onto your aching hard-on. “S-Shit, okay. Look at you, hah — so fucking wet already.” Barely able to discern the own pitch of your voice, but who the fuck is supposed to properly maintain their composure when your little sister is so prettily begging for your cock?

Effortlessly peeling away at the sticky fabric of her cotton panties, slipping it down the length of her legs to thoughtlessly throw away onto the wooden floor beneath. No time to fucking think, not with how cute her cunt looks, pink and dripping with slick coating the smooth surface of her inner thighs. Ah, and she’s already impatiently fumbling with your belt too, smiling so happily once it loosens to eventually tug your own underwear down too, leaking cock eagerly springing free from its restraints. “Want it that bad, lil sis?” Fuck, does it feel wrong to even be calling her so in your current predicament, yet so damn right too. The pleading nods, urgently clinging to your frame to press against as she grinds her sopping cunt along your flushed tip, whining whenever it knocks just right up against her puffy clit, squelching from the melding fluids. “W-Want it, want it inside, please.”

“B-Big brother—“

As much as you like the high-pitched mumblings of your dearest Kylar, there’s really only so much edging you can take before promptly snapping your hips up in tandem with her own, relishing in the slippery warmth that lovingly welcomes you, stretched folds accommodating to the sheer girth of your length. “Oh, fuck — Fuck, just relax for me. You feel so.. hah, so good.” Collectively sighing in relief at the intrusion of your pulsing cock squeezed so nicely by her constricting walls, having to steel yourself from the tight suck of her cunt snugly wrapped around your tip. “You’re doing so good for me, taking me so well.” Softly hushing her breathy whines intertwined with a mix of pain and pleasure, fingertips digging harshly in the tender flesh of her hips to guide her quivering frame up and down the length of your cock. Isn’t this what she wanted after all? Such a quick learner too, steadily bouncing to match the pace you had set, your wandering hands slipping past the hem of her loose shirt to greedily palm at her perky breasts which prompts another moan to exit her parted lips. Uncaring for the increasingly noticeable squeaking of the worn mattress when your little sis is so cutely riding you, doing her very best to satisfy your immoral urges and have you mark her slicked insides with your seed.

“What a good sister.. So good, aren’t you?” Cute, pink tongue poking out, begging for another messy kiss pressed onto her swollen lips which you dutifully oblige with another muffled groan. Sloppily planting your own against hers, treasuring every shuddered gasp to swallow down and stifling her open mewls. It’s borderline disgusting how desperate you are, savouring every thick inch engulfed by the sloppy suck of her baby sister pussy, reappearing briefly only to bury yourself balls deep once more into her defiled cunt. Isn’t really your fault with how fucking tight she is, is it? Barely grasping the reality of the situation which is the very high possibility of being heard from outside her room right this moment, but fuck — you can’t slow down, not right now, not when you’re already on the verge of spilling your cum deep inside. Damn Whitney, the bastard. Damn to hell your parents, your indecisive mother and her new husband, this is heaven itself right here. “I’m close—“ You huff out in a sort of warning, though it’s more of an invitation to Kylar, an opportunity for you to shoot your thick seed in her wanting hole, practically locking her legs tight around your waist.

Anything for you after all, huh? Her beloved. Her darling. You just didn’t know it yet! And to say it came true on its own, openly enjoying the sensation of your fat cock instinctively fucking into her tight, little sister hole. So close.

“Cum inside me, please. Let’s finish together, big brother. I-I’m close too—“

And that’s all you really need, precise thrusts upwards hastily turning into erratic humps to lazily grind against her ass, wanting nothing more but to see the dumb, drooling, fucked out expression painted across her adorable face, the convulsing of her cunt stuffed full of your length when she does have her first ever orgasm. A few clumsy circles drawn over her used clit is all it takes to have her cumming, slick trickling out of her fluttering cunt to drip over the base of your cock and stain the pristine sheets beneath. “Ah— God, you’re so fucking tight.” Fuck, fuck, fuck — Shoving the hilt of your cock as deep as possible into your little sister’s stretched out hole to rightfully mark her pink insides with your seed, spurting out thick, white strings of cum while you fuck yourself deeper into her womb and downright have her experience her first ever accidental cream pie too. It’s only then when she pitifully whines for you to stop that you do eventually pause, hips drawing back to stare in awe at the dribbling globs of cum spilling out of her sore cunt. “S-Sorry.” You mutter out apologetically with a sigh, the tension easing out of your muscles once she giggles softly in response to your strained apology. “It’s okay. I-I liked it a lot too.”

“Did you?”

“Mhm, I did.” Kylar sleepily mumbles back with drowsy eyelids, the exhaustion washing both over you all at once from, well.. all the movement involved. Let’s leave it at that, actually. Plus you deserve the rest, don’t you? Wouldn’t be fair to leave your adorable sister all alone in her twin bed without her older brother’s body to warm it with too, yeah? It’s fine to lay yourself down next to her curled figure snuggling closely against yours, drape an arm over her waist to remind her of your presence close by, make her feel secure and at ease. A silent, ushered promise to clean her up later once you two awaken, affectionately pressing a single kiss atop her head one last time before sleep takes her first. It’s your role to as the big brother, after all, isn’t it?

“..Good.”

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bokauffmann · 4 months

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Discussion about the Oliva Serie V 135th Anniversary

Join me to learn a little about the highly rated Oliva Serie V, a one-hundred-thirty-fifth-anniversary limited edition cigar. I'm here with my friend Andrew, who is an expert on cigars.

Hey Andrew, I've always been curious about the backstory of Oliva Cigars. What's their history?

Well, Abby, it's quite a tale of perseverance and passion for tobacco. The Oliva story began in the late 19th century with Melanio Oliva, who first planted tobacco seeds in Pinar del Río, Cuba, in 1886.

His family cultivated tobacco for generations, but after the Cuban Revolution, things took a dramatic turn. Gilberto Oliva, Melanio's grandson, found himself in a new world order that was not kind to private enterprise.

He left Cuba, wandered across Spain, and eventually settled in Nicaragua. There, amidst the fertile lands, he rekindled the family's legacy, growing tobacco that would soon be recognized for its exceptional quality.

The Oliva Cigar Company, as we know it today, was officially established in 1995 and has since become a prominent name in the cigar industry, known for their dedication to craftsmanship and the rich flavors of their blends.

That's fascinating! And what about this cigar we're about to enjoy, the Oliva Serie V 135th Anniversary Limited Edition Perfecto?

Ah, this cigar is a true homage to the Oliva family's enduring legacy. Released to celebrate the 135th anniversary of Melanio's first harvest, this limited edition perfecto is a nod to the family's Cuban roots and their journey through the world of tobacco. It's crafted with meticulous attention to detail, embodying the spirit of the Oliva brand—a symbol of their journey from the past to the present, and their commitment to quality that has been passed down through the generations.

Interesting! Can you tell me more about its construction? Where do the wrapper, binder, and filler come from?

Of course! This cigar is a testament to the art of cigar making. The wrapper is an Ecuadorian Habano Sun-Grown leaf, which is known for its rich color and robust flavor profile. It encases a blend of Nicaraguan binder and filler tobaccos, carefully selected from the Oliva family's own fields. The Nicaraguan tobaccos are renowned for their full-bodied character and complex notes, providing a strong foundation for this exquisite cigar. The perfecto shape itself is a work of art, tapering elegantly at both ends, which requires the hands of the most skilled torcedores (cigar rollers) to create.

Now, what flavors and aromas should I be looking out for as I smoke it?

Prepare your palate for a symphony of flavors. In the first third, you'll be greeted with a rich tapestry of cocoa and earthy undertones, complemented by a subtle cedar zest. It's like walking through a forest after a rain, with the scent of wet earth and wood surrounding you. Transitioning into the second third, the profile evolves, introducing a bouquet of floral notes that dance on the tongue, intertwined with a nutty essence and a playful white pepper spice that tingles the senses. As you reach the final act, the cigar crescendos into a bold fusion of dark chocolate and leather, with a nutty core. A delightful maple sweetness lingers on the retro hale, a sweet whisper of the cigar's complexity.

That sounds delicious! Lastly, what drinks would you recommend pairing with this cigar? Maybe two alcoholic and one non-alcoholic option?

Pairing drinks with such a fine cigar is all about harmony and contrast. For an alcoholic companion, a Macallan Sherry Oak 12 Year Old Scotch is a superb choice. Its rich sherry-infused oakiness and dried fruit notes will complement the deep, earthy flavors of the cigar, creating a luxurious experience. Alternatively, Bumbu The Original Rum, with its alluring sweetness and hints of spice, can offer a delightful counterpoint to the cigar's robust profile, enhancing the overall tasting journey. For a non-alcoholic option, a robust black coffee or a shot of espresso would be ideal. The coffee's natural bitterness and aromatic qualities will elevate the cigar's inherent coffee and spice notes without overshadowing its intricate flavors. Each sip and puff is a step further into a world of refined taste and relaxation.

Thanks, Andrew! You really know your stuff. Let’s fire these up, put some smoke in the air and enjoy this nice ambiance.

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screpdoodle · 3 years

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Duality - Chapter Six (The Tick, Tick... Boom)

Kaos pulled the white rubber gloves up to his forearms, rubbing his hands together before pulling his goggles down over his eyes. He surveyed the beakers and flasks set before him, the same ones as on everyone else’s desks. Clear liquids and purple crystals in petri dishes. This looked to be an experiment Kaos was quite familiar with, and the one he had hoped for today. It was the exact base for the catalyst that he needed. Droppers and scoopulas were set off to the side, along with a handheld mortar and pestle. Kaos looked up to the board, where the teacher was just finishing up transcribing the instructions in fluid cursive. She brushed a permed curl behind her pointed ear, then plopped down at her desk, a book in her hands moments after. The other students had already started following along, immersed in their own little worlds. Grind the crystals into a fine powder. Kaos grabbed a handful of shards, dropping them into the mortar. They sounded like wind chimes as they hit the stone bowl, twinkling softly as Kaos used the pestle to grind them down. Well, tried. After a few moments, his hand began to cramp up, the crystals barely having cracked. He huffed, looking around the class. Surely, someone else wouldn't notice if he switched their mortar for his own. Kaos’ gaze came to fixate on the Ent a few tables down from him, their attention captured by the vial of clear fluid they were fumbling with, gnarled hands cracking the glass with absolutely no effort. Kaos’ expression soured, a prickle running up the back of his neck before the vial shattered, liquid splattering over the table and their oaky chest. The teacher looked up as the Ent started wailing, stumbling out from behind their desk and rushing for the door.

“This is the third time this has happened…” Kaos heard the teacher grumble before heading out after the Ent, leaving the class to fend for itself.

