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theliterarywolf · 3 years

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Character huh? Seeing as we know the least about him, Saraj.

***

Wait.

What happened last night?

Suraj opened his eyes to a bleary view of a pearly blue ceiling. A sniff of the air told him told him he was in Aquacia though, admittedly, the potent scent of saltwater colliding with pristine freshwater was overtaken the slightest bit by the scent of sex in the room he was in.

“Wha – Ah, shit...” He sat up with a hand to his head, right between his horns and careful of his claws. Already with the hangover? “What did I do last night?”

From his left, the curvy body of a white-haired lamia girl slithered up close. “Mm..? What'sss wrong, baby?”

Suraj yawned, trying to reacquaint his addled mind with the fangs in his mouth, “Nothing, I--”

“Is everything alright?” That came from the mink-beastfolk girl on his right: her sleek black fur catching the room's limited light.

Suraj gave a slow nod, “Yeah, I'm --”

From behind the rakshasa, a dullahan held her head over his shoulder. “Did you need a little 'hair of the dog'?”

“No, no,” Suraj shook his head, “I just --”

From underneath the covers, right between Suraj's legs, a twink of an orc peeked out and grinned, “You wanna go one more time? For the road?”

Suraj only groaned again: memories of the previous night meshing with the post-orgy regret and the morning-after hangover.

Suraj, cleaned and showered, stumbled out of the hotel room. As fine as he looked, with everything cleaned, brushed, and swept, he was still being done up the ass sans lube from his hangover.

“Bye~!” The lamia, beastfolk girl, dullahan, and orc coquettishly waved him off as he spread those bat-like wings and started on his way.

Fuck, but the sounds of Aquacia's many waterways didn't do anything for his pounding head or his sour mouth. He huffed and kept flapping. “Wait, wait, wait!” He dragged to a stop in mid-air and fished around his pockets for something. “Come on... Come on!” It was a miracle he had made it this far without an incident. His entire body relaxed upon feeling them. In quick, practice motions he placed one in each ear and immediately felt at ease when all noise was snuffed out. “Okay.” He nodded, waiting for a large amphithere to sweep through the skies so he could catch the jet-stream it produced. Whatever he could do to make his trip to the ShimmerGale/Ignis Fanis boundary-line, the better it would be for him.

There were certain... aspects to life in Dama Fristad that nonhumans knew about and embraced in silence while humans ignored and feigned their nonexistence. These aspects were typically in harder to reach venues of the six districts. If one really wanted to enjoy their wares, then they knew the ordeals they were putting themselves through.

The ShimmerGale/Ignis Fanis boundary-line was such an ordeal. Suraj slowed his flight to a hover when he got close. Vines. Thick, corded, writhing. Some covered in thorns sharper than knives; others dotted in blooms that puffed out clouds of silvery pollen that, upon making contact with a beetle that had wandered too close, began to dissolve the creature's flesh instantly.

If it weren't for this hangover, Suraj would have just said 'fuck it' and headed back to 1685 Blightblossom Lane. As it was, the rakshasa counted under his breath, “Forty-seven. Forty-six.”

The vines wound themselves tighter.

“Twenty-five. Twenty-four.”

With a tilt of the head, one could make out the remains of some poor bastard who had wandered too close.

“Nine. Eight.”

Suraj feinted backwards from the giant blossom that surged out from the walls of vines: pollen and sap dripping from its fanged petals. Suraj took a deep breath. “Two... One.”

The blossom reared back and screeched into the air. Suraj was doubly thankful for the buds in his ears that were blocking all noise, both pleasant and harsh. Once the din subsided, the blossom opened itself up so wide that Suraj was able to see what lay upon the other side. He streaked forward, making it through in one swift go before the blossom could recollect itself and the vines could tighten back up.

Suraj heaved and panted. “I hate that wall.” He shook his head and kept flying. Not much further now. He could see it from where he was: aged walls of brick with layers of uneven paint, orange-tinted windows, and a simple shade covering the door.

Inside of this small restaurant, an old Yaksha was wiping down the counter: the demon's green skin sweaty from a rough morning of chasing inventory. He smoothed down the curls of his golden beard, waggling his claw in a goofy way as he walked past the window. He had almost past it completely when he noticed Suraj outside.

He blinked.

And then doubled-back to the counter where a radio was playing. He promptly cut it off.

Suraj let out a sigh of relief and removed the buds from his ears before walking in: the tile warm against his talons.

“Suraj!” The yaksha's claws clicked over the tiles as he walked around the corner to meet the young rakshasa in a bruising hug.

“Lohith.” Suraj winced from the loud noise and the fact that his hangover hadn't gone anywhere, “Kaise ho?”

“Eh.” Lohith hopped back behind the counter, “Business is slow so early in the mornings. It's usually when I go to the Halls of Judgments and Repence for the auctions, but I'm still full up from last week.”

Suraj sat on a stool, striped tail swishing lazily. “Things'll pick up, I'm sure. Like right now – Ah!” He held his head and grit his interlocking fangs together. Lohith hummed,

“Ah, I know that sound. You young people and your partying... Well, Lohith's Khed Rogan Josh will knock it right out of you!”

That's what Suraj was hoping to hear. He was still wincing from the headache but, when he looked up from his claws, he saw a rosy cup of Lassi in front of him. Suraj picked up the frosty glass and knocked some back: the taste of banana, yogurt, various spices, and blood washing over his forked tongue. He set the glass down in favor of looking at his phone.

Did he hear the horrific screams from the kitchen? The wet thud of a butcher's knife into flesh? Smell the sizzling fat melding with curry and ginger and other melodic spices? Of course.

“They're already calling me into work?” Suraj groaned, “Come on...”

Was he really in the mood for a bunch of old harpies who didn't understand what an area-code was?

“Ah..! Here we are!” Lohith came out of the kitchen carrying a tray laden with steaming rice, fresh naan bread, and a hearty bowl of fiery spice in the form of braised chunks of meat and a thick stew made from kashmiri, garlic, and ginger.

Suraj waited for the tray to be set in front of him. “You are a lifesaver, Lohith.”

“Eh.” Lohith shrugged, “Lifesaver, lifetaker; it all comes round to each other. Go on: eat!”

The rakshasa rolled his eyes but he picked up a spoon to ladle some of the Khed Rogan Josh onto the plate of rice. He got a hearty spoonful and pressed it past his lips. Oh. Oh, there it was. What was it about the flesh of humans that allowed for their final, greatest emotions to sweeten or spice them to that unlatched perfection?

Khed Rogan Josh... Regret Rogan Josh. Suraj tore a piece of naan and nibbled at it in-between bites of his main meal. Thankfully enough, though, with every bite that he took, he felt his pounding head and his sour mouth recede further and further into the abyss.

Suraj glanced into the kitchen. Lohith had stolen away to wash his claws: thin streaks of fading red leeching into the bowl of the sink.

Suraj shrugged and kept eating.

He did have to think, though... What came first in the grand dance? Nonhumans eating humans for pleasure and health? Or nonhumans eating humans in retaliation?

And, yet, for every hunter or anti-nonhumanite who would look at Suraj there, eating the braised flesh of a human, and call for the death of all nonhumans... Surely there was a witch who yearned for humanity's decline after the Witch's Winter? Or a dragon who bore the scars of the Great Dragon Exodus?

Suraj shook his head and returned to his food. He was just one creature in this wide, chaotic world. Why was he thinking on heavy topics like that? Nay, he should be thinking about what made him drink so much last night. Not to mention what made him so ready and willing to jump into bed with a horny quartet.

“Damn it,” He sighed, “I don't even remember who came first.” Suraj took another bite. The assortment of spices in both his food and the lassi reminded him of home, th –

Oh.

Right.

He didn't have a home anymore.

Suraj closed his eyes, chewing around his latest mouthfullllllllllllll of fire! Everything was burning! He saw everything on fire, but he couldn't stop. Even with all of the shouts around him, he just! Couldn't! Stop!

Suraj stole a breath and came back to the present.

He looked around himself. Restaurant. ShimmerGale/Ignis Fanis divide. The Khed Rogan Josh. Suraj pinched the bridge of his nose, slowing his chewing to a crawl.

If it weren't for his shift later, he would go back to whatever bar had managed to dull his memories and senses last night.

#1685 blightblossom lane

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egcdeath · 3 years

Text

a blip in the reader-verse

chapter 4: going once, going twice

summary: you meet an interesting character while attending a charity auction.

warnings: soft moments, angsty moments. asshole ransom, soft ransom. you’ve been warned.

pairing: ransom drysdale x reader, overarching steve rogers x reader

word count: 3.4k

author’s note: before anyone asks, i don’t really consider this cheating since it’s just steve in a different universe. but i’d skip this chapter if it won’t sit right with you!

p.s. i had to google translate some french, please don’t hate me if you speak french and it’s awful🥺

previous chapter / series masterlist

Sounds seemed to be the first thing you noticed as you entered a new universe. This was absolutely no different.

Well, except for the fact that the first sound you noticed was the announcing of your own name.

From the moment your eyes opened, you were met with a blinding yellow light, and the urge to stand up. You glanced over at the table that you’d previously been sat at, and received raised brows from Aaliyah, who’d been sitting at the white, round table across from you, along with a hand gesture that shoo-ed you away.

You timidly walked up to the small and raised platform of a stage, and stood next to a person who vaguely resembled your old boss from your main universe.

“Alright, ladies and gents! Our final lady of the night, well, not a lady of the night, is the gorgeous Y/N L/N! Starting at $1,000, do we have any takers?”

You looked out into the ocean of round tables, and watched a decently handsome man, with dark hair and a beard raise his paddle, “1,500!” he called out.

The man received a death glare from someone else at his table, and looked up at both the stage and you to raise his own paddle. “2,500,” he responded in a bored tone.

After getting over the extreme ego boost that was being bid over, you let yourself take a good look at the second man who’d offered the cash, and,

Holy shit.

It was Steve, but it definitely wasn’t Steve.

His hair was slightly darker, he was wearing a cream sweater and long, multicolored scarf that your Steve would never be caught dead in. He held an air of confidence and cockiness that you could see from miles away, and according to his bidding style, he was loaded.

After seeing him, you desperately wanted to find a mirror and find out if your own appearance had changed at all.

“Fine, $4,000,” the bearded man offered, glancing back and forth between you, and this alternate version of Steve.

“$5,000!” A new contestant jeered, this one a rather old man whom you could tell you wanted nothing to do with.

“Old fucking geezer,” the alternate Steve muttered. “$7,000.”

There was a gasp, and a silence throughout the audience.

“$7,000 for Hugh, going once, going-”

“15,” the bearded man lifted his paddle once again. You glanced over to Aaliyah, whose eyeballs seemed to be bulging out of her head at this.

“Fuck it, 30,” Hugh sighed.

The bearded man threw his hands up in defeat, and set his paddle all the way down on his table.

“45, final!” The old man called out.

“75,” Hugh glanced around the audience, a rather smug look on his face.

“Oh wow, $75,000 going once, going twice… sold to Mr. Hugh Drysdale! Miss L/N, is there something you’re not telling us about the nature of your date?” The auctioneer passed the microphone to you, and you laughed awkwardly into it.

“Nothing that I know of,” the rest of the crowd seemed to laugh with you at this, but you couldn’t help but feel the growing discomfort in your stomach.

“Well, I’m sure the folks over at One Mission will be very happy at this sizable donation. Can we get one more cheer for Miss L/N?” You gave a friendly wave before awkwardly stepping off the stage while the people around you clapped.

You’d had a decent idea at this point of what was going on, but you couldn’t quite piece together why this Hugh character had decided to bid so high on someone he’d never even met. You sat back down at your table, and slipped your phone out of your pocket to look at yourself. Yep, same you.

“Okay, what the hell was that?” Aaliyah asked you, a mixture of confusion and excitement present in her tone.

“Hell if I know,” you sighed, and scratched your neck nervously.

“I mean, I get it, you’re hot. But the price of a luxury vehicle for a date? You’re gonna have to let him finger you at least,” she giggled.

“Shut up,” you groaned at the thought. You were still feeling pretty confused about the fact that the Steve in this universe wasn’t actually Steve at all. You so far, you’d only really met Steves that were well… Steve.

You internally lamented the situation, until you noticed someone plop down at the open seat at the table, causing you to turn and look at him.

“This seat taken?” Hugh asked, and you shook your head. “Great, now it is,” he quipped.

“I’ll give you two a moment. I’m gonna go find my own socialite,” Aaliyah bantered, slipping up from her chair and following through on her comment.

“So you must really love those kids you just donated to,” you awkwardly chuckled.

“Oh hell no. Fuck those kids. I just hate losing, and I absolutely was not gonna let those douchebags win,” he looked down at his hands and played with his pinky ring in an extremely bored manner.

“Oh, okay,” you nodded slowly. This man was a complete 180 to the type of Steve that you were used to. Your Steve was warm and caring, but this man seemed cold and apathetic. Your Steve would gladly lay his life on the line for anyone, and this man didn’t even seem to have the emotional capacity to hold the door for someone else. “So Hugh, what do you plan to do on our date?” You lifted up your glass of champagne and took a little sip.

“Call me Ransom, only the help call me Hugh. We’ll probably just go to Europe or something.”

You nearly spat out your drink at this. In fact, you felt a little carbonation in your nose. Then again, Ransom just spent ¾ of a hundred thousand on a date with you. “Jesus,” you murmured.

“Think you can head out tomorrow?”

----

Waking up in the bedroom of the apartment you seemed to share with Aaliyah taught you two things. One, you could apparently sleep in these universes and not wake up elsewhere, and two, the walls of your apartment were far too thin.

You glanced over at the clock on your bedside table, and noted the time. You had about an hour before you needed to be at the airport.

You quickly threw a mixture of clothing, a phone charger, a packet of birth control, and some skincare products into a suitcase before heading out to the kitchen to grab a granola bar. You chewed half the bar before hopping into the shower, then tossing on some ugly, but comfortable travelling clothes.

Maybe you spent a bit too long checking yourself in the mirror that morning with the newfound knowledge that you were now worth at least 75,000 dollars. Frankly, having multiple (attractive) men fight over you was the greatest boost to your pride that you’d ever been given.

Glancing down at your phone after the matter, you realized that you only had a few minutes to order an Uber to pick you up, unless you wanted to be late and miss your flight.

----

You had your baggage checked, stumbled through TSA, and showed the screenshot of your plane ticket a boatload of times to a multitude of people before you finally reached the lounge, and found Ransom sitting on a sofa with a glass of whiskey in his hand.

“Why the hell are you dressed like that?” Ransom asked you as you approached, looking up and down at your outfit of a college sweatshirt and loose joggers.

“Because I want to be comfortable, you dick. Do rich people not like being comfortable?” You sat down beside him on the sofa, and slumped into the chair. Who knew travelling throughout the multiverse could be so tiring? “Besides, you have like seven holes in that sweater. I wouldn’t be talking about anyone else’s clothes if I gladly let moths have a four course meal on my things,” you scoffed.

That seemed to shut him up for a bit.

Eventually, your flight number was called, and you, along with the few other first class flyers piled into the plane.

You sat down next to Ransom in a soft chair that seemed to lower back into some sort of makeshift mattress, and slipped your phone out of your pocket to send your friends a message that you were taking off.

“You excited?” You asked Ransom while he began to slip a pair of Beats onto his head.

“Yeah, I like Nice,” he nodded, then grabbed his own phone to connect to the headphones.

“So you’ve been there before?” Ransom nodded, clearly trying to ignore you. “Do you have a plan on fun places to take me?” He shrugged.

You got the message, and huffed as you sat back in your seat. Right before takeoff, you received a message back from Aaliyah of a picture of her cat, and that was enough to bring a smile to your face.

——

About 7 hours into your flight, you noticed Ransom picking out a movie to watch, and you found the idea intriguing.

“What’cha watching?” You asked, leaning over a bit into his space.

“Nothing,” he said stiffly, and you rolled your eyes.

“Porn?” You joked, glancing up at him to see if it landed or not. It did not.

“You know what? You’re a lot prettier when you’re quiet.”

You slunk back into your seat at this and turned your head away from Ransom. The words really bit at you, considering that it sounded just like your Steve, and if you squinted enough, it looked like him too. But your Steve would never say something like that to you, right?

For a moment, you twisted the watch on your wrist consideringly, wondering if you should go to the next universe, where you might gain a little more respect from your partner. Yet something told you to wait it out. If this was still, in some convoluted way, Steve, he’d come around, right?

That alone gave you enough reason to stay.

----

You dragged your suitcase into a hotel room much too big for just two people after nearly 12 hours of an extremely awkward flight, and even more awkward cab ride to the hotel.

After plopping your things down into the bigger bedroom of the hotel, you stretched rather dramatically in hopes of waking up some of the stiff muscles in your body. In the midst of this, Ransom came up behind you, and set a hand on your back, scaring the life out of you.

“What the hell, Ransom! A knock or a ‘hello’ will do it next time!”

You turned to look at him, and became a bit flustered at his shirtless, short-clad figure. It was silly, because you’d seen Steve naked a million times before, and this was simply Steve in another universe.

“You coming to the spa with me?” He smirked as you blatantly checked him out. “Okay, yeah. You’re coming with me. I’ll meet you at the front door.”

You spent around an hour at the spa with Ransom, sweating yourself out in the sauna until you were likely majorly dehydrated, soaking in the heated pool until your skin became pruny and wrinkled, and ending the night with a massage that sent you straight to sleep.

Like, deep sleep. When you became even slightly conscious, Ransom was laying you in your pillowy soft bed. As your eyes opened the slightest bit at him, he scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“Pretending to sleep, how cute,” he muttered sarcastically. You’d argue with him, but you were simply too exhausted to do so. In fact, you were convinced you’d just given him a whole monologue about how travelling makes people tired, but the most that had exited your mouth was a tiny squeak.

You watched Ransom leave the room, before your head collapsed onto your shoulder, and you fell back into a nice rest.

When you awoke, it was not on your own will.

An overly saturated light attacked your eyes from behind your eyelids, and came all at once, snapping you out of your dreamless slumber. When you glanced over at the harsh source, you noticed none other than Ransom by your window, with a hand on the drape.

“Time to wake up. It’s like, 3 PM, by the way,” he huffed before exiting your room, not even allowing you to reply.

You groaned in annoyance, having an off handed thought about how jet lag was kicking your ass, before rolling out of bed and trying to find something nice to put on.

By the time you left your room, Ransom was standing by the door, aimlessly scrolling on his phone. “You wanna go for a walk?”

“Sure, I guess. I’m kinda hungry though, so maybe we can stop somewhere first?”

Ransom shrugged and gave you what seemed like the hint of a smile, and you hurried to put on your shoes before heading out.

——

The two of you ended up on the patio of some local restaurant, your eyes skimming the menu while Ransom took sips of his complimentary water.

What seemed to be out of nowhere, a burly man came rushing over to your table, and appeared to be approaching Ransom, as he turned his head to look at the man, then quickly looked away.

The man, who you could only assume to be the owner, clapped Ransom on the back, and in return, Ransom slumped over in embarrassment.

You were definitely going to enjoy this.

“Où étiez-vous?, Ranny?” Where have you been?

“Occupé, Henri.” Busy, Henri. Ransom clearly had a dark red blush on his face now, and he glanced at you as if you could offer him some sort of assistance.

“Trop occupé avec la dame?” Too busy with the lady? Henri asked with a smirk.

“No!”

“Présentez-moi à elle,” Introduce her to me.

Ransom sighed dramatically, then sat up from hunching, “Y/N, this is Henri. He’s a family friend,” you couldn’t help but notice how pleased Henri seemed, “Henri, this is Y/N, mon rendez-vous,” My date.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” Henri extended a hand out to you and you gladly shook it. He turned back to Ransom, and continued grilling him. “Est-ce votre cavalier ou votre petite amie?” Is she your date or your girlfriend?

“Mon rendez-vous!” My date! You don’t think you’d ever seen anyone become this flustered so fast.

“Hey Henri,” you interrupted, feeling a tiny bit left out, “any way that we could order first, then you could come back here and tell me all the embarrassing stories about Ransom you can remember?”

“That sounds fun to me,” he shrugged.

——

During lunch, you’d learned more about Ransom than you ever knew you needed to know. In the midst of it all, you couldn’t help but to think about how different he was compared to your Steve. His parents were extremely wealthy (no surprise there), he went to boarding school in Nice (which explained his ability to speak French), and Ransom was a bit of an art nerd (perhaps some characteristics could transcend universes).