Kaos blinked, then hopped down from his seat as the chatter returned to the classroom. That timing couldn’t have been better. Kaos made his way over with mortar in hand, making sure not to be seen. Carefully, he switched the two out, being sure the Ent hadn’t ‘contaminated’ the crystal powder before quickly making a break back to his desk. Now, he could focus. Mix a few drops of activator into the powder. Mix until it forms a paste. Kaos piled the dust into a petri dish, picking out a few leaves before pouring in a few tips of the clear liquid. As soon as it touched the crystals, a plume of smoke curled up into the air. Kaos used his gloved finger to mix the substance around, ignoring the growing heat against the rubber. It didn’t take long for the dust to form into a granular paste. He flicked the extra on his finger back into the dish. Mix the paste in with the rest of the activator. Kaos tipped the paste into the flask, covering his face with his arm to defend against splashback, then began mixing. The clear liquid faded to a pastel purple, bubbling. Now. Now was the time. Kaos took his lunchbox out as the flask frothed, flipping the metal box open to reveal nothing but a napkin and some crumbs. Checking to make sure no one was watching, Kaos pulled on the napkin, removing the bottom and revealing a few thin vials filled with multicolored substances, all tethered to the real bottom of the lunchbox with thick bands of elastic. Kaos first slipped out one who’s contents seemed to pulse and glow with every movement, like lightning coursing across an overcast sky. He popped the cork off, then dumped the entire vial into the beaker, the substance sloshing over the sides a bit as he stirred it in, pooling around the base. Kaos waited for a second, until the static gathering in the air had cleared, then carefully grabbed the smallest vial from his lunchbox. Contained within it was a thick, crimson liquid. The very thing he had spent countless hours toiling over last night. Milking out every last drop of nectar he could muster by the light of the moon. He had spent weeks preparing, tracing their patterns in and out of Mother’s special garden, finding the exact time they were at their most active. The time they produced their best nectar. Beelossoms. A very rare breed that cultivated a very flavorful honey, but when unprocessed, the creatures used it as a defense mechanism. One that caused exploding pustules on any living being it was injected into. Kaos couldn’t help but let his hands shake as he popped the vial open, tilting it over the bubbling maw of the flask. He held his eyes open wide, not risking even a blink, holding his breath as to not jostle the substance. He just needed one drop. Just one. Single...

Plop.

Kaos pulled the bottle away, shooting his hands into the air in triumph as his grin widened. The muted lavender liquid began shifting to a deep copper. It was at that moment the door flung open; the teacher stomping inside, the sudden arrival causing Kaos to yelp. He bumped the table as the two of them locked eyes, the concoction sloshing over the sides. Kaos’ triumphant grin turned to one of sheepishness, then to one of concern as he noticed the flask frothing and bubbling more than before. Before Kaos could take cover, the liquid erupted into a cloud of coppery dust, flooding the air, the other students coughing and spluttering in alarm. Seconds after, alarm began to blare,the sprinklers coming on overhead; flushing the rust colored smog to the ground. In a panic, Kaos grabbed the flask, covering it with his arm so the remaining liquid didn’t get diluted.

“Apologies, miss, I have to go! I really gotta use the washroom!” Kaos spoke hurriedly as he pushed past the teacher, running out into the hall, the sounds of panicking students and his teacher’s yelling nothing but background noise to his thoughts, rust-colored dust trailing after him as he made a break towards the meeting spot.

“Benevolent Ancients, what happened to you??”

Kaos glared at Dyskord as he stopped to catch his breath, attempting to wipe the copper dust from his face. His goggles were resting on his forehead, a ring of uncovered skin left around his eyes. His clothes hung off of his frame, drenched from head to toe in freezing sprinkler water and rust-colored sludge.

“Chemistry is a dangerous thing, numbskull. But that doesn’t matter. Did you bring the-”

Before Kaos could finish his sentence, Dyskord threw a small, metal cage to the tiled ground at Kaos’ feet. Like his communicator, it seemed to be constructed of scrap metal and miscellaneous parts. Kaos let a grin creep across his face as he knelt down to pick up, ignoring the harsh, jolting movements it was making. He held the cage up to the light, inspecting its contents. Contained within it was a small, verdant ball of razor-sharp teeth, pink gums, and stubby limbs. Its eyestalks swiveled around as it tumbled around the cage. When it noticed Kaos peering at it, it lunged forward, gnawing at the metal bars between them. Kaos yelped, jumping back, a little bit of liquid sloshing other the lip of the flask. It bubbled and fizzed as it hit the tiled ground, evaporating almost immediately.

Click click.

Kaos looked over, a quick flash of light causing spots to dance across his vision. When it cleared, he saw Dyskord, snickering as he looked over a developing photo, a small camera clutched in the other. It was a camera Dyskord had had since Kaos was little. He remembered Dyskord running around the house, shaggy blonde hair in his eyes and the clicking of the shutters as he filled rolls upon rolls of film. It was a hobby that had slipped to the wayside as the years flew past, but Dyskord always made a point to bring his old, outdated camera along on their little ‘adventures’. Whether it be exploring the grounds behind the castle, an unsanctioned midnight outing to a ‘nearby’ market; or, apparently, to document Kaos’ humiliation at the jaws of a caged Chompy.

“What do you think you’re doing!?” Kaos hissed, dropping the cage (much to the Chompy’s dismay) and storming over to Dyskord. He reached up, trying to grab the photo from his brother’s grasp. To no avail.

“Oh come on, baby brother. It’s a great candid shot!”

“It’s humiliating, you bumbling buffoon!”

Dyskord merely pushed Kaos back, ruffling his hair in the process, chuckling to himself. Kaos snarled, then took a breath, gathering himself together as he readjusted his clouded goggles, shooting one last glare over to Dyskord. He then thrust his hand forward, beckoning for something.

“Whatever, we need to hurry. Your backpack. Hand it over,” Kaos demanded, motioning with his outstretched hand.

Dyskord swung his backpack off of his shoulder, but simply clutched it to his chest like a child would their favorite stuffed toy.

“And let you get your grubby, science-covered prints all over it? No way!” Dyskord stuck his nose in the air. “It’s limited edition!”

“It's a cloth sack you painted on. Quit being a baby and give it to me!” Before waiting for an answer, Kaos set the flask down and grabbed ahold of Dyskord’s backpack, tugging on it with all of his might before it slipped from Dyskord’s grasp, sending both it and Kaos stumbling back. He fell to the ground beside the caged ball of chlorophyll and teeth, not waiting a beat before zipping it open and rummaging around inside; much to his brother’s chagrin. The Chompy rattled around within its confinement, eyes watching as Kaos threw miscellaneous items from the bag. Sheet music, a half drank bottle of water, what once looked to be a sandwich bag but was now full of white and blue fungus, the list went on.

“Could you at least try to be gentle??” Dyskord begged as he dodged a haphazardly thrown wrench, gathering up what he could as Kaos searched the contents of his bag, blatantly ignoring his wishes as he threw a bag of expired ‘timebombs’ at Dyskord’s head. “I don’t treat your toys like this!”

“They’re collectors edition action figures, not toys!” Kaos retorted. “Besides, most of this is garbage anyway. Didn’t Mother already get on your tail about keeping your bag clean? It attracts Greebles!”

“Oh, and the fact that you hid one of their egg sacs in the wall doesn’t?”

“Zip it, fool.”

Kaos dug his hand into the bag one last time, finally pulling out a small, plastic box with a triumphant a-HA! He draped Dyskord’s bag over the Chompy cage without a second thought, popping the plastic box open and carefully removing what was inside. A crisp looking syringe, the silver tip almost glowing under the buzzing fluorescent lights. Giggling to himself like a schoolgirl, Kaos reached over and grabbed the flask, being careful not to spill any more of a liquid as he balanced it on his knee, priming the needle before dipping it into the substance. He filled it up to about halfway before tapping the end like he had seen done countless times.

“I still have no idea how you got your hands on one of those things,” Dyskord mused as he picked his backpack up, oblivious to the damage the Chompy had managed to do to one of the straps as he slipped the contents back inside.

“Getting detention from the bio teacher has its perks, brother,” Kaos shot a grin towards Dyskord before getting to his feet, his eyes fixated on the shimmering liquid suspended within the syringe. His own formula, his own handiwork, and soon all would bask in its masterful craftsmanship. Kaos cracked the cage open with his free hand, grabbing the Chompy by its eyestalks and lifting it into the air. The Chompy flailed its stubby limbs, snapping at the air with countless rows of razor sharp teeth, thrashing around much to Kaos’ amusement.

“So. Infodump to me again. This stuff is supposed to do what exactly?”

“It’s quite simple really.” Kaos cleared his throat as pulled his glove up his forearm, only for it to slip down again almost immediately. “I, KAOS, have created an ingenious formula, taking the natural properties of Blazing Beelossom nectar and the secretion from sea dwelling thunderslugs found only in the dark depths of-”

“Layman's terms, Kaos. We don’t have all day.”

“I mashed two highly dangerous goops together with some powder to make a boom boom liquid.”

“Smartass.” Dyskord puffed, crossing his arms. “What I don’t understand is, like, why do we need the little bugger? If it’s ‘boom boom liquid’, why not just spill it and let it do its work?”

Kaos snickered, pressing the tip of the syringe against the side of the Chompy’s bulbous head, causing it to freeze in place, simply dangling there as its eyes fixated on the needle. “Because, my idiotic brother, it only reacts when in contact with a living organism. The serum is dangerous on its own, yes, but not explosively so. See, if my theories are correct, this concoction should latch onto the living organism on a molecular level, causing a chain reaction which should, if my calculations are correct, cause it to spontaneously combust. Now, this is no regular spontaneous combustion, oh no-”

“Spontaneous combustion is a usual thing?”

“Hush. Let me finish.” Kaos inserted the syringe as he spoke, the Chompy squealing like a chew toy, before falling completely still, like a fawn caught in the headlights. Absentmindedly, Kaos pressed down on the plunger, the liquid draining into the Chompy, its verdant flesh starting to fade into an apricot orange as it filled with the deadly chemical. “As I was saying before you so rudely interrupted me, within half a minute for a creature of this size, its molecules will begin to ‘vibrate’ to an extent where they can no longer hold themselves together, causing the creature to explode like a living atomic bomb!!”

Kaos cackled, then paused, catching himself before it got too loud. He looked over to Dyskord, whose expression had become sunken, the corners of his mouth twitching as he eyed the Chompy. Kaos managed to soften his maniacal grin, pulling his mind back to reality.

“Though, eh, the effect is less potent the smaller the creature it latches onto. Which is why we’re using the ‘humble’ Chompy. Big enough to cause some damage, but not enough to, you know, completely demolish the entire island.”

Dyskord didn’t take his eyes off the Chompy hanging from Kaos’ grasp, which had begun to bubble, blisters forming on its squirming skin, the syringe hanging from the side of its head. Kaos followed his gaze, his heart stopping.

“...how long did you say it takes for the ‘boom boom juice’ to kick in?”

“Thirty seconds, approximately.”

“How long have we been talking?”

Kaos glanced to the nonexistent watch on his wrist. “...I’d say around twenty, twenty five seconds, per se.”

“So. We’ve got ‘approximately’ five seconds to ditch the living death sentence and hightail it outta here?”

“I believe so, yes.”

Kaos looked back to the Chompy, who had begun to drool, steam curling off of the dribble. He tried to peel his hand from the eyestalks, the flesh stretching and clinging to the rubber glove like orange putty. Kaos held back a gag as it flopped to the ground, then staggered to get up, his mind grinding to a stop as the Chompy gazed up at him. Then, it clicked.

“Wait. Oh fu-”

Before Kaos could finish his sentence, the Chompy burst apart in a blast of blinding light, engulfing everything around it.

<- previous chapter | next chapter ->

#skylanders #bring back the skylands #skylanders forever #fan fiction #fan retelling #fan continuation #orignal story #origin story #writing #my writing #might add more tags later

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your-kpopmama · 6 years

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AN: Hey guys!! This chapter is written. I felt like the things that were said and done had to be written out. But I also want to place this here

WARNING: MENTIONS OF SEXUAL ASSAULT, HINTS AT RAPE NON/CON, FIGHTING/VIOLENCE

I will mark the start and end of these mentions ( **** ) so if you are uncomfortable reading them, please skip past!!! If you are just uncomfortable with reading the chapter all together, please skip it! The next update will touch briefly on what happened in this one, just not as in depth. Thank you! Enjoy today's chapter!