Surprisingly, he was starting to grow on you. Which was why you were far from opposed to his suggestion of going sight-seeing around the town.

The first stop you took wasn’t too far from the restaurant. A quaint little gift store with tiny knicknacks lining the shelves, and a relentless, old, orange cat who did not seem to want to leave Ransom alone.

“You should pet her, Ran,” you suggested, leaning down to do so yourself.

“First of all, don’t call me that. Second of all, if you pet her once, it’ll literally never stop,” He glanced over at you from where he was standing at a set of tourist-oriented keychains.

“Are you speaking from firsthand experience?” You grinned down at the cat who was now aggressively rubbing its head against your hand.

“Yes. Luis may seem nice, but one second you’re petting his head, and the next, you’re carrying him around the store, the whole time he’s whispering in your ear for you to buy more things.”

You were a bit taken aback at this, for a second concerned that the man you’d impulsively travelled to Europe with had a few screws loose, since he was apparently hearing local cats speak to him. That’s of course, when Ransom broke into laughter. It took you a second before you laughed a bit too.

“That was so weird, man. Don’t do that again,” you lightly punched his shoulder, then went to pick up Luis who was more than happy to be transported around like an infant.

After buying a nice mug and a postcard to give to Aaliyah once you returned home, and parting with Luis who seemed to feel a bit, you suggested hopping in a cab to visit one of the many art museums Nice had to offer.

After a bit of bickering in the backseat, the two of you compromised on the Modern and Contemporary Art museum, and you couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit excited.

Around two hours post-arrival at the museum, you realized that, maybe modern art wasn’t exactly your thing. But it certainly was Ransom’s. He rambled on and on about different pieces that seemed completely mundane to you. Who knew that someone could talk for nearly half of an hour about a canvas painted completely one color?

You noted a shift in Ransom’s attitude towards you. It was clear that you were willing to put up with his little antics, and as the day went on, he began to let down more and more of the tough guy persona he’d had up for so long. To your Steve, at least, art was something that made him feel a bit vulnerable, and you figured that Ransom held the same sentiment. This thought made you feel vaguely homesick, and go in for a half-hug from Ransom, who gladly returned it while he shamelessly effused.

It wasn’t the same, but for you, it was good enough.

----

You very much enjoyed the rest of your day with Ransom, hopping from interesting site to interesting site with him, and sharing a multitude of fond memories that you hoped would stick with you throughout your inter-dimensional travels.

You ended the night with him on the piano bench in the lobby of your hotel. He wordlessly played a Chopin piece while you mindlessly listened. It was a rather relaxing experience, and quite the finale of your day. You had a bit of a nagging feeling that this was the finale of your time in this universe as well.

“Today was really nice,” out of nowhere, Ransom began.

You hummed in agreement, “it was.”

“I guess I shouldn’t have taken you to all my favorite places on day one, but oh well,” he half chuckled to himself, and you pulled back to look up at Ransom.

“You took me to your favorite places? That’s.. Wow. That’s really sweet,” you glanced down at the piano, then back up at Ransom. He gave you a soft smile in return.

This was the moment, right? The silence that followed that was your perfect opportunity to be kissed. Yet, Ransom wasn’t taking it. So you decided to lean forward slightly, and do it yourself. Catching onto what you were getting ready to do, Ransom moved away from you slightly, and shook his head.

“Hey, I don’t really do that,” Ransom looked down at you, and bit the inside of his lip.

Deep down, you knew that this was just a man who looked like your man rejecting you, but the less rational side of yourself only told you one thing.

Steve was rejecting you.

He was leaving you again, he wouldn’t even kiss you. The thought of it put you somewhere between seeing red, and seeing nothing at all from the tears that were now flooding your vision.

The one thing that had once convinced you to stay, was now begging you to leave.

You reached down to your watch, and fiddled aggressively with it. Part of you felt bad for leaving a version of yourself to deal with the awkward aftermath of what just occurred, but another part of you just wanted to get the hell away from all of the distressing emotions you were feeling.

That part of you seemed to be stronger than anything else. You glanced down at your watch, pressed the button on the side that you were told could make you leave, and let nature take its course after feeling the soft vibrations run throughout your arm.

next chapter

#ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x you #steve rogers x reader #captain america x reader #ABITRV

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do-androids-dream-ao3acc · 3 years

Photo

Following a prompt by @frances-the-red here, who said she required “whump, a sexy bath scene and a sword fight”. All in one, you say? Why, yes.

Have “And the scars don’t write a song for me at all” (not a line from a Blind Guardian song, surprise!). It was quite easy because I already had an unused bath scene from an abandoned fic, that I just polished a bit and removed the smut. The rest is just the usual nonsense.

4300 words, mild Violence warning. Read it under the cut or on AO3.

Geralt awoke to find the bed was empty next to him. The room was dark, curtains still drawn. It was not unusual for Emhyr to rise with the sun's first rays, the early birdsong being his wake-up call. It was certainly very early; still, Geralt sensed it was not dawn yet. He got up, wrapping the blanket around his body. He'd made it a habit of sleeping naked in the palace – where not only the fireplace but also his husband regularly warmed him. Yet it was still winter, and the mornings were chilly. A quick tug on the curtains confirmed that there was time yet before dawn. The blackness of the night only slowly faded into a softer gray, illuminated at this hour only by a few lights from the city below.

Slowly he crossed the room, the coolness of the stone floor a sharp contrast to his body, still warm from sleep. The adjoining chamber door was open, and there he found Emhyr's silk robe hanging over a paravent. Behind it, unusually for the early hour, a bathtub was steaming with hot water. Emhyr's eyes were closed, but he seemed anything but relaxed: his arms were leaning on the edges of the tub, the fingers of his right hand playing an impatient little concert on the wood.

"You overdo it with cleanliness," Geralt remarked.

Emhyr opened his eyes, and Geralt was greeted by an amber glow so similar to his own. There were moments when Emyhr's eyes took on the color of ripe hazelnuts, but not now, not at this hour.

"I didn't want to wake you," he returned. "It helps me think."

"Contemplating before the sun rises? What's bothering you so much?"

"Come here," Emhyr said instead of an answer, and his hand underlined his words with a restless gesture.

That was a demand quickly obeyed. Geralt soon found himself pulled down, a firm hand on his neck and persuading lips on his own. After this passionate morning greeting, Geralt's voice sounded a bit rough.

"I'm not going to complain, but..."

"You know what I'm thinking about."

Geralt actually knew. The latest intelligence reports had led Emhyr to tighten security around Vizima. They seemed to be mere rumors for the time being, but their prolonged absence for the wedding in Nilfgaard seemed to make some local factions believe the emperor had developed a weakness. Not merely a weakness for a certain witcher, but perhaps a waning interest in strategy and political calculation, at least in the short term. In this, they were wrong, and Emhyr by no means took the flashing little skirmishes here and there lightly.

"Join me," Emhyr said, holding out his hand. "Make sure I don't think about it, if that's what you want."

The invitation sounded almost like an order, not to the witcher, but the husband. If it was, it was easy to follow, and Geralt stripped off the blanket. He bent over Emhyr in search of another kiss, and the firm grip on his neck resumed. Lips as hot as the rising steam met his, and for a while, the world shut down.

The steam seemed to cloud Geralt's senses – their lips parted, but Emhyr's face appeared to him as if he would look through a fog. He still felt his hand on his neck, and the grip seemed to get stronger. Then, he did not understand how it happened, the pressure became even harder, pushing his head under water. It was much less warm than expected, and the sudden immersion was a shock. Only reflexes and an immediate instinct prevented him from swallowing water. It was impenetrable to his eyes, far too dark, far too unreal. Some part of him refused to comprehend what was happening. His arm shot up, his hand searching for a hold but finding none.

It's a dream, he thought, a dream, a nightmare, and I will wake up soon.

But if this was a dream, why did he feel the air escaping from his lungs? Suddenly, the water dissolved into murky darkness. Now, he wasn't sure of anything anymore. Was he floating or lying on the ground? Part of this felt like a memory that was slightly off. Slowly the darkness gave way to an unreal gray, and Geralt realized that his eyes were still (or again?) open. Sounds kicked in as if all of his senses suddenly remembered how to work. There were unfamiliar voices, smells, and feelings. No, not all of this was unfamiliar. There was something his mind needed a moment to recognize... a sensation, sharp and hot and throbbing.

Pain. A feeling he knew – and an excellent instrument to come back to reality. Then, light. Now his eyes were able to focus: there was a wooden ceiling above him, small golden reflections of sunlight dancing on it. A house, a hut, maybe. He focused on the pain. The cause was not hard to find: an arrow sticking out of his right thigh. Moreover, his gaze fell on shackles on his wrists. Handcuffs, not a simple rope. Someone wanted to make absolutely sure that he would not free himself so quickly. In two ways, because his quick inventory told him something else: the arrowhead had been soaked in poison, and that was still inside him. Poisoning a witcher wasn't easy, but apparently, whoever had done it knew what to do.

His accelerated heartbeat and temporarily decreased breathing – a feeling that had manifested itself in a dream or hallucination – were clear evidence. The memory had been buried under the poisoning effects, but now he remembered this morning clearly. The actual events had been much more pleasant. They had made love impetuously on the damp floor next to that tub. Later, the breakfast had been interrupted by a messenger, asking for the witcher's urgent help. Should that have made him suspicious? The forests around Vizima were usually spared from any monsters. According to the vague description, it could have been anything from wraiths to a lost troll. He had not become wary, had followed his damned sense of duty, and walked right into a trap.

That part was still a bit blurry, but a surprising noise, a handful of guys looking like vagabonds, and a sudden arrow in his thigh definitely had something to do with it. Here he was, once again, a tied-up package somewhere in the wilderness, a victim to his own good-naturedness. Or dumbness, he thought, observing the handcuffs closely. At that moment, a crooked door opened, letting in more light than was comfortable for Geralt's eyes.

"Oh well, look at that, our princess is no longer slumbering."

A sleazy guy entered, a whole head shorter than Geralt, from head to toe the type of obnoxious order-taker that Geralt was pretty sure lacked the intelligence to come up with such a bold plan. He was right. Pushing past the guy was a taller man, beefy and bald, with a rather ugly scar from his right ear to his shoulder. Did someone ever try to chop your head off? thought Geralt incoherently. Dark eyes under bushy eyebrows regarded the witcher with due suspicion. Far more conspicuous, however, was the sword scabbard at the man's hip. For Geralt would have recognized the weapon's handle in it anywhere - it was his own, the silver sword. Of the two they had taken from him, it was by far the more valuable, and Baldy must have decided to keep it.

"Faster than I thought," he said.

His companion appeared slightly nervous.

"We still have a bit of that stuff, shall we..."

"We don't want to kill him," the other cut him off. "I already thought he'd suffocate; that's too risky on me."

"If it somehow matters that I survive, it would be quite useful to remove this poisoned arrow," Geralt replied nonchalantly, if a bit hoarsely.

He noticed a sour taste in his mouth. Somewhere, sometime, he must have vomited up some of the poison, but it had not helped much. Apparently, they had made sure that he did not choke on it, which also indicated that they wanted him alive, at least for the moment. From then on, it was easy to put two and two together. Ridiculous that he had fallen for it, but not the first attempt of this kind.

"Let that linger as long as possible," Baldy said, deadpan. "If you ever get back to your pretty palace, someone can cut that thing out for you."

The "if" was striking.

"You've already calculated that there might be no ransom, but you still came up with the insane idea of kidnapping a witcher," Geralt said calmly. It wasn't even a question.

"But one that seems to mean quite a bit to our new ruler," the bald one returned. "And look, all it took was a well-aimed arrow and some poison."

In other words, an element of surprise that didn't come to many. Geralt knew how amazed people like this were when they found out that witchers also ended up bleeding like ordinary people. Maybe not as long and not as persistent, but the bastard was right: an arrow and a bit of poison had been enough. Of course, it wasn't always quite that simple, but chance and luck had played into these guys' hands.

"Well, we'll see if we can capitalize on our catch, won't we? The swords, the dagger, and what we found in your pockets are probably compensation enough, should that not be the case. And if I don't need you in the end, I'll pull that pretty ring off your finger and have it melted down in Mahakam."

With these words, Baldy turned back to the door, pushed his accomplice out, and both disappeared. Gotta give him credit for having guts, Geralt thought. A bit of a megalomaniac, perhaps, but what did he have to lose? For scum like him, peacetime had little to offer. So why not stack up a little? Quite possible that they weren't even looking for a ransom now that they had valuable witcher weapons, which would fetch quite a bit in shady auction houses. Perhaps they had also concluded that the matter was too big in the end. They certainly didn't want to risk the army getting on their trail. Even Baldy could not be so shrewd as to believe that he was slipping through the fingers of the emperor's expected wrath. Whatever they were up to, they made a typical mistake: underestimating a witcher was never a good idea. And firing an arrow in his leg and tying his hands was not nearly enough. Neither was Geralt the princess they took him for, nor did he need rescuing.

Trying to sit up, he felt a bit dizzy. There was still poison inside his system; there would be until the arrow was removed. It was tempting to do it right now, and he could have done it even with cuffed hands. But without any knife, it was a gruesome business, and a painful one. As he could get a closer look now, he noticed the tip stuck quite deep in his thigh. He would do too much damage if he just ripped it out, so he focused on the shackles first. Solid steel with a short chain. No big deal, Geralt had learned such things as a boy. Lambert, Eskel, and he had always tried to outdo each other in their numerous attempts to escape from handcuffs. Vesemir had had to rescue one of them time and again, chained to all sorts of objects. Lambert once almost strangled himself when he was desperate to prove that he could free himself by hanging one-handed from the stair railing in Kaer Morhen.

Geralt shook his head. Not the right moment for merry (or rather not) reminiscences. If they had tied his arms behind his back, things wouldn't have been quite so simple, but they hadn't bothered. So Geralt only had to patiently twist the chain's individual links into each other until they locked. When that happened, he braced himself against the inevitable pain and pulled his hands apart with all his might. As expected, the metal broke after a few seconds, and his hands were free. He had no way to remove the remains from his wrists, and Geralt could already vividly imagine Emhyr's comments on this. This only spurred him on, so he looked for a hold on the wall behind him to carefully prop himself up.

Finally, he stood, painful as it was, but now he was able to assess the little window. He peered out cautiously from the side. Outside, he saw a handful of horses, their reins thrown loosely over the rickety remains of a fence. Roach was not among them. Smart girl, he thought. Didn't let yourself get caught. The guys outside had no idea that the soldiers were probably already closer to them than they thought – Roach knew her way back, as any horse in danger would seek refuge in its home stable. Slowly, Geralt limped to the door and listened, letting his senses wander. Most likely, one of them was standing right next to the door. One last time, he glanced at the arrow in his leg. The wound was bleeding again, but there was nothing he could do about it now. All he could do was take advantage of the element of surprise, as they had done with him. Oh, they would be in for a surprise.

With a jerk, he wrenched open the door, gaining a split-second overview. There were only five. Four sleazebags with Baldy as their leader. To the right of the door stood the little guy who had come in first – apparently Baldy's right-hand man. He was carelessly playing around with a sword, weighing it in his hands, observing it. It was part of the loot, Geralt's steel sword. In an instant, it was back in his possession: he rammed his elbow into the guy's face, whereupon the jaw cracked. Completely surprised, the man was not even capable of a scream, and in one fluid motion, Geralt grabbed the sword before it went to the ground like the bandit.

A little commotion broke out among the remaining members of the small band of robbers, and already the bravest among them pounced on Geralt. He attacked with a dagger. Geralt felt a series of small nerve jolts, a tingling sensation that rose up inside him, hardening his muscles. It was anger, he realized. For this was his dagger, not just any weapon; a particularly beautiful piece, pure silver, decorated with a wolf's head on the handle. It was a gift from Emhyr, and the thought that this was the second time somebody tried to steal it from him only fueled his rage. To take this away from him, like they wanted to do with the ring, his fucking wedding ring... It made him forget how tedious and painful it was to move with the arrow still stuck in him. He dodged the attack with a single side step, and the sword drove through the flesh of the assailant as if he were flaying a rabbit.

The bald one still held back, staying in the background, Geralt's sword loosely in his hand. He would not make it easy for him, but he let his comrades run to their doom without hesitation. In the end, they were all the same. Their idea of witchers was vague, almost mystical, but they were all eager to find out if there were any human traits beneath the legends. But then, when they lay in their blood, they whimpered for their pitiful lives, as if to conjure up any humanity they had denied the witcher.

If they wanted animal instincts, they could have just that. As far as some things were concerned, Geralt had all too human traits, and he didn't hesitate to take his anger out on them, even if it was basically ridiculous, almost childish. He could nearly hear Emhyr's voice in his head, "Those are just objects," he would say. But they weren't, not for him. And he didn't kill the men, he wasn't vengeful and not half the monster they probably took him for.

Number three had his own (well, probably stolen) short sword, but Geralt made short work of him. Soon after, the fourth one also lay in the dust with his eyes wide open, clutching his shoulder with one hand, as if he still couldn't believe where the guy with the arrow in his thigh had gotten the speed and agility from. Geralt was running on pure adrenaline now, and while it would have been a waste to use any potions on these blokes – if he still had them – it wouldn't have hurt to have some now, as his movements seemed to ram the arrow only deeper into his flesh. The remnants of the poison still made him a bit dizzy, and every step was a sharp knife into his leg.

But now only Baldy was left, and he would soon realize, just like the others, what it meant to mess with a witcher. The guy was either stupid or pretty confident of himself because his nasty face showed no fear. He swung the sword loosely in his hand, a boastful swagger; however, it did not catch. Geralt just stood there, perfectly still, his body balanced so that he put as little weight as possible on his right leg, but ready to do so should it be necessary. They always underestimated one thing: that he was willing to fight through anything, even pain.

"It would be better just to leave now. There's still time," he said against his better judgment. "There's nothing more to gain here."

"But I don't have anything left to lose either, do I?"

A swift, deft advance followed the words. But Baldy tried a blow from above – powerful but predictable, even more so for an experienced swordsman. Geralt ignored the stinging pain in his leg as he took a small step to the right, parrying the blow with his sword held to the side. His quick counterattack was textbook, but in that case, Baldy was trained from it as well – he rolled off the inevitable blow and was back on his feet in no time.

The arrow still secreted a little poison; Geralt felt his body reacting to it. He was slower than usual, his reactions stiffer than necessary, but he doubted his opponent suspected that. He still seemed to think that his injury should stop the witcher. That he would have an easy time of it. But he was wrong. Lunge, feint, and thrust came in quick succession, forcing his opponent to dodge. Despite his rather massive stature, the man was not unskilled, and at some point in his miserable life, he must have learned not only how to hold a sword correctly but how to use it. He did not make the mistake of permanently hitting Geralt's sword, as many untrained fighters did. That only cost strength and brought a somewhat acceptable result only with equal opponents anyway.

Baldy searched for gaps in Geralt's defense (he found none), and when that proved fruitless, he began to try to disrupt his balance with powerful blows. Aiming for the legs seemed to be a reasonable tactic since it was clear that Geralt was dragging his leg. So he aimed at the left one to force him to put more weight on the injured right. It would have worked for anyone else, but not with a witcher. Instead, Geralt turned the tables and permanently shortened the distance between them. He parried the attacks with quick counterattacks, pushing Baldy back, coming closer and closer to him. And the latter reacted precisely like a stressed student who had mouthed off and dared to challenge the master.

The only thing left for him to do was to back away, yet all around the shabby old hut was nothing but forest. So if he didn't want to trip or run backwards into a tree, Baldy was forced to turn an attack into a counterattack. But he lacked the time and skill to do so, and that was his downfall. For a second, he frantically looked behind him to scan the surroundings. That was enough for Geralt to advance. Once again, a tremendous pain shot through his leg as he, both hands on the handle, performed an arcing motion. Once again, he ignored it, and what his attack lacked in apparent elegance, experience and instinct made up for. Strength alone was not the key. Baldy learned that like hundreds before him. Geralt's sword struck him just below the right shoulder, piercing the leather jerkin, causing the overzealous bandit to stumble. Even as he pulled out the blade, Geralt kicked him hard in the stomach. With a surprised gasp, the wannabe abductor went down.