Taehyung was a really nice guy, that was one thing you were definitely sure of. Another thing you were also sure of, what that you had put your two number one people in a lot of distress the past two weeks. You sat across Taehyung at your kitchen table in your apartment - just arriving home from getting something to eat together - drinking cups of green tea in awkward silence. Crying was not something you did in front of people you didn't know, but here you were, cheeks red and tear stained, your breath hiccuping every few seconds.

He didn't offer anymore words, he just allowed you to sit and think about what you put Jungkook and Hoseok through - not even beleiving you allowed yourself to put yourself through what you did for two weeks. ( **** ) Letting Kihyun come over and push you around and basically use you however he wanted, making sure to stay quiet through the whole ordeal and not making a single sound so you didn't alert your ever attentive neighbor. At first you didn't mind, you missed being with Kihyun in that sense, but after a week things got weird and you weren't entirely sure you liked - what he called excitement - anymore. ( **** )

When Hoseok finally sent those last series of texts, it really kicked your ass into gear. Allowing yourself to get out of bed, to take a shower and scrub the last two weeks from your body, and clean your apartment - something you hadnt been able to do since Kihyun started coming over. You were scared to text him and tell him it was over, that was the one thing you hadn't done yet. You didnt even know what to say to him, you were afraid of his response more than anything.

A small cough caught your attention - which was focused on your tea - and your eyes traveled up to meet those of Taehyung's. He offered a small smile as he leaned his elbow on the table and placing his cheek in the open palm, resting his head as he watched you for a moment before speaking, "Maybe you should message Jungkook and Hoseok hyung?" he offered gently.

Nodding your head you got up and walked to retreive your phone from the kitchen counter and walked out into the balcony telling Taehyung you would be back in a moment. Your finger was frozen over the call button for Jungkook's number, but you couldn't hit it, almost sure you would break down crying as soon as you heard his voice so instead you sent a snap to him and Hoseok, letting them know you were okay and that you wanted them to come over. They replied instantly, saying they would both be over soon.

SLiding open the balcony door you saw Taehyung slipping his shoes back on by the front door. "Ah, are you leaving? You could stay, I'll order some takeout." you offered walking towards him.

"I should probably go, let you explain to them everything that happened. I don't want to be in the way." he stated.

"You wouldn't be in the way. Jungkook really likes you, I can tell. I don't think he would mind if you were here." you continued.

Taehyung walked closer to you and placed his hands on your shoulders and smiled down at you, "Maybe under different circumstances we can all hang out again, but I think today should just be about you and Jungkook and Hoseok hyung hashing things out. Thanks for the offer though, y/n, and thank you for coming to eat with me today." his deep voice circling around you as his eyes never broke contact with yours.

"O-okay." you mumbled, his hands slipping from your shoulders before ruffling the top of your head, earning a small whine from you and a chuckle from him. "Good night, Y/N." he said softly as he closed your front door.

Alone once again in your half empty apartment, your anxiety about the boys coming over had you rushing to rearrange everything you owned - which wasn't much by any means - but it kept you busy. Another ten minutes was spent staring at Taehyung's text conversation, debating on whether or not you wanted to text him even though he just left.

Ah, what the hell.

y/n: Thanks for today. Again.

Taehyung?: It's alright. I didn't mean to make you cry earlier. I just wanted you to know how much Jungkook and Hoseok hyung care about you. It hurt me to see them like that but it also hurt me to see you like how you were too.

y/n: Hopefully we can just move past all of this.

Taehyung?: What about Kihyun?

y/n: I'll deal with him. I'm tired of letting him push me around. I didn't realize how awful I was being. I'm so ashamed.

Taehyung?: Hopegully it all goes okay. If not, you know where to find me.

y/n: Thank you, Taehyung.

Taehyung?: Tae. You can just call me Tae.

y/n: Ah...okat..Tae. Thank you.

Taehyung?: :) I hope everything goes well with Jungkook and Hoseok hyung tonight. Good luck.

You stared at your phone a moment longer, a smile on your face. Your fingers moved to his contact and edited his name.

Tae?

As you placed your phone onto the kitchen table, there were a series of loud knocks at your door. Taking a deep breath, you shuffled across the hardwood floors and pulled the door open slowly, revealing an annoyed looking Hoseok and a relieved Jungkook - despite the look on Hoseok's face, the two boys enveloped you in a bone crushing hug. Pretty soon the three of you were sobbing messes, clutching onto each other for dear life.

"I'm so sorry!" you cried into Jungkook's shoulder as both his and Hoseok's grips on you got tighter.

"You should be! You had us worried sick!" Hoseok tried to sound angry, but his tears were making it unbelieveable.

Jungkook pulled back first, holding you at arms length looking you up and down, checking your body for any signs of damages - damages that you made sure were hidden from view or had long since disappeared - to ensure you were really oaky. Once he was satisfied he pulled you to the kitchen table and forced you into the chair, leaving Hoseok to close the front door.

The two boys sat in chairs across from you, Hoseok had his arms folded across his chest as he leaned back into his chair and Jungkook had both elbows on your table with his head drooped into his hand, fingers threaded through his brown locks. No one spoke for a while, the second awkward silence of the night for you. You chewed on your bottom lip until you felt the skin wear thing and the light taste of copped filled your tastebuds, causing you to sigh and sit up, alerting both boys to the sudden change in your aura.

"I don't know where to start." you began, "I can't even formulate a proper apology because I know there is not reasoning or excuse behing why I did what I did. I know why I did it, but it doesn't seem like a good enough reason to justify it."

Hoseok took in a deep breath and rubbed his hands over his face, "Just tell us, y/n. Honestly it doesn't matter. What matters is that you're coming to your senses. JUst tell us what happened." Jungkook's head lifted a little higher, but his eyes seemed worried - worried about what was going to come from your mouth.

Nodding your head slightly you folded your arms across the table top and leaned on them a bit, your attention focused on your fingers which were locking and unlocking themselves, trying to decide where to even start. A pair of soft hands covered yours, causing you to smile, "Thanks, Kook." you said, still not looking up from your hands holding onto each other.

"Kihyun had text me, accusing me of moving on from him quickly because of that Insta post of all four of you hanging out in my apartment. I was confused why he even cared, but my mind was thinking ' hey he still wants you otherwise he wouldn't even care who you were hanging out with '. So I asked him. He said part of him still wanted me, but the other part wanted new exciting things. So...So I offered to try..to try new things." your voice started to waver causing Jungkook's hands to grip yours tighter, silently letting you know it was okay before you started again.

"So he said he would give it a chance, to see if we could patch things up, but I had to eliminate everyone from my life. I guess i was so desperate to have him back, I didn't care. I just figured everything would go back to normal after a while and I could convince him that we could all be friends and he wouldn't have to worry about anything. He was here...every...night." you lifted a hand to wipe the stray tears that were coming down your cheeks at this point, "For the first week it was nice, being able to be with him again...and to..you know..." your cheeks were burning red hot at this point and there was a choking noise coming from Jungkook which you chose to ignore.

( **** ) "The first night we fought because I didn't want to do what he wanted to do. It was humiliating, but after Taehyung kept texting me and then knocked on the door several times, I just complied with Kihyun. I didn't want to cause a problem. The first time I was embarassed, but then he wanted to do it every night..I guess I got used to it." your monologue was interupted by Hoseok suddenly.

"Y/N...what the fuck..." he breathed. "Are you fucking telling me...are you implying what I think you're implying right now?" anger seeping into his voice.

Your head raised to look him in the eyes, tears dropping at a steady pace, Jungkook looking between the both of you slightly confused, "I'm a little lost.." he stated the obvious.

"Kookie, this mother fucker has been r-" Hoseok started to speak before you cut him off.

"Hobi! Stop! Just...just let me finish okay?" you pleaded.

"Finish? You mean there's more? There's more bullshit to this already bullshit story?"

Your eyes traveled back down to your hands - which we still in Jungkook's - and you started to speak once again. "As I was saying before...After the first week, I told him I wanted to stop, that I didn't like what we were doing. He said that was fine. He didn't come over again for a few nights then he text saying he was on his way but I told him I was just tired and he got mad. That night..." your voice cracked and suddenly Hoseok was jumping up from his chair and was suddenly yanking you up from yours, pulling you in close and hugging you tight.

"Don't...please don't finish what you have to say. I get it. I can't bare to hear you say it, it might kill me. Please." he begged, his body shaking as he cried. ( **** )

"It's not what you think, Hobi, I swear. It's nothing like that." your hands finding their way to his back to rub it gently to calm him down some. "He didn't do anything, I promise. I told him if he touched me I was going to call the police. He just...he just told me how worthless I was and that no one would ever want me again, and that I belonged to him and the sooner I accepted it, the better for everyone."

"You're not worthless and you definitely do NOT belong to him!" Jungkook shouted, suddenly standing.

"I know, I know." you looked at him and gave a small smile. "But...Hobi..there's..there's a something...something I need to tell you." you whispered.

He leaned back from the embrace and looked at you confused for a moment. "When Kihyun got up to use the restroom..his phone kept going off. So I got up to see who it was..Hobi I'm so sorry. Minha is with Kihyun. She kept asking when she could meet up with him again and how stupid you were for not knowing and..I had to tell you. I didn't know how. I'm so sorry."

Hoseok looked at you like you had grown three heads, the look on his face was enough to break your heart. He backed away, his steps slightly stumbling as he sat back down in his chair, his eyes never leaving your face. You didn't know what to do, both you and Jungkook were frozen in place as you watched realization and understanding cross his face.

A buzzing noise caught your attention, your eyes finding your phone with Kihyun's name popping up over and over again with messages. You chose to ignore them, you woud deal with him later.

The three of you sat in silence for what seemed like hours, but in reality was probbaly only a few minutes. No one dared say anything, all these secrets thrown messily on your kitchen table and three broken people trying to decide how to piece them all togehter. This wasn't something you ever imagined. Minha had been a good friend of yours, but she always made you uncomfortable, especially when her and Hoseok would come over to your shared apartment with Kihyun. Lingering stares and odd comments about how cute Kihyun was, were all suddenly making sense. How long had things been going on between them? That was an answer you really didn't want to know.

Suddenly three loud bangs pulled all three of you from your thoughts. With a frown you stood and started towards the door but Hoseok beat you to it and swung the door open.

( **fighting** ) "What the fuck are you doi-" his anger was cut off by a fist connecting with his nose with a gross crack.

You looked through the doorway and saw a pissed off Kihyun standing there, fist slightly raised with Hoseok's blood on it.

"Kihyun! What the fuck?!" you yelled, you started to head towards Hoseok but was yanked out into the hallway by Kihyun.

"That's what I should be asking. I thought I told you to drop these two pieces of shit?"Kihyun seethed, his face inches from yours.

A loud bang of a door closing pulled everyone's attention to the right, Tae stood a couple of steps away with a bag of trash in his hands and an unreadable expression on his face. He glanced slowly between you and Kihyun before he dropped his trash and began pulling his sleeves up and walking towards Kihyun, a clear intent in his steps and eyes.

His long fingers wrapped around your waist as he pulled you against him and away from a shocked looking Kihyun. Tae glanced to the left and nodded slightly as he started to back away with you slowly. Everything started to move in slow motion at this point. Kihyun followed Tae's gaze and his eyes grew about three times the size they already were. He started to back up, stumbling over his own feet as you could hear footsteps coming quick through your apartment, revealing a pissed off and sprinting Jungkook.

Kihyun turned and went to take off running but only made it to the steps before Jungkook caught up with him. Jungkook's body went completely horizontal in the air as he landed a solid kick to Kihyun's back, sending him down the first flight of steps - luckily for him it was only about five - before Jungkook's body slammed loudly into the ground. ( **end of fighting** )

In all honesty, the whole thing would have been comical, if it wasn't for Hoseok's groaning from your doorway and your heart rate speeding up and busting out of your chest with every second that passed by.

"Hey! I called the police!" a voice from down the hall broke everyone out of their daze as a girl in her mid thirties stood in her doorway with her cell phone in hand. "Is everyone okay?" she asked.

"Yes, thank you. How soon will the cops be here?" Tae asked suddenly calm.

"About five minutes. I would keep that creep on scene, he seems like the kind of loser who would try to run." the woman said.

"On it." Jungkook stated as he started to descend the stairs.

Once the police and an ambulance showed up and Kihyun and Hoseok were transported to the hospital and Jungkook was taken in for questioning about what happened, you finally allowed your body to relax. You sat beside Hoseok on his hospital bed as the nurse dressed his nose, which was broken. You had to leave the room when they snapped it back into place, the yells from Hoseok was enough to make your stomach churn.

"I think your nose might even be more handsome than before." you commented, trying to ease the tension.

"No matter what I look like, I will always be handsome." he said, eyeing you sideways.

A moment passed before you spoke again, "I'm sorry, Hobi." was all you offered.

He hummed and the room was silent until a loud succession of heels clicking on the linoleum grew closer and closer to the room. You already knew who they belonged to, you've heard the same noise many times in the past and your chest tightened at the thought of Minha being here at this moment.

"Hoseokie!" she yelled as she flung back the curtain. "Baby, oh my god! What happened?!" she cooed, coming closer with her hands outstretched to cup around his face.

"Kihyun punched me." was all he said.

"Kihyun?! Like, y/ns Kihyun?" she asked dumbly.

"No, Minha, like YOUR Kihyun." Hoseok snapped, suddenly looking her in the eyes.

Her face turned ghost white and she tried to stammer out an excuse and question him what he was talking about, but Hoseok wasn't having it. He took her hands off his face and gently pushed her back. "Get out." was all he said. "Get out of this room and get out of my apartment and get out of my life. You disgust me."

"Hoseokie..." she started to whine.

"You hear him, Minha." you said, a newfound strenght in your voice.

"You mind your own business!" she screeched.

"MINHA. GO." Hoseok yelled, his face turning a slight shade of red as he stared her down.

She turned and walked away, heading out the exact same way she came in, "Kihyun is down the hall the other way." Hoseok yelled after her. The clikcing of her heels stopped and they headed back towards the room you both her in, but she continued walking towards Kihyun's room with no hesitation.

"So shameless..." you mumbled to yourself.

The doctor came in shortly after and disharged Hoseok with a prescription for pain meds and instructions on how to care for the swelling around his nose. Jungkook showed up right after, a stupid grin on his face. After questioning him why he looked like that, he smugly said they weren't going to charge him for kicking kihyun down the stairs, but Kihyun would be charged with assault on Hoseok and if you wanted to go down and give a statement, sexual assault would be added on as well. Was that something you could claim? You consented, but only after you got tired of saying no. It was something you would have to think about.

"Let's go home, y/n." Jungkook said, wrapping his arms around you and Hoseok's shoulders.

Summary:

Serendipity: the occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way. or “Hey, you’re my new neighbor and you cry every night, are you okay?”

Part 15/?

#kim namjoon #namjoon #kim seokjin #jin #min yoongi #yoongi #Jung HoSeok #park jimin #jimin #kim taehyung #taehyung #jeon jungkook #jungkook #bts fanfic #fanfiction BTS #BTS au #bts texts #bts fake texts #bts fake chat

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c-jacksonn · 7 years

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Lovin’ Ya

request ; Okay oaky okay cause like I need a Soony fic where he just APPRECIATES the FUCK outta you, and he just follows you around and tell you you look amazing and looks just giving you cuddles but as soon and Usnavi tells him to ask you out and he just like tells him to go away because no no no he will not. But he does anyway.

requested by anonymous

pairing ; sonny x reader

words ; 1400 (exactly !)

warnings ; none!

note ; this is semi-edited, so sorry if there are minor mistakes that i missed. also, i didn’t add the cuddles part, probably because i wrote this while sleep-deprived and over the span of a few hours so, and i just didn’t remember it.

Sonny de la Vega. The boy you'd come to cherish as not only a good friend, but also as a bearer of your heart. Everyday, at various times, he would come over to the small café you worked at, order a drink, and depending on if you had the time, would wait until you took a five minute break to talk to you and shower you in compliments (and if you couldn’t take a break, he would wait until the line was gone and just talk to you at the counter.)

Sonny was such a regular, that the shift manager, Selena, had come to adore him, and tried to give you as much time as possible with him. And it was frequent that your coworkers made comment on how cute the two of you would be together, and how Sonny was the kind of guy they wanted and hoped for in life.

Truly, you loved having Sonny be there, unknowingly helping you through insecurity with his words. And the best part is, the praise and the kind words and the appreciation wasn’t confined to the café. If you walked into the bodega, and Sonny was there, he would slide over the counter and follow you around the small grocery store, reminding you that you looked good, and then telling you about his day and his favorite things.

He once told you that if he ever got a million dollars, he would spend some on you, and donate the rest to bettering the New York educational system, as well as everyone in the barrio. After telling him that you thought that was extremely selfless of him, he wiped his upper lip with his right thumb, smiled cockily, and said, “I know.”

Sonny had repeatedly told you his favorite things about you, as well. From the way he said it so often, you were aware that he really liked your hair and your eyes, claiming that “your hair is super silky and your eyes – oh man, y/n, your eyes are beautiful.” But he also loved your hands when he would be able to hold them to take you somewhere, or just feeling you play with his fingers while he talked to you.

The only reason you knew that was because, once again, he always talked about it. What you didn’t know, though, was that Usnavi, Sonny’s older cousin and a good friend of yours, had told Sonny that he had to ask you out soon, or you were gonna be off the market and Sonny would just be a “nice friend to have around.”

And what Sonny didn’t know is that Benny, another friend from around Washington Heights, had been talking to you when he was off work, telling you all about Sonny’s crush on you, and how, whenever Usnavi and him got into a conversation about Nina and Vanessa, Sonny would join in and talk about you like they talked about their girlfriends – like he was completely and utterly in love.

Usnavi had felt the need to change the whole “back and forth” thing, and, as much as he loved his cousin, he knew that Sonny was absolutely helpless when it came to you, and that the only reason he was able to compliment you so smoothly was because he constantly gave himself pep talks, or acted the scene out in his mirror, then again in his mind.

So, as the younger boy walked through the bodega, checking the inventory, Usnavi called, “Asked her out yet?”

Sonny stopped in his tracks and glared at his cousin from the opposite side of the store, “No. What’s it to you?”

“Woah-ho,” Usnavi laughed, holding up his hands in mock surrender, “just asking, ‘cuz. You’re practically dating already, why not make it official?”

The other side of the shop was quiet for a moment before a small voice said, “She’d never go for a guy like me, Usnavi. She’s way out of my league.”

A burst of laughter came from the man at the counter, “You think Vanessa isn’t outta mine? And Nina outta Benny’s? No girl is in any guy’s league if you ask me.”

Sonny walked back to the front counter, shrugging at his cousin, “Dunno. If she says no, it could ruin what I have, and I don’t– I don’t wanna do that, y’know?”

“All I’m sayin’ is, don’t be afraid to get the girl. I can guarantee she feels the same way, kid.”

Just then, the little bell on the top of the door chimed and the day started. But this time, Sonny had a little more on his mind than just his favorite things about you. As the day drug on, he thought, and had no clue, about what he’d even say to start the conversation with you, let alone the words he’d use to ask you to be his.

Meanwhile, you began to think that maybe the boy with the big smile and the confident aura would be MIA. You weren’t particularly worried, considering you’d probably stop by the bodega later that day, anyway. If you didn't see him there, then you’d be slightly worried.

Sure enough, right as the café was about to close, Sonny had still been a no-show. Wiping the tables one last time, making sure the coffee makers were clean, and then checking and counting the money you’d earned that day, you closed up shop, waving bye to Selena. While walking the block it took to get to Usnavi's grocery store, you noticed The Heights were a bit livelier that day, what with kids playing on the bikes and scooters in the streets, and joggers all about – smiles on almost all of their faces.

Once you got to the bodega, you fixed your hair a little and smoothed down your shirt before walking in and greeting the older cousin, “Hey, U.S. Navy!” It had been a running gag between the two of you at first – Usnavi would say something about you and Sonny, or your job, and you would retaliate with his name’s origin (in the most derogatory way, of course – and giggling a little bit, too).

At first, he took offense, making a pun on your name, but after a while, it had just become what you called him when you were having a good day. “Hey, y/n. Sonny’s been lookin’ for you.”

“Sonny’s been what?” The younger boy came out, his hat turned back in its usual backward flat bill style, and his muscle tee dawning a graphic of TMNT, a box in his hands.

“U.S. here says you’ve been looking for me?”

“Usnavi!” Sonny whisper-shouted, furrowing his dark eyebrows at the one clad in a red shirt and brown cap.

Usnavi took the box from Sonny’s hands, smiled smugly, and shrugged, “Honesty is apart of America – kinda.”

Laughing with raised eyebrows you watched their silent facial-expression-conversation, and then Usnavi started whistling (trying to be casual and failing) and walked off with a saunter.

“So, what’s up?” You asked, grabbing Sonny’s attention.

“O-Oh, uh,” Sonny stuttered, taking a deep breath and swallowing a little, “I-I’ve been, uh, meanin’ to ask if you, uh, if you would be interested, possibly, in I don’t know, being– being my girlfriend?” He smiled awkwardly, tucking his hands in his pockets while raising his shoulders, and looking at you with both hopeful and helpless brown eyes.

Smiling, you closed the gap between the two of you, grabbed his warm, red-tinted face and brought him in for a kiss. He sort of missed your lips at first, kissing the corner of your mouth, got a little closer to the center on the second try, and finally kissed you right on the third.

By then, you were smiling, and when he pulled away, you sarcastically commented, “Third time’s a charm, huh, Sonny?”

He turned a darker shade of red than before, and let out a laugh, looking down at his feet with an embarrassed gaze, “S-Sorry,” he muttered, “got nervous.”

You smiled once more, giggling softly, “It’s okay, Sonny. And to answer your question, yes. I will be your girlfriend.

Needless to say, he didn’t miss the fourth time, and you’d never seen such a wide smile on Sonny de la Vega’s face. He definitely had your heart in his hands, and you wouldn’t want it any other way.

#sonny de la vega x reader #ith #in the heights #in the heights x reader #in the heights imagines #sonny de la vega

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fantroll-purgatory · 5 years

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Alright, it’s me again. I feel like we’re finishing up remaking my entire original fansessions. That’s pretty cool. I was originally going to submit the seer of the session since she had been replaced by Riscat, but you guys had already reviewed her! Lorlei Zlaman, if you remember. So instead I chose the witch. Alright, here we go!