Geralt grabbed the sword in Baldy's hand – his sword – and wrestled it out of his wrist after a brief struggle. He resisted the impulse to give the guy another kick and turned, shifting his weight back onto his left leg. The desire to get rid of the damned arrow became overwhelming. He looked at the horses - decent animals; he could just take one of them. Somehow he would get through the ride back. It occurred to him that he had no idea where he was. He glanced up to at least approximate the direction. The sky was clear, but thunder could be heard in the distance. Geralt blinked, almost disoriented for a moment. The adrenaline in his body stopped working. The last remnants of the poison had not yet disappeared, dizziness set in, and his leg almost gave way.

It was not thunder. Something, still far away, but on a direct course in their direction, was approaching. For a moment, he was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't even notice that Baldy – amazingly still conscious, though losing copious amounts of blood – grabbed his ankle. Pure instinct ensured that he did not instantly go down and that he noticed the slender knife in the other's hand in time. A quick movement of his sword, which was still in his hand, was enough, and Baldy's pathetic little attack went into the dust with his knife.

He cursed, rage in his hate-filled eyes, and Geralt finally had enough. He turned his sword, the hilt pointing down, and took a short swing. But Baldy's hand was still on his ankle, and in a last desperate moment, he pulled hard. Weakened by everything that lay behind him, Geralt now actually began to falter. Bad luck for Baldy, because as he fell, his sword hilt hit the latter right at the wound Geralt had caused him, and he howled and rolled his eyes.

Then Geralt went down on his knees, and that in turn was his bad luck. The pain was so overwhelming that he nearly fainted on the spot. No longer able to keep his balance, he fell forward. Although he reflexively stretched out a hand, he could not prevent the new impact. The arrow bored deeper into his thigh than before. There wasn't even enough breath for a scream. The world turned into fire. But the red flames before his eyes changed to black almost instantly, and he went limp.

This time, he didn't open his eyes right away when the world returned – or rather, when he returned into it. His senses kicked in one by one, gently, as if he had been asleep for just a moment. He heard the soft crackling of a fireplace from somewhere, and beneath him, he perceived the familiar feeling of smooth sheets. The gentle smell that hit his nose – tart, a little juniper, a little oakwood – made it finally clear where he was. Still, his eyes remained closed just a little longer. There were cool fingers on his much too warm forehead. Something moist stroked over his brow and cheeks, and that felt nice.

"You drowned me in the bathtub, you know," he said, and he felt as if he could almost hear Emhyr's frown.

Now he opened his eyes, but if he had thought the dark eyes above him would look puzzled, he was disappointed.

"You're feverish, Geralt. Be still."

Now that was typical of Emhyr, to tell him off like that although he had almost killed him. Geralt frowned and tried to focus.

"No, that was before. This morning or whatever. You drowned me in the bathtub. Why would you do that?"

Emhyr looked worried for a moment, not sure how to respond. It was not too serious an injury, and the court sorceress had assured him that there was no residue left of the poison. Emhyr had experience with an injured, unconscious, and disoriented Geralt, but little with one who accused him of attempted murder in a fever. He set aside the cloth he had been using to cool Geralt's forehead, brushed a sweaty strand from his face, and gently replied, "I assure you, I have not and will never drown you."

Geralt grinned broadly.

"I thought you were going to say, at most, you'll drown me in your..."

"Don't you dare."

"... love?"

If that was possible, his grin only widened. Emhyr shook his head, let out a small sigh, and maybe the corners of his mouth turned up a very tiny bit.

"You won't remember it in a few hours anyway, but fine, on my account, I'll drown you in love. You're an idiot, you know."

"Yours?"

Emhyr sighed once again. Then he leaned forward, breathed a kiss on Geralt's hot forehead, and replied firmly, "Mine."

And that, Geralt thought before a much more restful sleep overcame him, is probably the most pleasant way to drown.

#writing #fanfiction #witcher 3 #emhyr x geralt #geralt x emhyr #Emralt #Emhyralt #Emhyr/Geralt #whump #bath scene #and a sword fight :)

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opera-ghosts · 3 years

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Victor Capoul & Cécile Ritter-Ciampi

Victor Capoul (1839-1924) was a French lyric tenor whose thirty-five-year career spanned the latter part of the 19th century. Born Joseph Victor Amédée Capoul in Toulouse, he received his musical education at the Paris Conservatory, where he studied with renowned French tenor Alphonse Révial (1810-1871). Following his graduation, Capoul made his debut at the Opéra-Comique as Daniel in Adam’s Le Châlet in 1861. The young tenor became a popular artist with the theater and remained a regular member of the company for the next nine seasons. In 1871 he made his first appearance in London as Gounod’s Faust at Drury Lane and made his American debut later that year at the New York Academy of Music as Wilhelm Meister in Mignon. In 1877, Capoul made his Covent Garden debut as Auber’s Fra Diavolo, also singing Almaviva in Barbiere di Siviglia, Ernesto in Don Pasquale and Elvino in La Sonnambula that same season. Capoul returned to New York in 1879 to sing the role of the poet Ange-Pitou in Charles Lecocq’s La Fille de Madame Angot at Grau’s French Opera Company. The tenor’s Metropolitan Opera debut occurred during the company’s inaugural season, on October 27, 1883 as Faust. Capoul sang 25 performances of six roles during his first season with the Met…the aforementioned Faust, Wilhelm Meister, Almaviva, Alfredo in La Traviata, Edgardo in Lucia di Lammermoor and (although one wonders how he negotiated the demands of the role) Enzo in La Gioconda. Although his acting and stage deportment were praised, critics complained of the tenor’s “almost inaudible half voice” and remarked that “ his singing was often short of the enjoyable.” It is not surprising that when Capoul returned to the Met for the 1891/92 season, he was relegated to the secondary roles of Tybalt in Roméo et Juliette and Cassio in Otello. His final appearance with the company was a concert on April 24, 1896. During a Testimonial Performance to Henry E. Abbey and Maurice Grau, Capoul sang as part of the Soldiers’ Chorus from Gounod’s Faust. Considering that he had made his debut with the company in the title role of this same opera some thirteen years previously, this seems something of a sad comedown. Capoul remained in New York for several years, having been appointed opera coach and professor of voice at The National Conservatory of Music of America in 1892. His singing days now behind him, Capoul returned to Paris in January of 1900, making a bid for the position of General Director of the Opéra-Comique. When he was declined, his old friend and colleague Pierre Gailhard appointed him Director of Theatrical Studies at the Opéra de Paris. Now regarded as one of the leading stage directors for French and Italian opera, Capoul returned to New York in 1906 to direct productions for Hammerstein’s Manhattan Opera Company. Sadly, he was plagued by increasing deafness that greatly hampered his artistic activities. He retired to the south of France and lived quite comfortably until wartime investments stripped him of his fortune. To raise a bit of capital, the tenor tried to auction off some of the mementos from his career. When there were no takers, he angrily burned all of his costumes, scores and photographs. Capoul lived out his final years on his little farm near the village of Pujaudran-du-Gers, subsisting on a small pension. Penniless, bitter and forgotten, he passed away on February 18, 1924, just a week shy of his 85th birthday, a tragic end for such a great artist. Victor Capoul boasted a diverse repertoire of nearly 40 roles in opera and operetta, including Tonio in La Fille du Régiment, Georges in La Dame Blanche, The Duke in Rigoletto, des Grieux in Manon, Lionel in Martha and the title roles in Meyerbeer’s Robert le Diable and Méhul’s Joseph. He created the tenor leads in a number of works such as Gounod’s La Colombe and Offenbach’s Vert-Vert. In addition to Paris, London and New York (the cities where he spent most of his career), Capoul travelled to Monte Carlo, Brussels, Moscow,

St. Petersburg, Vienna and Quebec. He also co-authored the librettos for Godard’s opera Jocelyn and Camondo’s operetta Le Clown. Although the tenor never possessed an extraordinary voice, he did cultivate a remarkable technique and built his reputation on artistry, musicality and magnetism. His recorded legacy consists of a single aria, “Oh! Ne t'éveille pas encore” from Godard’s Jocelyn. Four takes were recorded for Fonotipia in Paris in 1905, two of which are known to survive. Although Capoul’s vocal resources are greatly diminished…not to mention the fact that he was nearly stone deaf…he manages to give a fascinating performance, leaving us something of a time capsule from the world of 19th century French opera.

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sweetsurrcnder · 3 years

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muse: Miles (23) open to: m / nb scenario: This thread is set in a universe where everyone has a biological designation: dominant, submissive, and neutral. Within the d/s categories, there are various subcategories. Submissives are encouraged to match with a dominant as soon as possible once they’re adults, if not, they’re taken into care-taking custody and more or less auctioned off to interested dominants. Miles is participating in his first auction after aging out of the bracket where subs can live on their own and try to procure their own match.

Remember to smile, sweetheart, had been Miles’ temporary care-taker’s last words to him before he left him… here. In this ridiculous place. This whole scenario pissed him off if he thought about it for any length of time. He was only twenty-three years old. That wasn’t old by any stretch of the imagination. And yet, somehow submissives were supposed to find themselves a dominant between the ages of 18 and 22. The second you turned 23, the government stepped in. For Miles, it had been a little longer than that. He’d managed to game the system a bit, but even so, he was only halfway through his 23rd year when he’d essentially been scooped up out of nowhere and carted off to a facility for unattached submissives like himself.

They’d given him a few days to settle in, and then this morning, several care-takers had converged on him. They took him from his room, got him bathed and dressed in a pastel blue sweatshirt and jeans of a darker blue and slightly looser fit than he would’ve chosen himself, and deposited him… here. It was basically a playpen, which was enough to make him blush all on its own. There were plenty just like his lined throughout the room with sufficient walking space for dominants to come through and peruse at their leisure. Miles had tried to assure them he wasn’t a flight risk, no matter how much he wanted to be, but apparently they’d had too many attempted runaways to make any exceptions. So his ankle had a soft cuff around it, attached via a tether to one of the corners of the space.

More embarrassing than his current situation was the sign on the front of his little area, which was less a name-tag and more one of those signs you’d see on the cage of an adoptable animal. Hi there, my name is Miles Octavio! the sign declared in an obnoxiously cute font. I’m 23 years old and a Submissive. Subcategory: Little. I like art and nature! Once a dominant was interested, submissives were encouraged to speak with them, but not before then. Hence, the signs. Miles was just glad he hadn’t been… physically discouraged from speaking like some of the others on the floor today.