(Now that’s what I call Editing. I think I’m gonna do my best to suggest edits to shape this character into staying a Witch of Hope instead of my usual schtik, since I don’t have a good grasp on all of your characters for this session at the moment! (I’ve only done two of them personally so far!)) -SA

Name: Diviya Lenark

Meaning: you know by now that it’s none. But I did do some research! Diviya means divine power, and Lenark is a type of vodka. I think the first name fits more than the last.

Sign: Taurnius, sign of the abider

(SIGN OF THE ENTREPRENEUR) Typing Quirk: replaces c with [ and e with <, constantly uses tree puns such as birch=bitch, oaky=ok

(I like this a lot. Tree puns! We love nature!)

Lusus: treemom (a sentient tree that Diviya made a home out of. She’s still alive, but she can’t move. Her hive is basically a small room inside of her still living lusus with a couple levels)

(Okay I get where you’re coming from but Lusii don’t work like that. As much as I want them to. And Bronzebloods have the most connection to lusii, so this is especially important!) (But I like the idea of her having a plant based home and sensibilities. What about… a Bowerbird. But obviously not a standard, run of the mill bowerbird, a plant bowerbird who tends the giant TreeHouse with her. Like Deramon!)

(Plant Bird Parental Figure) Trollian Handle: punnyTreebark[PT]

(Hear me out: punnyPernambuco, also known as Brazilwood!)

Weapon: potions! She knows exactly how to make herbal remedies, and herbal poisons

(H-HerbalismKind…)

Special Abilities: none besides regular bronze ones

Outfit: a brown jacket, t-shirt, and violet skirt that was a gift from her moirial, Selefi

Personality: Diviya is a happy go lucky troll, always making tree puns. She’s always happy to help, and wants to be friends with everyone! She loves to garden and mix brews of plants. She wants everyone to be happy, so makes certain brews so trolls can forget about their worries and relax. It’s basically weed.

After the events of sgrub go down, she goes a little mad with power after getting close to winning the game. She tries to kill Riscat, and only succeeds in blinding him before getting stabbed in the back by Riscat’s moirial, Feyarr. More things happen, Selefi ends up dying too, and Diviya gets a just death. Once she’s in the dream bubble (singular, the mage of life isn’t that good at making them) she has awhile to think about what she did and how she messed up the session.

(We love Witches of Hope who go powermad! I jest, but Witch of Hope, in my humble opinion is one of the EASIEST TO ABUSE classpects. You just mess with everyone’s emotions! Change the state of the game!) (Odd comment here: does this session have two life players? Zar was also originally written as a Life player, but a Knight.)

Dancestor: Kumula Lenark, the mage of Hope

Ancestor: the Halflife (I made her before I knew what half-life was I swear) the Halflife was a troll who had gone under inhumane experiments from the Deceiver Catalyst (remember him?) and ended up escaping and causing his death in revenge. She’s the main antagonist in the session, and is technically immortal since she’s only half alive. She causes havoc and even gives another one of the trolls from Diviya’s session permanent brain damage after drop kicking her through time and space because she knew too much. In order to achieve that, she kidnapped the page of time from the dancestor session, and murdered the rest of the dancestors. She’s defeated eventually, but that’s not important. (While I love a good D/Ancestor plotline, in profiles like these it’s equally if not more important to know if these are shaping the character. Trolls, ESPECIALLY Prospit trolls, put a lot of stock in “genetic destinies” like these.)

Lunar Sway: Prospit (To tie into my comments above, Diviya trying to emulate her Ancestor (or gain revenge for her) would be very in-line with the Prospitan views of Fate and Destiny. Just look at how Vriska was with Mindfang.)

God tier: Witch of Hope

(Her lowkey drugging of people definitely fits in with this. Actively going out and changing the hopes and options available to her teammates. Not always for good purposes either. I think an element of denial would serve her well here? A lack of willingness to accept things as they are, to believe that they’re better in a detrimental way to her progress as person, as she’s a villain.) (Her inverse being Seer of Rage adds to this too- be able to invite knowledge THROUGH Rage as well as deeply knowing and advising on it. She knows all of the uppers and the downers and how JUST to provoke someone into going full clowntown. No wonder she’s got a purple moirail.)

Fetch Modus: similar to Riscats, she has to blend and mash the items after waiting for them to grow together in order to bring them out in one heaping mess. It’s a bit annoying but she manages.

Land: Land of Glass and Cushions

That should be it! Thank you!!

And here’s her sprite. It’s been remade twice so far, you should have seen the old one it was horrid.

#brownblood #bronzeblood #submission #allhailthegoldcloud

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baybelwax-blog · 7 years

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My mom still asks my dad to sing those songs, sometimes

My mom and I had dinner together several nights ago. I don’t see her much these days, despite us sharing a single-bathroom, two-bedroom house. She’s at work, or exhausted from work, a lot.

We sat down, and she asked me about school, about the thickly-accented Scottish history teacher I’ve been imitating all week, about Rhys, about the worrisome knocking noise my new-used car’s making, about this writing blog, about when I would be contacted by the University of California in regards to my recently-submitted application. She told me she didn’t like my tattoos. She ordered an oaky red wine from the two-page drink menu –

one of those restaurants in which impeccably-groomed, vampire-like waiters drop hot towels from silver tongs into your hands after you’ve finished your dinner, the entire menu contains dairy, a wide (and impressively eclectic) selection of French and Californian wines is offered, the selection of wines is wider than the selection of entrees, organic mints are delicately tucked into the bill.

To keep our conversation afloat, I asked my mom what she gathered of Trump’s recent immigration ban. She’s the foreign section editor at the Los Angeles Times; she’d lived, breathed, digested international airport protests and federal judges’ exhaustive assessments of the measure’s constitutionality the past couple of days.

My mom relishes in analyzing the inner politics and literary output of Times’ newsrooms, so work’s always a good thing to ask about.

She sipped her wine, and merely, briefly commented something about living in a country headed by a president with a diagnosable mental illness.

I waited for her to say something more.

She said the whole thing reminded her of my dad’s attempts to emigrate to Egypt from Sudan, after their engagement. My parents have always carried on an international sort of love – a strong marriage, despite the physical distance frequently inserted between them.

“That was a long time ago,” she said, when my dad looked strikingly like the young Mick Jagger, a handsome and blushing thing, wore his hair in a voluminous brunette bowl cut.

She hadn’t told me this story before.

My mom had seeped into her thirties, she estimated, and was living in Cairo, in an apartment whose balcony hung lavishly over the Nile River. A young and heavenly foreign correspondent, sharp-witted, with an ability to charm information from sealed bureaucratic lips, and a potent writer. She permed her hair faithfully every three months, and most frequently wore garments stitched with periwinkle threads and buttons. She crowded her bookshelves with yellowed editions of Keats and Hardy. Always kept a Siamese cat and a Persian rug. She’d met the pope, and had travelled to the majority of the continents.

In her early years of foreign correspondence work, she was assigned to write about, was engrossed in, and – despite professional journalist protocol – was emotionally-stirred by the blood and rubble of the Bosnian civil war.

My family visited Sarajevo, the capital of Bosnia-Herzegovina, in the early-2000s. I was a little girl. That’s one of my earliest memories. I remember the trek to the Janković family graveyard, which perched between the damp, scraggly, but impressive brown hills that loomed behind the house my grandfather built, where my dad grew up. I slept in the bed that’d he’d slept in when he was my age. I most vividly recall the tattered Chernobyl-esque shopping malls and government buildings, which had been crippled in the war, that stood – hunched – as grim reminders of a city whose street gutters once, not too long ago, gurgled blood. My aunt and uncle, and my dad especially, tirelessly distracted my eyes from the ruins filling the car’s windows as we drove through the city. I can understand now that what they felt was shame.

My dad is Serbian, raised in present-day Bosnia-Herzegovina. A product of the formerly great Yugoslavia. If you ask his nationality, he’ll respond defiantly “Yugoslav” – only reluctantly, will he differentiate between the present-day states, and call himself a Serb, or sometimes a Bosnian-Serb.

I’ve always admired that small detail, that firmness, about him. I wonder what it’s like to have that strong, that ingrained, of a nationalistic sense.

My mom offered these contextual details, for the purpose of her story:

conflict touched my dad when it arrived in Sarajevo, in 1992. The city was a frictional mélange of Muslim Bosniaks, Orthodox Serbs, and Catholic Croats. Bosnia had recently declared independence, following Croatia and Slovenia, both of which had severed their allegiances with the Yugoslavian federation a year earlier.

The Bosnian-Serbs, supported by the Yugoslav’s People’s Army, injected defenses throughout Bosnia, fiercely seeking to secure Serbian territory.

The American newspapers, mom said, called it an “ethnic cleansing” – a “genocide” effectuated by Bosnian-Serbs – of the Muslim Bosniak and Catholic Croat peoples.

My dad fled his Bosnian homeland as conflict broke like an egg yolk, its sticky yellow permeating everything, suffocating, stinking. He evaded the draft, evaded the holy war that asked he point machine guns in the faces of his coworkers, neighbors, friends.

He found work on an oil rig ship, that was to port in Libya. When Libya was no longer safe for a Christian Serb, he uprooted again, and built a sort of life in Sudan.

It was there, in Sudan, that my parents met at a mutual friend’s St. Patrick’s day party. My dad arrived late – tardiness remains a habit he hasn’t managed to kick – as my mom was shouldering her purse, plotting her polite and apologetic exit.

“The Serb’s here!” someone called. Kim the writer was intrigued, having recently returned from reporting in Bosnia.

She said, Kim, the utterly biological and passionate human, too, was intrigued, by the broad-shouldered man who stood, commandingly, strikingly, in a brown leather jacket, which he wore with a simultaneous sharpness and ease.

They talked animatedly in a corner of the garden patio all evening, which glowed beneath stringy lights tangled in the palm fronds overhead. Mostly, they spoke about my dad’s roots in the bleeding country. About the politics, the divided peoples, the unique heartbreak of civil war.

“We made out all night and stuff, too,” she added insouciantly, poking her tongue at the crimson wine that stained the corners of her lips.

That night was shadowed by checkered-tablecloth dinners, by pensive and silent midnight strolls beneath date trees and crescent moons. Eventually, was shadowed by love. Then, by one failed marriage proposal. Then, by one successful marriage proposal, which occurred in an aluminum rowboat bumping against the Nile’s evening current. In the boat, my dad sang sweeping ballads about despairing Serbian women warning their husbands fighting away in Greece not to fall in love with the lovely Grecian women – to come home to the gorgeously Slavic, hardened wives that loved them.

My mom still asks my dad to sing those songs, sometimes.

My dad, still living in Sudan after their engagement, promised to join the young reporter he adored so feverishly, freshly, youthfully in Egypt. They envisioned a small, pretty life together, touched by the Nile’s fertile banks. He began the burdensome application work for a visa. Several weeks later, it was rejected.

He applied again, to be put before another wall. And several more times, over a period of months. All were rejected. On several occasions he was permitted to board his scheduled flight to Cairo – only to be held in Egyptian customs upon arrival – and to ultimately, despairingly, in a fit of yelling, board a flight back to Sudan. My mom flew to Sudan as often as was feasible to see him. My dad lived in an oil refinery dormitory, which was ostentatiously decorated with a twin-size bed and small window that cast a square of moonlight on the floor.

During this time, throughout the middle east and Europe, the dividing lines between Muslims and Orthodox-Christian Serbs were laced with barbwire – oozed blood, tumult, and fresh memories. As soon as my dad, in his visa applications, was discovered to be a Christian Serb, he was immediately, uncompromisingly barred from entering predominantly Muslim Egypt.

For my parents, one month apart became three, became six, became eight.

My mom navigated Egyptian political circles, being a newspaperwoman who reported predominantly on middle eastern politics. She’d frequented dinner parties given on occasion in the gold-trimmed dining room of Sudan’s Egypt-stationed ambassador. She’d spoken with him at length about Sudanese-Egyptian trade negotiations – and several times about the young man who permeated all of her thoughts, back in Sudan, who slept in an aluminum frame single bed, and subsisted off of farmers’ market date fruits and polaroid photographs.

The ambassador had sewn a sort of paternal, sympathetic affection for my mom over the course of their professional relationship. Admired her dignity, objectivity, and prose. Admired her ability to be on her own. I think he really wanted to help her.

Several more months passed. It was getting harder to see over the wall that had been erected between them.

My mother isn’t religious, although she considers herself a spiritual person; and she considers herself to have been in a state of desperation, at that point. It was several days before Christmas, not that Christmas is some large, commercial affair in Cairo – but which accentuated her solitude, thickened the barbwire between her and her fiancé, made the heaviness of her heart a meatier burden to lug around –

on this evening twenty-something years ago, the sun was unthreading in long, yellow strings to the Nile’s banks.

(In the small minutes between Egyptian day and night, when the line between the two is erased – when the sky spills into a citrusy pink cocktail that you’d be set back $16 for at a chic Manhattan rooftop bar – even I, who have been lucky enough to have watched in transfixion several of these sunsets, might be led to believe that something like God is pouring everybody’s drinks.)

To no one in particular, leaning against the white iron balcony fencing –

my mom said, “please.”

Deciding, then, to speak directly to God:

“bring llija to Egypt.”

Fluttering palm fronds, and the white noise of full-throttle traffic jams and street vendors. There wasn’t much else, much less anything remarkable. Not that she’d anticipated there would be. She’d waited a long time for God to come into her life, and here she still was, waiting.

Ilija is derived from the Hebrew “Elijah.” Saint Ilija, in the Macedonian Orthodox church, is revered as a ninth-century prophet who supposedly arrived at the gates of Heaven in a chariot of fire.

In the entryway to my childhood home, my parents hung an oil painting of St. Ilija, awaiting admission.

Ilija is also my dad’s name. It was also he who jingled the apartment doorbell perhaps ten minutes thereafter, wearing the handsome leather jacket my mom had met him in, skin smelling of sandalwood aftershave and cool night air, carrying a dozen fiery red roses in the nook of his elbow.

The ambassador, whose dining room was trimmed neatly with gold, had arranged that a visa be specially granted for the young man sleeping fitfully, dreamlessly, far away in an oil refinery dormitory.

My mom still isn’t religious, but claims that in a world colored by things like civil wars and lovers’ separation, miracles happen every now and then.

My mom ended her story abruptly. She does that, a lot. I think it’s because her sensibilities as a writer conduct the way she navigates life, in general:

“let things speak for themselves,” she said to me once, for example, editing one of my school essays, “overstatement only takes away from the effect.”

I said, “you never told me that story,”

She just shrugged, and flagged down the waitress to order another glass of wine.

My dad still finds all sorts of occasions to bring my mom flowers.

#I revised this and am much happier with it now #writing #spilled ink #thoughts #personal #writers on tumblr

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xcrisscrossx · 7 years

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Happy Anniversary

“Alright there, Rosie. Alright, now just sit tight, Sherlock’s getting your food now,” John hushed soothingly. Sherlock marveled at the way John could maintain his adult tone while still sounding so… fatherly.

“Okay Rosie, you’ve got two options; pureed veggie root or pulverized seed-pod extract.” John gave Sherlock an odd look. “Carrot or Pea baby food.” John rolled his eyes with a smile, taking the carrot jar—Rosie’s favorite, meaning the one she made less of a mess with—and uncapped it. “The books say she needs to start eating more solid foods,” Sherlock observed, tilting his head slightly as he regarded the menu in front of him.

“She had her little crackers and some banana slices for breakfast this morning. I only packed these because they’re more convenient and I figured they wouldn’t have anything suitable for her here, even on the kids menu.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I think she’d enjoy some dino shaped nuggets, wouldn’t you darling?” Sherlock cooed to the toddler.

“Ah boys, so good to see you two again,” Angelo greeted warmly, reaching out and wrapping one large arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. John smiled lightly at how shy Sherlock always got with physical contact from others, apparent from the tightlipped yet genuine smile. “And who’s this little beauty?” Angelo said, smiling at Rosie who sat in a wooden highchair that sat on the bench between Sherlock and John. The new one year old was too business happily laughing and babbling, looking all around her in interest rather than at her father who was fruitlessly trying to spoon feed her some of the baby food. Rosie spotted Angelo looking at her, reaching out with one hand proudly, a large gummy smile with two small bottom teeth poking out.

“Rosie Watson,” Sherlock introduced, sending a fond smile at the giggling baby. “Newest edition. Infants aren’t much fond of social gatherings and gift cards, although they surprisingly enjoy cake and balloons.” John smiled at the memory this morning of Mrs. Hudson bringing up a small vanilla cake with a single pink candle in the middle, and Rosie sticking her stubby hands inside, taking large fistfuls and shoving them into her mouth. “So we brought her out for dinner. Classic birthday celebration, especially this being the first.”

“Ah, very special evening indeed!” Angelo exclaimed, throwing out his hands. “All on the house then gentlemen, whatever you like, for the new Holmes family!”

John smiled but then paused, blinking before throwing out a hand, “Oh, no no, no, we’re still not a—”

“I’ll come around with a bottle, and a juice for the little one then?” Sherlock nodded and Angelo was gone as quickly as he’d come. John sighed, sending a look to Sherlock. Sherlock looked back, eyebrows rising innocently. “What?”

“Why do you never correct them?”

“Correct who? About what?”

“Oh!” an elderly woman exclaimed, having just entered the restaurant. She spotted Rosie, waving sweetly. Rosie squealed in delight. “So nice to see two fathers out with such an angel, good on the two of you.”

“Oh no, we aren’t—” John tried but the woman merely chuckled good-heartedly and shuffled off to find a place to sit. John’s eyes darted to Sherlock’s, making an exasperated gesture. “That!”

“What?”

“Don’t play dumb, its doesn’t exactly work on you Mr. I’m-smarter-than-all-of-mankind. People always mistake us for…for well, you know.” Sherlock arched an eyebrow. John huffed in annoyance, looking down at the table. His eyes moved back up. “You’re the most observant man in England and you’re telling me you never catch on that people mistake us for a couple?”

“Do they really?” Sherlock asked as though that was the most surprising thing he’d ever heard, though apparently not caring enough to look away from the menu he was currently browsing.

“Yes, actually! All the time. And you never say anything, never correct them. Ever.”

“Why bother, when people are going to make their own assumptions anyway apparently, since you’re always fruitlessly attempting to set the record straight,” Sherlock explained lightly. “We know what our relationship is behind closed doors and it doesn’t involve us sharing a bed despite what others may think.”

John coughed into his fist, his eyes bouncing anywhere but Sherlock, a tell-tale sigh of distress and discomfort with the conversation. Sherlock arched an eyebrow just as Angelo appeared again with a bottle of red wine and a small plastic bottle of orange juice. “Thank you,” John said, taking the juice. He searched for a sippy cup in the baby bag he brought along, listening as Sherlock ordered them food. He didn’t comment on the fact that Sherlock knew John’s food choice.

John distracted himself with feeding Rosie whom, after some playful cooing and encouragements from daddy, happily opened her mouth for the carrot mush. She made a face, squeezing her eyes and shaking her head. “I know darling, I know, it’s not cake or your animal crackers but just finish the jar.” Rosie continued shaking her head, Sherlock coming to the rescue by making silly faces, making Rosie laugh so John could feed her. Rosie finished half the jar before she vehemently shook her head, pushing the spoon away with babbled protests as Angelo eventually returned with their food. “Alright, you’re lucky this time missy,” John admonished with a smile, giving her the sippy cup with juice.

John looked at his plate just as Angelo lit the candle that most definitely wasn’t there before. John looked to Sherlock expectantly but Sherlock had a fist in front of his mouth, poorly concealing his smile. Sherlock laughed at John’s look, shrugging and grabbing the wine bottle, pouring a generous amount for himself and John.

John sighed and took up his glass. Sherlock raised his, John eventually following. “To Rosie,” Sherlock announced, gazing at the infant heartily drinking her juice. “Happy Birthday darling, here’s to many more.”

“Cheers,” John said with a smile, nuzzling Rosie playfully before taking a sip of the oaky drink. It warmed his stomach, the smell of the food pleasant, allowing him to relax into his seat. He looked at Rosie, a happy normal beautiful baby, the most important people in his whole world. He looked across the table, guilt briefly tainting his pleasant mood as he thought of Mary, who should be here enjoying her daughter’s first birthday, but also guilty because seeing Sherlock across from him, with his dark curls still ruffled from the wind outside, his black suit jacket opened, actually eating a decent meal for once, made John happy in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

Sherlock noticed John staring, so John looked down and began eating, starting conversation about the last case they recently accomplished and what he should name it for the blog.

…

“Come now Rosie, be a good girl. I know you’re exhausted, you’ve had a busy day.”

“No…no no…” Rosie mumbled along with some more nonsensical noises that John roughly translated to I don’t want to go to sleep and you’ll never make me!

John sighed, bouncing on the balls of his socked feet with his fussy child in his arms. Rosie rubbed at her face tiredly, struggling against the sleep that was obviously taking hold of her. “Come now, darling. Sleep for daddy.” John placed Rosie in her bed, grabbing her stuffed elephant for her to cuddle but she wasn’t having it today.

“She still fighting it?” Sherlock asked from the doorway. John turned to see he was in his pajamas already, loose tshirt and gray sweatpants. His feet were bare. Seeing Sherlock this casual still gave John pause, something vulnerable in the bared forearms, something small in the bagginess of the clothes…

“Um, yeah,” John said, shaking his head as he looked back to his daughter. “The birthday girl wants to celebrate until the last second apparently.” John sighed, pulling the soft blanket over the child who merely kicked weakly. “Maybe if you played for her or something, that always used to put her right to sleep when she was smaller.”

“No, not tonight,” Sherlock mused, his voice the same one he got on a case when pieces were falling into place. “I think tonight, Rosie needs something different. Something special.” Sherlock stepped into the carpeted room, standing beside John beside the bed to look down at Rosie. “Would you like a story tonight, Rosie?”

Rosie looked up at Sherlock, a small smile on her round face.

“Right then, good idea,” John said, stepping away to go grab one of the children’s books sitting on the nightstand by the door. He was stopped by Sherlock lightly grabbing his wrist.

“Ah ah, this isn’t going to be a story from a book,” Sherlock said, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he looked to John. Sherlock looked back to Rosie. “This is a story I’m sure we’ll tell you again Rosie, over and over as you get older, adding more details and information. For now, we’ll keep it simple.” John looked at Sherlock, a wrinkle in his brow as he tried to figure out what this man was planning. “This, Rosie, is the story of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson.