Miles was so desperate to keep the polite look on his face and not allow the anxiety to peek through that he didn’t realize a dominant was looking at him until they were entirely standing in front of him. And they’d just asked him a question. “Uh…” he floundered, flushing as his hands twisted into the hem of his sweatshirt. “Sorry, I just–could you repeat that?”

#indie kink rp #indie smut rp #indie gay rp #indie bi rp #open #finger painting on canvas; (miles)

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afterhoursfic · 4 years

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A bearded slave!Geralt is made to perform oral sex. He enjoys the smell of his partners lingering on him.

I saw your comment on my fic and the idea is definitely in my mind now so I might get around to doing it at some point

Most of the people who buy him do so because he's a witcher. Stronger than any man and even better endurance so most often he's simply put to work tilling the land or acting as a warning to settle petty squabbles in small towns.

On rare occasions when his owner was having one of his more exotic parties he would be groomed and fresh shaven before paraded naked in front of the guests to be ogled at and for the more adventurous to seek their pleasure from him.

Under the bright lights of the hall and the sole focus on him he doesn't get many takers, but when they do his thoughts quickly slip away from his predicament to instead focus on the cock he was currently choking on or the cunt that meant drool and slick slid down his neck to pool at his collarbone in his fervor to please.

He liked these nights if only for the mess they left behind, of the heady scent rubbed into and stuck on his skin after having being used, being desired. He would try to get the mix of scents to last as long as they could, to try and sneak into some corner and take his own pleasure from it but being fresh-faced and the fact some sorry maid would always scrub him clean afterward meant that even with his witcher senses it was as if the night never happened.

~~~

It was after a week since his last owner had sold him to the nearest auction house and after a lot of poking and prodding from the seller to examine his worth that a young, fresh-faced noble walked in, took one glance at him and bought him immediately.

Without uttering a word the nobles guard haul from his knees to pull him into some alley outside the building and promptly shoved to his knees again.

The lord who bought him grabbed his cheeks between a hand before tilting his face this way and that and when pleased dug his fingers into his cheeks to force his mouth open when suddenly the man's thick cock is shoved unceremoniously down his throat

He's not given time to adjust as the lord immediately starts fucking into his throat, causing him to gag and a mix of drool and precome to spill from his mouth. It's not long before the man’s coming and he barely has the mind to swallow. As he goes to pull out the last drool of come spills across his bottom lip and chin and eagerly tries to lick it up, earning a laugh from all three men present.

The noble gives the guards still holding him down permission to take a turn before he leaves them too it.

Both of them are quick to pull out dicks and stroking themselves to hardness and it was with a moan he leaned forward to try lick at the drop of precome beading at the slit of the man nearest to him, his effort earning him a slap in the face before his head is tugged back and both men are coming across his face. Rope after rope of come landing high across his cheeks, into the growing stubble decorating his jaw, hell even his hair and its then he feels the tip of a boot press against his dick, helpless but to try to rub against it but it was the smell of the three mens come now covering him that with a whimper finally had him come.

Afterward, he wasn't even cleaned, just pulled to his feet and dragged through the town for all to see the mess of come on his face.

~~~

It was obvoius early on that his purpose here was purely sexual as he spent most of his days kneeling under a desk to warm his owners cock before it was painted with come and he was sent on his way.

Thanks to one fateful night when unshaven he had rather eagerly eaten out the lord of the manner and the scratch of his growing beard had the noble shake through his orgasm he was allowed to keep it.

All the more better for him because it meant the smell of his partners lingered. Made better given his owner seemed to host a party every other night for something he didn't care for. He was too occupied in his dark corner of the room making bets to himself on who would approach first.

The first hour or so he'd left alone as if it's a courtesy and using him isn't what they're there for, but then the first to approach him is a woman who wraps a firm hand in his hair and tugs back before hiking up her skirts and moving over him.

He doesn't even wait for her to settle before he's leaning forward to lick at her cunt, taking the time to draw out her pleasure, to get her wet and dripping until her scent covered his chin and only then would he get her off but not without rubbing his face against her folds slightly to rub as much of her scent against him that he could.

After that it fades to blur, often times his head is pulled from one side to the other to suck down a pretty cock or lick at a dripping cunt. Most of the guests were so keyed up they couldn't even wait and would get themselves off as they watched, often rubbing their come off on some part of his face whilst his mouth was being used.

By the end of the night, he's shoved into his corner by the kitcher hearth and given a cloth and bowl of cold water to clean himself off in. Sure he cleaned, not as well as he probably should but nobody but himself would know it, often times only cleaning his beard enough so that it wouldn't be scratchy and uncomfortable from the dried come, but for the most part, he let the scent of all those people remain. Those nights especially he would jerk off late at night whilst rubbing his face into his pillow and letting the heady scent of come and perfume and musk surround him as he came into his hand.

#scent kink #slave!Geralt

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subskywalker · 5 years

Text

It’s likes this:

Anakin falls in increments and everything else happens in between.

Interlude:

They’re laying in bed with Anakin curled around both Obi-Wan and her when she asks, “What was Tatooine like?”

And he thinks about his mother who he barely remembers and his heart aches. And he hopes that she’s alive and free and happy. Hopes that he’ll be able to find her.

He remembers Shmi brushing his curls back and singing to him whenever he couldn’t fall asleep. Remembers her smiles and how he laughed.

Remembers being ripped from his mother’s arms and being auctioned off to the highest bidder and the way they all wanted to own him.

He could tell them the truth. He could tell Obi-Wan and Padme exactly what Tatooine was and what happened there.

He could also tell them it was home even if it hadn’t been that in a long time—even if it was all he ever knew for even longer than that and that it was never truly home.

A sob catches in his throat and comes out as brittle laugh.

“I don’t actually remember much of it.” He pauses and as an after thought he adds, “I remember sand all around us and the twin suns.”

—blood on the sand and the ruthlessness of the desert and freedom always being the slightest out of reach but never close enough.

“It was a desert planet. Not much to do there honestly.”

The sound of screams carried through the wind and the thought of running into the distance and being free. And wondering if going to his death was the only way he was ever going to be free.

“Would you ever go back?”

He remembers thinking how he refused to ever die in chains.

“No.”

(Sometimes when he closes his eyes all he can see is blood on the sand and the feeling of the sun against his skin. Sometimes he dreams of going back and freeing them.)

It goes like this:

The things is that Anakin was never much a gambler when it came to his heart.

He always wore his heart on his sleeve even when he tried not to. And he never had much of a poker face to begin with—he could lie and get away with it of course, but emotions and the expressions were something else entirely.

Anakin has been, and he suspects that he always will be, a hopeless romantic at heart no matter how much he’s tried to deny it.

He so desperately wants that fairytale happy ending. Wanted that holodrama true love first meeting and all its cliches to be real.

That maybe he would meet the love of his life across the room as their eyes meet and everything else falls away as they walk towards each other. That maybe he would meet them by accident but their souls would recognize each other instantly. And maybe he wanted that perfect true love first meeting a happily ever after ending.

(Maybe he still does no matter how much he tries to deny it. Anakin has always been good at lying and even better at lying to himself).

But he looks at the Empress of the Galactic Empire and sees the Sith Emperor and he hates them.

(But that’s not true, maybe it would have been easier if he hated them instead of love them. Maybe it would have been easier if he didn’t walk a fine line between the two.)

He’s not a gambler, he’s told people this before and it still stands true. He isn’t a gambler. He knows that he could tell them how he really feels—roll the dice and see where it lands and let fate take it from there. But he can’t, because Anakin’s always been a risk taker with his life but never with his heart. He’ll throw his life on the line if that’s what it takes to help and survive and fight. He didn’t get to where he was by standing by.

But he knows he can’t risk his heart. Not with this. Not with them.

No matter how much Anakin wants to he knows he can’t.

Their relationship—the three of them—is too unsteady and too unpredictable. And his heart has always been too soft and he’s always given his love away freely. Too freely.

(And maybe that was the problem to begin with. He never had much self preservation when it came to falling in love. And he knows that’s what this is. That he’s fallen for Obi-Wan and his honesty and how good he is. With his dry humor and how ruthless he is when he fights for what he believes in. That he’s fallen for Padme and her determination and the fire behind her eyes. With her banter and her laughter and the way she can command a room with just her presence.)

And he knows what they’ll say to him. Can already imagine the looks of softness and pity in their eyes and he refuses—absolutely refuses to ever have them look at him like that. Because he can take it from anyone else, but he can’t take being seen like that by them.

He looks up and sees them dancing across the floor and he’s struck by how much they both fit together. How perfect they look. And he has to push down the burning jealousy he feels. Has to remind himself that he doesn’t have the right to feel jealous over something that isn’t his. He’s hardly the first person they’ve taken to their bed and he doubts he’ll be the last.

They both look over and give him a smile and he gives one in return that he hopes is convincing enough.

He can live with this, he thinks, he can live with having these stolen moments with them in between everything else. Have this life of falling in increments with the two of them—of loving them as much as they’ll let him.

(Why can’t that be enough?)

(He tries not to be surprised when the question leaves a bitter taste in the back of his tongue.)

Interlude:

He wakes to the feeling of fingers in his hair, petting him and soothing him and it feels like home.

He blinks the sleep out of his eyes and turns towards him his voice rough with sleep when he asks, “Obi-Wan?”

Obi-Wan pauses and his hand stills before saying, “Sorry for waking you.”

And he starts to move his hand away and Anakin makes sound of protest, leans further into his hand. And he knows that he probably shouldn’t do this. That this feels too raw and makes him feel exposed and that he’ll know what he’s feeling. That he’ll know just how much he wants.

He figures that can be a problem for future Anakin to deal with them and lets himself have this moment. He rarely lets himself have anything and he can at least have this one thing.

Obi-Wan looks at him with consideration—looks him in the eye like he’s searching for something and whatever it is he seems to find it and be satisfied.

(And he can see specks of a different color in his eyes and the faint freckles scatter around and he wonders why he never noticed it before. He wonders why he notices it know.)

He starts petting his curls again and Anakin has to push down the purr that’s threatening to come out.

“Your hair really is lovely, dear one.”

Anakin just closes his eyes.

‘Lovely’, he thinks to himself. No one’s ever called it that before.

He remembers being on Tatooine and the way others would always tell him how beautiful he was and how gorgeous he looked with his hair as long as it was.