“An army doctor, back home in London, struggling, injured, alone. Looking for a place to stay. And, as fate had it, another man was going through similar struggles, alone, looking for someone to fill the empty room in his flat, and the empty hole in his life.” John stared at Sherlock, at first in amusement, but then wonder. Sherlock’s voice, that soothing baritone that had instilled in John every conceivable emotion—irritation, fear, hope, happiness, inspiration, amazement, affection—now entranced him in the tale of their lives, of their meeting.

“John Watson was promptly introduced to Sherlock Holmes via a mutual acquaintance. Sherlock, with a few mild observations, managed to impress the doctor so thoroughly that he couldn’t contain his verbal amazement and immediately agreed to moving in—”

“Lets not make me sound like some star-struck fool.”

“Well, not a fool, but from how I remember it you did seem a bit—”

“Sherlock.”

“Anyway, despite the doctor’s mental handicap and denial of his need for—”

“Ahem.”

“—Sherlock Holmes saw the potential in him. He saw something inside the doctor—a genuine care, heart and understanding of information and people that Sherlock Holmes never wanted to admit he was lacking. So he invited John Watson to work with him. They examined a corpse—”

“Maybe not the best subject for my infant daughter—”

“She’s barely going to remember any of this and it’s not like I got into the murder, or the blood under her nails or—” With a pointed look from John, Sherlock continued on. “They ran around the city, and staked out a restaurant called Angelo’s. Sherlock Holmes eventually caught the monster criminal, and John Watson saved Sherlock’s life. It was the beginning of something…extraordinary. On that day, January 29th, history was made and the two men’s lives were forever changed, irrevocably intertwined.”

John started slightly. January 29th ;that was today. It couldn’t really have been…but Sherlock’s memory was impeccable. When Sherlock found information important, he never forgot it. John looked to Sherlock in wonder for a moment, his expression soft. Sherlock was looking down at Rosie. John noticed she had finally fallen asleep. He brought the blanket to her chin, making sure she was tucked in and comfortable before gently kissing her forehead.

“Happy anniversary John,” Sherlock said softly, putting his hand on John’s back. His palm was warm through John’s shirt. Everything was warm and soft, a kind of peace in the room that John Watson at one point in his life never thought he would feel.

He looked up at Sherlock, who stood close beside him, hand still hesitant on him. John smiled slightly, shaking his head. “And you call me a romantic,” he accused quietly. Sherlock smiled, unable to deny the accusation. Sherlock leaned down, soft lips pressing to John’s temple. “Oh come here,” John muttered, putting a hand behind Sherlock’s neck and guiding him downward, kissing his mouth softly, slowly, lips warm and welcoming, relief spreading through them both as they held each other, seven years finally melting together as they realized what should have been obvious that first night at Angelo’s on January 29th, 2010.

...

A short, cute little thing for their anniversary. I wrote it up quick today to make sure I actually got it out on the 29th. Despite much disappointment this month, I still love this fandom and this show. I still love these boys and believe in the love the show constructed for them. I believe they eventually find happiness in each other, and spend every anniversary happy together as a family in 221B Baker Street.

Thank you to everyone

#sherlock #bbc sherlock #johnlock #tjlc #john watson #sherlock holmes #fanfiction

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uncocktail · 6 years

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Uncocktail Uncorked: Indie Wine

So in our last post I went over what I perceived to be the twenty most popular wine varietals in a stream-of-consciousness rant. I had fun, but rather than getting directly to the runners-up like I said I would, I want to explore the other end of the spectrum: the most overlooked varietals. A little more editing went into narrowing down the final ten, but the commentary is equally spontaneous. I started off with 25 varietals, narrowed it down to 13 and trimmed off a little extra to wind up with 10. Easier for me to write, easier for you to read. Cheers.

Petite Sirah - We might as well start off with something fun. Petite Sirah (aka Durif) is the most overlooked of California’s major reds. Less jammy than Zinfandel, more playful than Cabernet Sauvignon, less temperamental than Syrah, Petite Sirah is the perfect starter wine for people transitioning from sweet wine to full-bodied reds. It’s the perfect alternative for consumers used to Mega Purple-infused, bourbon-casked, blueberry-ripe reds that retail for $20 in stores that only seem to carry Constellation Brands products. It’s a big, silly, party in your mouth.

Albana - Orange wine seems to be hotter and more in demand than ever this year which is why it surprises me that more independent distributors aren’t jumping on the Albana bandwagon. While Ribolla Gialla might have a slight edge in orange prestige due to legendary Slovenian expressions, Albana is known in the United States mostly as the “orange” grape of the equally-overlooked Emilia-Romagna region (better known for its cured meats and Parmigiano Reggiano). The most famous wine from this area is red sparkler Lambrusco, which is a good indicator of how weird the wines coming from it are. Albana is no exception, and while the orange wines it produces may not be world-class, they’re easy, passable, and consistently indicative of the style.

Pais/Mission - This is South America and Southern California’s dirty little secret, and I do mean dirty. One of the very few grapes to be transplanted by the Spanish (it’s really more of a French and Roman tradition), Pais is having a moment. Customers looking for a more funky, “natural” flavor profile with a lighter body can’t really go wrong with Pais’ approachable weirdness. Sure, no two expressions taste the same, but they share a common thread of tenuity and peculiarity. Maybe that’s due in part to the producers that still choose to play with the obsolete-church-wine-grape.

Pineau d’Aunis - France’s Loire Valley is basically only known for two kinds of wine: white and Cabernet Franc (plenty of Pinot Noir is grown, but most of it gets turned into rosé). Chenin Blanc, Sauvignon Blanc and Melon de Bourgogne all find their most famous expressions in the area, yet this unique and spicy grape sees almost no fanfare stateside. Did I emphasize enough that this grape is hella spicy? While Chinon’s Cab Francs might give you notes of dirt and green bell pepper, Pineau d’Aunis bypasses the vegetal straight into notes of black pepper and coriander. The most popular Pineau d’Aunis I ever encountered was a cheap rosé expression, a perfect representation of the grape’s wasted potential.

Silvaner - Sure, Silvaner may not taste as similar to Gruner Vetliner as your local wine merchant solemnly swore to you, but that’s fine. It tastes better. Entry level Silvaners consistently outperform their Gruner counterparts, and top-shelf ones are gorgeous, structured, balanced, age-worthy crowd pleasers. You can think of Silvaner as somewhere between Riesling and Gruner. It has Gruner’s approachability with Riesling’s minerality--without Riesling’s overwhelming acidity or Gruner’s bland finishes. Silvaner is thankfully obscure enough that if you come across one that’s been imported into the US, it’s almost guaranteed to be high-quality and a great value.

Bobal - Do you like overly-approachable, medium-bodied, oaky, juicy, vanilla bomb reds? Perhaps a Rioja Crianza without so much damn weight? Are you broke? If you answered yes to all of the above questions, congratulations, Bobal from Utiel-Requena is the wine for you. This is not a wine for oenophile snobs, it’s a basic-ass crowd-pleaser that is dirt cheap and criminally overlooked in favor of Spain’s many uninspired expressions of Tempranillo. Bottles rarely fetch more than $15 on the American market and your uncle is going to love it.

Grolleau - Much like its Loire-native sister Pineau d’Aunis, Grolleau lives its vintages in the shadow of the more renowned Cab Franc. That isn’t to say it has nothing to offer. Falling somewhere in profile between Cab Franc and Gamay, this grape is easily more fun and approachable than the former in its best expressions. While it may not be able to eclipse premium Gamay, its entry-level expressions regularly do.

Malvasia - This is almost cheating. In Europe, Malvasia usually translates to “native grape to this region and we don’t know what the fuck it is.” This is why you’ll see it more commonly coming from Eastern Europe, where varietal genetics aren’t as well-documented. Nevertheless, Malvasia is synonymous with “generic white grape” in most of the wine world and its expressions are boundless. Equally capable of producing robust orange wines, lean whites and the finest white wines Portugal has to offer, Malvasia is a true workhorse varietal, and a critically important connective fiber in the wine market. Sure, every country seems to have a different genetic strain, but the obscurity of the varietal and the preponderance of its expressions makes that nagging fact irrelevant.

Loureiro - This zesty, lemon-lime-noted grape from Portugal’s Vinho Verde region is a true unsung hero. It’s the rare example of a mixing grape that works better as a single-varietal wine. Sure, Vinho Verde’s best wines may be Alvarinho-based, but that’s only due to the ubiquity it has in the region’s vineyards. Its single-varietal Loureiros can taste like drinking flat 7-Up with less sugar. Need to share a bottle of wine with someone who can only tolerate off-dry Mosel Rieslings? If you can find a bottle of single-varietal Loureiro, it makes a perfect substitute.

Pinot Meunier - Is it fair to call one of the trinity grapes of Champagne overlooked? Absolutely, especially when the only descriptor it usually gets in Champagne write-ups is “mixing grape.” Blanc de Blanc always means all Chardonnay. Blanc de Noirs usually means all Pinot Noir. Pinot Meunier is the awkward middle child that shines as a single-varietal, bubble-free expression just about anywhere else in the world--particularly in Germany where they call it Schwarzriesling (literally “Black Riesling”). Small growers in Champagne are increasingly playing with Meunier-only bottlings thanks to its reliability compared to Champagne’s more tempestuous signature grapes. Sure, it doesn’t have a distinct character of its own, but part of the excitement of the grape is just how disparate their expressions of terroir can be.

Photo by Rohit Tandon on Unsplash

#wine #petite sirah #albana #pais #pineau d'aunis #silvaner #bobal #grolleau #malvasia #pinot meunier #champagne #vinho verde #lambrusco #constellation brands #tempranillo #rioja #gruner vetliner

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girlwithsword · 7 years

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oaky lemme tell you about my yesterday ‘cause it was an ADVENTURE

I’m not doing the list thing this time, this is gonna take full paragraphs

So due to a mix of stress, staring at the internet and loud as music blaring from next door, I found myself at 3am, staring at all the things i had to do the next day and deciding, fuck it; I’m gonna power through this.

So, I started watching A Series of Unfortunate Events, which is VERY GOOD. I had some soup (yes with rice noodles) because I hadn’t realy had what one might call dinner and I made some AMAZING paleo brownies. I sent out some e-mails, I repacked my pill boxes for the week. I kept looking for monologue pieces.

When it got to be what some might consider morning, I took out all of the garbages, green bins and recycling. Noticing that it was actually pretty damn nice out, I decided to sit outside and write my d’var torah to the Movement listserve. I sat on the porch as the sun came up and my city got moving and wrote about the ways our ancient book gives us methods of resistance in these dark times.

Pretty nice.

I did that till I had a solid draft and my fingertips were frozen, came inside and sent it out to Bekah for edits. I took my laundry out and got that started, went grocery shopping, came home, put the groceries away. I went out again and switched my laundry to the drier, came back, watched an episode of SoUA. Got my laundry, did some dishes. I edited over the d’var torah a few times and sent it out. I went over the lesson I had to run that afternoon and, realizing that I couldn’t really do that as is, I took a nap.

Woke up feeling dizzy and just awful, realized that the class started an hour earlier than I thought and fucking booked it. Well, I took a very quick shower, shoved some cucumbers in my mouth, downloaded some videos for the lesson and booked it.

Got there on time, though rushed and a little dizzy. The assistants were helpful. The kids were kinda rowdy but overall very sweet. The lesson was about Jewish weddings. We talked about different traditions,I explained what Ashkenazi and Sephardi are. (We had to have a little discussion about not making fun of words that are people’s identity) We played Jewish wedding charades and danced the hora (mostly spinning for maaybe 30 seconds before the circle broke apart) at break time. We joined the third grade class for Hebrew time, which was just body parts in Hebrew “Shlomo” says. The third grade (supply) teacher was cute and I kinda tried to flirt in the brief time we had but a) I was a gross sweaty mess and b) I don’t remember her name now.

Class finished up, the whole school does Rad Hayom exactly like we do it at camp because so many damn Gesherites are up in that place. (Saw Lilly and /all/ of the Browns, Dana and Sari and my kid Jonah) Waited through the chaos of all my kids getting picked up and signed out, was actually the last one to leave because I had two kids who were the last to be picked up, headed out into the night, very tired and very dizzy - but that was only the beginning.

I had two quests that night, 1) pick up a copy of Salt Water Moon from the library, 2) get some kosher chicken to marinate overnight. I head to the library, call my mum back on the way. It takes some work but I find Salt Water Moon and an anthology of plays from SummerWorks, and I check out both. I head out to the big Lawblaws at Maple Leaf Gardens.

As I step off the the streetcar, a guy stepping onto the streetcar says “Toby! Hey!”, and I, as you respond when someone says hey to you say: “Oh, hey!”

I have no idea who this person is. I am still racking my brain, but I have no fucking clue. This was a white boy with dark curly hair. I’m Jewish. That’s most of the men that I know. I can’t even narrow down what sector of my life he’s from?? Like usually i can be like, I don’t remember your name, but you’re from x, you know?? Nothing. Anyways, this still haunts me.

So I go into lawblaws looking for Kosher chicken, some meat for the week and maybe a pack of sushi. It now occurs to me that I might have looked at some further fridge sections and found it, but it did not occur to me at the time, and as such I did not find any there. I decided not to get anything there, and try my luck at the Queen st. Lawblaws. Besides, there was a sushi place in college station that was /much/ cheaper.

I went into the station and passed an old, somewhat mentally unstable homeless woman that I see at that corner a lot. I thought about getting her a pack of sushi or maybe just my change from my purchase, but the place was closed. I went forward and waited for the southbound train, she got on the same train. When we stopped at Dundas, there was a pause, and then the train was suspended because a passenger was walking along the tracks. I looked up and down the car. The woman wasn’t there.

I figured it would be fasted to just walk through the Eaton’s centre and maybe get something to eat along the way. I got some cheap end of the day sushi, walked to the other side of the mall, which is always longer than I think and caught the Queen streetcar.

Got to the Queen st Lawblaws, no kosher chicken. Bought some other meat and a Chai Latte anyways. Got on the Bathurst bus. I actually got off at Nassau, ready to go home, but then I thought; fuck that, and got back on the next bus and up Bathurst to St.Clair. Now, I don’t go north of Bloor except for money or free food and this time I went to buy food so, people should be grateful.

Got to St.Clair Lawblaws and thought I was going crazy ‘cause I couldn’t find it at first, but I GOT IT. Purchased it, headed home on the brink of collapse.

I got in, made the marinade and passed the fuck out.

#my life today #Jan.19th 2017 #so my life yesterday actually

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miamibeerscene · 7 years

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Brewers Find Bold Beer Flavors in Barrels Beyond Bourbon

January 18, 2017

The number of craft breweries with some level of barrel aging program has risen dramatically over the past decade, with most gravitating toward used whiskey casks, particularly bourbon, to add new oaky, vanilla and boozy flavor elements to select batches. But whiskey certainly is far from being the only game in town, especially as brewers experiment with oak containers that previously held everything from brandy to Italian-style amari.

Placentia, California’s, The Bruery has been among the leading innovators in that space. In addition to bourbon, Scotch and rye whiskey barrels, the company has used rum, brandy and tequila barrels, as well as casks that were once home to fortified wines like port and Madeira.

(MORE: Coolship Fever in American Craft Brewing)

A few years back, The Bruery released Sucré, its sixth-anniversary ale, in various barrel-aged iterations, including rum and Madeira. The now-retired 16.9 percent ABV English-style Old Ale was blended using the solera method, a traditional practice in blending sherry where fractions of liquid from younger barrels are merged with small portions from older ones.

Strong, bold brews like Sucré — French for “sugar,” as “sugar” is the traditional sixth-anniversary gift — are the ones that hold up best in rum barrels.

The Bruery founder Patrick Rue experiments with aging beer in barrels like rum and Madeira. (Credit: The Bruery)

“You get some of the richness from a dark aged rum, some of that sugar cane flavor,” says The Bruery founder Patrick Rue. “Sometimes it can come off a little like airplane modeling glue, it can be super hot — it’s really dependent on the distillery. I’ve had some rum barrel beers that were really nice and some that were not really nice. A really assertive beer generates the best results.”

Rum barrels also worked quite well with The Bruery’s 19.7 percent ABV Black Tuesday imperial stout. Madeira casks were also a good match for those hefty beers, imparting a bit of a burnt raisin flavor, an unusual note for a barrel to deliver.

Port barrels, meanwhile, add hints of dried plum and other dark fruits. One year in the wood tends to be the standard for The Bruery, though its Chronology series features beer that’s been racked at six, 18 and 24 months, in addition to 12 months. “Some are best at six months, some at 12 months and some at 24 months.”

(MORE: Mind-Blowing Beers Made with Barrel-Aged Coffee Beans)

Even more out of left field was Fort Collins, Colorado, based Odell Brewing Co.’s Fernet Aged Porter, a limited release that spent some time in wood that once held Leopold Bros. Distillery’s riff on the dark, opaque herbal Italian amaro. Known for its minty, licorice-like flavor profile (in addition to hints of other botanicals like lavender, honeysuckle and ginger root), fernet brought a kind of Good ‘n’ Plenty-crossed-with-Andes-Candies dimension to the 9.8 percent ABV roasty, chocolaty porter.

While fernet, Madeira, port and rum all typically spend varying lengths of time in wood, one doesn’t traditionally think “oak-aged” when talking about gin. Most gin is unaged, but an increasing number of barrel-matured gins are on the market, combining the woody elements with the juniper-forward spirit’s mix of botanicals — which, in turn, leave their imprint on the oak. And, once those barrels are empty, many brewers have been quick to get their hands on them.

Green Flash barrelmaster Pat Korn found gin paired well with their Belgian-style tripel. (Credit: Green Flash)

San Diego’s Green Flash Brewing was among them, using those erstwhile gin vessels to flavor Divine Enebro, the third in its limited-edition Cellar 3 Barrelmaster’s Reserve series. Green Flash found that the fruity esters and gum drop flavors of its Belgian-style tripel would pair well with the gin botanicals.

Barrelmaster Pat Korn found further inspiration in fellow San Diegan Old Harbor Distilling Co.’s San Miguel Southwestern Gin, which marries Southwestern flavors like cilantro and cucumber with the more traditional botanicals.

“I wanted to incorporate those flavors into the beer,” Korn says. “To do this, we added cucumber, juniper berries and coriander in a large hop sack, racked the beer onto this and kegged it off when we felt the botanicals had reached their peak in integration and flavor.”

Distillers Get a Flavor Boost from Beer Barrels

Distiller-brewer collaborations are now proving to be anything but one-way transactions. Just as craft breweries are reaching flavorful new heights aging in spirits barrel, distillers are realizing they can enhance their own products in vessels that once held beer. Across the pond, Jameson last year unveiled its Caskmates series, whose blends incorporated some of the iconic Irish whiskey matured in barrels that previously held beers brewed by some of Ireland’s craft brewers.

Closer to home, Louisville, Kentucky, based craft brandy distiller Copper & Kings recently kicked off its Cr&ftwerk project — the ampersand is a core element of the company’s branding — a series of brandies aged for a year in beer barrels.

(LEARN: CraftBeer.com’s Big Glossary of Beer Words)

Copper & Kings already had been partnering with brewers that were aging beer in its brandy barrels before the distillery launched the project to do the reverse.

Chico, California’s, Sierra Nevada, Munster, Indiana’s, 3 Floyds, Longmont, Colorado’s, Oskar Blues and Louisville’s Against the Grain Brewery are among the breweries that have supplied barrels for the Cr&ftwerk line.

The distillery released a brandy aged in wood that previously held 3 Floyds’s Dark Lord Russian imperial stout, which infused the spirit with malty, dark chocolate and coffee notes.

“The easiest to use are the imperial stouts,” notes Copper & Kings founder Joe Heron. “There’s a lot of dark chocolate and it’s very viscous, which retains really well in the barrel.”

Copper & Kings’s partnership with Sierra Nevada has so far resulted in two distinct products. One used Sierra’s Imperial Smoked Porter barrels, imparting strong vanilla and malt flavors, with hints of smoke. There’s even some noticeable hop character. Sierra’s Cherry Chocolate Stout served as the basis for another, producing a brandy with flavors of baked cherries, chocolate toffee and a nose of dried cherry and cacao nibs.

“We’ve always been inspired by craft brewers — that authenticity, that creativity, that imagination and just that ability to think differently.” Joe Heron, Cooper & Kings

Oskar Blues’s G’Knight and Deviant Dale’s brought, as you would expect, plenty of citrusy, grapefruity hop character to the brandy. Against the Grain’s Mac FannyBaw, a rauchbier that attempted to replicate the flavors of a peaty Islay Scotch whisky, brought some of that smoke to the brandy, as well as a touch of salinity.

The spirit typically enters the wood at 130 proof (65 percent ABV) to ensure maximum beer flavor extraction. It’s not chill-filtered, as that process would strip out some of the desired flavor. It’s then bottled at 111 proof (55.5 percent ABV).

“Brandy is quite a promiscuous spirit,” notes Heron. “It takes on flavor very quickly and maturation has to be managed quite carefully. If you leave it in new American oak too long, it gets very oaky.”

As the number of craft distilleries in the U.S. grows and the players within the segment diversify beyond bourbon and other whiskeys, expect to see more of these alternative barrel collaborations between small brewers and spirits makers. There’s plenty of innovation on both sides, so it would be a shame for each not to mine the talent of the other from time to time.

“We’ve always been inspired by craft brewers — that authenticity, that creativity, that imagination and just that ability to think differently and inspire people to drink differently,” says Heron. “That’s why we started the Cr&ftwerk project and started working with brewers in that way. It was more than, ‘It’ll be cool to age in craft beer barrels.’ We were much more reverential and deferential to the philosophy of great craft brewers.”

Jeff CiolettiAuthor Website

Jeff Cioletti’s tenure in liquid literacy has exposed him to some of the best libations the world has to offer and given him access to the producers and purveyors of such fine refreshments. He combines his love of drink with a passion for travel and one usually involves the other. He served for 14 years as an editor at Beverage World magazine, including eight years as editor in chief of the B2B publication. He’s also the author of the books “The Year of Drinking Adventurously,” “Beer FAQ” and the upcoming “The Drinkable Globe.” He is the founder of beverage travel video site, DrinkableGlobe.com and a frequent contributor to publications including Draft Magazine, All About Beer Magazine, FSR and Beverage Media. Additionally, he’s the winner of two North American Guild of Beer Writers awards. Read more by this author

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