—“It’s like your hair was just made to be pulled sweetheart.” Hands touching his hair and Anakin slapping those hands away, his jaw set and teeth bared. Challenging them and refusing to back down and them walking away

He remembers how others would use his hair and pull on it until they made him bare his throat for them. How they pulled on his curls and forced him to kneel, using the hold to make him look up at them.

He also remembers spitting in their faces.

“Lovely?” He repeats, turning his face against the pillows and the sheets pooling around their hips.

Obi-Wan only smiles at him and says, “The loveliest, dear one.” And his touch is so gentle like Anakin is something, someone, precious. He pulls on his curls and Anakin lets him.

The memory of hungry eyes following him everywhere he goes and looking at him like he was something to own—to devour. Like he wasn’t even a person.

—‘I’m a person and my name is Anakin.’

He remembers taking shears to his hair and cutting it off until he was satisfied.

Each lock of hair falling on the floor and it feels like freedom

“No one’s ever called me that before—dear one I mean.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

And that was the thing—he always gave him a choice, always asked about his comfort.

He can’t remember a time before meeting them where anyone asked him what he wanted.

And maybe thats why his answer comes fast and easy like the sand storms on Tatooine.

“No! No. I like it. You can call me that if you want, I mean.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t say anything, just continues to pet his hair. And the feeling of safety and home and softness and warmth is too much. He doesn’t know how much time passes or when he falls asleep like that—with Obi-Wan’s hands in his hair and the sound of their heartbeats loud to his ear.

He hears a purr and it’s only later that he realizes it was Obi-Wan.

(Obi-Wan keeps calling him dear one. He’s the only who ever does.)

#obikin #obianidala #inspiration hit me #my writing #sith consort au #listen #idk what this is i literally just wrote this like right now #maybe i’ll comtimue this????? idk maybe i’ll write a fic for this #empress!padme #sith!obi wan #alpha!obi wan #alpha!padme #omega!anakin #this got longer than intended #rip me #also i am crying @ the fact that this is over 1k long #its 1644 words long to be exact #like wow i wish i would write this much in an hour for the fics i need to work on and post and update :')

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elleberquist6 · 6 years

Text

Bad Dreams

Summary: After dating a man named Jake for a few months, Phil has learned that they have very different tastes -- not only do they have nothing in common, but Jake has a voyeurism kink. Phil wants to make his boyfriend happy (even if he himself is unhappy), so he agrees to go with Jake to a club where they can witness a public sexual encounter. However, the night takes an unexpected turn when a young prostitute named Dan steps onto the stage.

Dan doesn't want to be in this situation on stage and in this club, but he feels that he has no other option. Then he meets Phil -- someone who also doesn't want to be here in this club tonight. Dan should have no reason to trust Phil, but he sees his situation paralleled in Phil's, so he lets him get closer.

What will happen when instead of going home with his boyfriend, Phil goes home with the young prostitute?

Rating: Explicit Total Word Count: 7402 Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence

—

Phil didn’t want to be here. This sort of thing made him uncomfortable, but his boyfriend Jake had a voyeurism kink. All it took was Jake pouting his full lips and pleading with his pretty green eyes, and Phil relented with a sigh. “Okay, I’ll go to this club with you.”

The beginning of the night wasn’t too bad. Phil hated nightclubs because large crowds of people made him nervous – too many chances to have awkward social encounters – and he never knew what to do with his long gangly limbs on the dance floor. This wasn’t as bad as his previous experiences in clubs, since it was closed for a private party tonight. Only about 2 dozen people were here tonight, the dance floor was empty, and the music was off.

Jake led Phil to the bar and grabbed them some drinks. Phil happily took a stool beside Jake and sipped a cocktail. They made small talk about how work went today, but Jake was distracted – Phil could tell by the way that Jake’s eyes kept darting around the room while his leg twitched nonstop.

Eventually, Phil gave up on connecting with his boyfriend through conversation, and he also looked around the room. It appeared that most of the other people in the room – all men – had stopped at the bar for a drink already, but Phil and Jake were the only ones who lingered at there. The rest of the men had taken their drinks as they wandered through the room. Some had clustered in corners of the room to have whispered conversations, but most of the men had gathered around the stage at the front of the room. The stage was empty except for a bed, the sight of which made Phil swallow heavily.

A laugh drew Phil’s attention back to Jake. Jake seemed to grow more amused when Phil blushed. “I’m sorry, but the look on your face when you saw the bed… You knew what we came here to watch, Phil.”

Phil wanted to protest – no, that’s what you came here to watch, not me. But instead he just gave Jake a small smile and tried to look relaxed. He glanced around the room again as he asked, “So, the man who is going to be… is he one of the men walking around right now?” Phil grimaced at the thought. He and Jake were the youngest and fittest men here; Phil was 23 and Jake was 25. He didn’t really want to see any of these men naked, and he had a fleeting hope that Jake would decide to leave once these men started to undress. “Which one is he?”

“No, I don’t think they’ve brought him out yet,” Jake answered, his eyes scanning the crowd. “I’ve heard he’s supposed to be young, and I think he’d be on the stage, not mingling.”

Phil shrugged and turned his back to the stage, not really interested in what was going to be happening there soon. He sipped his cocktail and did his best to enjoy this moment because at least Jake was having fun. Jake could be nice sometimes. They’d been going out for the past few months and had been running into an issue. Their initial attraction had been all physical, and when the novelty of that and of a new relationship had started to wear off, they were faced with the reality that they had nothing in common. Jake liked drinking beer, working out, watching sports, and going places.

Phil liked none of that. He just wanted to sit on the sofa and drink Ribena while watching anime. He’d wanted to do this with his boyfriend and Jake had tried it, but after a few moments he would huff with a sigh. He would call the show boring, call Phil boring, and poke Phil’s stomach, saying that this was why Phil didn’t have abs. The fingertip that Jake jabbed his stomach with would make him curl in on himself with shame, and so Phil had stopped trying to share his interests with Jake.

Phil had wanted to be a good boyfriend, though. So, he sat on the sofa with Jake whenever a game was on, went jogging with him some mornings when all he wanted was a slow easy morning with coffee and cereal, and then he had finally relented to this kink of Jake’s by coming with him to this club. He was scared that if he didn’t he would lose his boyfriend when Jake came here on his own. And more than anything, Phil was scared of being alone – Jake had been careful to drive that fear into Phil’s heart.

They argued sometimes, and Jake usually won by pointing out to Phil how lucky he was to have a boyfriend like Jake, and how easy it would be for him to walk out that door, leaving Phil alone. And Phil would always be alone after that. He would be alone for the rest of his life because no one would want someone as worthless as him; Jake had blessed him by accepting him, so Phil had to do whatever he wanted.

Like coming to this place.

The speakers on the walls crackled with sound as someone picked up a microphone. Phil turned around to see a man in a suit step on the stage holding a mic. In his other hand the man was dragging a boy by a red-and-gold striped tie as if it was a leash.

The boy, who had brown hair, was dressed in a white button-down shirt which was untucked and hanging over tan slacks. Was this boy the entertainment? Phil had expected someone older who was dressed like a stripper, but the boy’s outfit only emphasized his age as he looked like he could have just taken off his school blazer.

“Oh my gosh, he’s just a kid,” Phil whispered to Jake.

A few men in the crowd were giving whoops and wolf whistles of appreciation at the sight of the boy, and Phil was worried that Jake hadn’t heard him as he had the boy fixed in a hungry gaze. Then Jake whispered back, “No, he’s hot. That’s what he is.”

Phil frowned and turned back to the bar, as if he just wanted to take another sip of his drink. Really, he had wanted to look away from the boy’s face, unwilling to be just another man in the crowd eyeing him like a predator. He couldn’t help listening, though.

The man in the suit holding the microphone started talking, “Welcome, gentlemen. Thank you for coming. We have quite the show planned for you tonight. I’d like to introduce this fresh, pretty face.”

As the crowd cheered in delight, Phil couldn’t help turning slightly to take in the scene in a moment of morbid curiosity. The man in the suit tugged the tie to prompt the boy to take a few steps forward. They were standing in front of the bed now.

“Gentlemen, meet Dan. This is his debut. He’s 18, a virgin, and is ready to be fucked. Who is interested?”

The men gathered around the stage howled in response. Phil was going to look away again, but his eyes fell on the boy’s face. He couldn’t tell what color they were at this distance, but the boy’s eyes were widened so much that he could see the whites of them. He was tall, but his shoulders were slumped, like he wanted to make himself look small so that he could hide. He was also biting and chewing on his bottom lip so hard that Phil expected to see blood soon.

After the crowd gave an initial shout to show their interest in Dan, various voices started to rise from the crowd.

“Have him take off his shirt, I want to see more of him!”

“Patience, patience,” said the man in the suit.

“Make him turn around. Wanna see his ass.”

The man tugged the tie to bring the boy within his reach. While the boy’s hands went to his throat to loosen what was apparently becoming a very tight knot across his windpipe, the man in the suit manhandled him. He grabbed Dan by the shoulder and turned him around so that his back was facing the crowd. Then he lifted up Dan’s untucked shirt to expose his backside in the tight trousers.

“Satisfied?” The man in the suit asked. When the crowd whooped in answer, the man slapped Dan’s ass before releasing him. “Any other questions?”

“How do we know he’s a virgin?” A man shouted, and a few others grumbled their agreement with this.

The boy had turned around to face the crowd again, and at these words his face flushed.

“He is,” the man in the suit said. “And trust me, you won’t doubt it when you feel how tight he is. So, any takers?” He laughed when several men shouted their interest, each trying to be heard over the others. “Okay, let’s hear some numbers. Highest bidder gets the first shot. The others will just have to watch and wait their turn.”

Phil turned back to face the bar. As he picked up his drink – the ice had mostly melted in the cocktail by now – his hand shook slightly. This was not at all what he had pictured when he agreed to come here with his boyfriend. The boy on the stage looked scared, and Phil didn’t want to see this. He looked up from his drink when he felt Jake’s hand on his shoulder.

Jake had also turned around to face the bar as the auction started behind them, and he gave Phil a broad smile. “Well, how are you liking it so far?”

“Liking it…” Phil repeated as he organized his thoughts. “Um, I just feel bad for the kid. This is an awful way for him to lose his virginity.”

Jake snorted in response and shook his head. “Phil, you’re so naïve. That’s just a thing they say. It’s all for show, all for the kinks. He’s probably been screwed a hundred times already, but they’re just saying it to help get the men off. You’ll see, it’s all an act. He’ll make a show of being all shy when it begins, but then he’ll start moaning.”

“If you say so…” Phil mumbled because the boy hadn’t looked like he was acting. But the thought that it was all for show had comforted Phil a bit, so he was happy that Jake had said it. He took another sip of his drink, thinking that he might have to order another cocktail and drink it soon if he was going to get through this night.

The bidding started to wind down, and finally the highest bid was accepted when there were no challengers. Some of the men in the crowd grumbled in annoyance that they had missed out, while others were congratulating the highest bidder and offering suggestions of what he could do to the boy he had just bought.

Phil ordered his second drink and started nursing it, while at his side Jake was staring intently over his shoulder. Since there was no sound but the soft murmur of the crowd, Phil wasn’t sure what his boyfriend was seeing. Just as Phil was starting to feel buzzed, he heard something that made his spine stiffen: the creaking of bedsprings.

A hush fell over the room, and all Phil could hear was the pounding beat of his own heart. And then there was a gasp and pained whimper that came from across the room. This didn’t sound like what Jake had said was going to happen, but Jake started breathing heavily. Phil glanced at him, seeing his boyfriend’s unblinking gaze that was fixed on what was happening across the room. His pupils were dilated with arousal.

Jake seemed to sense Phil’s eyes on him because he turned to face Phil with a smile. “It’s really hot. You should take a look.”

The man fucking Dan was now grunting in pleasure, and the sound made Phil grimace. That didn’t sound like something Phil wanted to see, so he shook his head.

Jake sighed. “Why did you come here Phil, if you’re not even going to look?”

Phil bit his lip, considering his words because he didn’t want to get into an argument now. “I’m here for you. Because you want this.”

“Okay. Want you, too.” Jake said, leaning in to place a kiss against the side of Phil’s neck.

Phil leaned into Jake when he kissed his neck because this was unexpected. In general, Jake wasn’t an affectionate boyfriend. He kissed Phil when he wanted it to lead to sex, and he was sweet only when he wanted something special from Phil in the bedroom. When they had first started dating, Phil had wanted cuddles, kisses, and soft touches, but he quickly gave up when Jake had called him clingy and pathetic.

So, his skin tingled under Jake’s lips, starved for affection. He leaned into it as the lips lingered, sucking a mark into his skin. Jake’s hands were giving him some attention, too. They roamed over his hip and then up his shirt, one hand playing with the fabric of his boxer-briefs while the other hand trailed up his chest.

It felt nice until the boy in the room gave a very loud pained whimper. Phil stiffened under Jake’s hands, but he didn’t seem to notice. Jake repositioned himself on the stool so that he was closer to Phil and one of his thighs was behind him. Phil also realized that Jake’s head was turned so that he could continue watching the stage while he was sucking on Phil’s neck.

The whimpers were getting louder and the man fucking Dan seemed to be close, judging by the way he was groaning. Phil barely noticed it when what was happening on the stage finished because Jake gasped at the sight of whatever was happening, and the breath on his skin made Phil shiver. Jake jerked in his seat, his pelvis coming closer to grind against Phil.

For a moment, Phil was relieved. He had thought that when the noises coming from the stage had stopped that it would be over, but he had forgotten that the man in the suit had said that more men in the crowd would have their shot with the boy once the first finished. When Dan yelped in pain, Phil shut his eyes, though all he could see in front of him were bottles of liquor behind the bar.

Jake’s lips stopped sucking on his neck as he whispered, “God, I want to do that to you. Phil, you should really see this.”

Phil opened his eyes as he shook his head. “I don’t understand this. You want to make me sound like that?”

“Yes. I want to pin you beneath me and watch you submit to me. I want to make you shriek with it and see how well you take it.”

Phil shivered. The thought did not turn him on – it made him uneasy. He and Jake had talked about it and tried a few light things with handcuffs, but he didn’t think that he could give Jake what he wanted. The issue was he didn’t trust Jake in that way. As he heard the boy crying in pain behind them, he knew how easily those cries would come from him if he submitted to Jake, who wouldn’t stop as long as he could make himself feel good using Phil’s body.

He couldn’t do this. He didn’t want this. Phil shook his head and swallowed heavily. “Jake, I… I don’t like this stuff. I just want to go home. I feel sick.”

“I like it, though,” Jake said as the hand on his waist tightened until Phil was held in a bruising grip. “You never do anything that I like. Why are we even together, if we never do anything that I like?”

Phil licked his lips. Usually he would have just accepted Jake’s words, which were a thinly veiled threat to leave if Phil didn’t do what he wanted, but right now Phil was the one who wanted to leave. The sounds coming from the bed were making him want to vomit – the cocktails were churning unpleasantly in his stomach. He hated the fact that he felt like an accomplice in what was happening to the scared boy because he was sitting in this room. He just wanted to run away.

So, he decided to argue with Jake for once. “I know why we’re together. Do you? We’re together because we like each other and like spending time together. Except I’m not really comfortable right now, so…”

“I’m with you because I love your body,” Jake said as he continued to run his hands under Phil’s shirt, leaving a tingling trail across the skin. It didn’t feel good. “Phil, I want you to touch me.”

“What?” Phil gasped, vaguely noting that the boy on the stage was also gasping. “Touch you where?”

“Where do you think?” Jake said with a snort. “Rub me through my jeans. Or better yet in my jeans. Come on, Phil. I’m already so close.”

Close? From watching this? The only thing that Phil was close to doing was vomiting all over the bar top – from this room, from what was happening to the poor boy, and from the rising realization that his boyfriend was more than a bit sick. As he shook his head, Phil said, “No, I don’t want to.”

“Come on, I said I was close,” Jake insisted, shifting nearer to Phil. “You’re my boyfriend. So, you have to.”

Phil shook his head, but Jake took his hand out of Phil’s shirt and place it on his wrist. He took Phil’s hand and placed it on the bulge in his jeans, urging Phil to rub it. The grip on his wrist was unyielding – he felt the bones of his wrist grinding together – so he started stroking Jake through his jeans. Phil hated this. He felt so exposed, doing this in public where anyone could be watching. It wasn’t the same, but he felt almost as on display as the poor boy on the stage. Then the comparison became too much when Jake groaned with pleasure at the same time as the man who was currently fucking the boy.

“I can’t, let me go,” Phil protested. He twisted his wrist in Jake’s hand and the pressure brought tears to his eyes, but he managed to get free.

“Phil…” Jake said with an annoyed sigh.

Phil met the green eyes that were narrowed with annoyance. He swallowed heavily because he didn’t like what he saw in those eyes. Slowly like he was a mouse caught in a cat’s gaze, he climbed off the barstool.

“Where are you going?” Jake asked. His hand flew to the back of Phil’s neck, stopping him from taking another step away. The hand started to squeeze and Phil gasped. He felt bile rising in the back of his throat, and it wasn’t just from disgust this time.

His voice shook with terror as he said, “Let… let me go, Jake. I’m about to be sick. I don’t want to be sick here.”

When Jake released him, Phil hurried to scurry out of the room, but not without glancing at the stage since he was once more feeling that sense of morbid curiosity. The boy was on his knees facing the crowd with a man behind him. He looked exhausted – that was all Phil noticed before he realized that the boy’s eyes were fixed on him. They locked gazes for a moment before Phil fled the room, wanting to get to the bathroom before Jake grabbed him again.

Once he was in the bathroom, Phil ran into a stall and locked the door behind him. He took a deep breath. It was quiet in here except for the sound of a dripping tap. He felt safe and the urge to vomit left him, so he leaned against the door of the stall and tried to take deep breaths until his hands stopped shaking. Then the door of the bathroom opened. Phil turned his head to listen. It might be someone else. It might not be… “Phil, it’s me. I know you’re in here. Come on.”

Phil swallowed heavily, reminding himself that there was the locked door of a bathroom stall between them. He said, “I think I’m going to stay in here for a while. I don’t feel so good.”

“You sound fine to me. Come on, Phil. I’m missing the finale of the show because of you.”

Phil shook his head, though Jake couldn’t see him. “I’m not coming. You go watch.”

Jake sighed heavily. “Phil, I’m not happy about this. You’ve spoiled this night for me. If you don’t come out right now, I’m going to drive off and leave you here.”

For a long moment, Phil just stood there, listening carefully while his heart pounded in his chest. Finally, Phil heard retreating footsteps and the bathroom door opened and closed. He peeked through the gap in the door of the stall and saw the room was empty, so he sagged against the cool metal surface in relief. He didn’t trust Jake to not be standing outside the bathroom door where he would grab him the moment he left this room, so he stayed where he was, focusing on evening his breathing.

Some time had passed before the bathroom door opened again. It was a public bathroom so Phil wasn’t too concerned with the other person in the room until he heard how labored the other man’s breathing was, and though he turned on the sink Phil couldn’t mistake the sound of soft sobbing over the rushing of the water.

Phil peeked through the gap in the stall door again, and this time he saw who was in the room with him: the boy from the stage. As Phil watched, the boy’s shaking legs gave out and he slowly lowered himself to the floor while keeping a shaky grasp on the edge of the sink. The boy settled onto his knees with a whine and pressed his forehead against the edge of the porcelain sink.

It was too much – Phil had witnessed this boy’s pain for the whole night, and he couldn’t just spectate anymore. Quietly, he unlocked the stall door and approached the boy. “Hi there… you’re Dan, right?”

The boy spun around with a gasp. One of his hands continued to grip the sink, but the other went to his stomach as the abrupt movement apparently made something hurt. He was staring up at Phil with wide eyes that Phil could now see were a rich shade of brown.

Phil could tell that he was scaring him by towering over him. He held out his hands to show that he wasn’t going to hit him. Slowly he moved beside him until he was kneeling next to him. The sink between them continued pooling with steaming water.

The boy relaxed when Phil knelt – he seemed too exhausted to hold himself stiff with terror for long. He nodded before once more pressing his forehead against the porcelain sink “Yeah, I’m Dan. I know you. You were at the bar.”

Phil cringed. “I… I’m sorry.” He hated the fact that he had just been grouped in with the other two dozen men who had come here to see Dan’s pain. As much as he wanted to explain himself and his presence here tonight, none of that was important right now – this boy was really hurt. “Um, do you want me to take you to the hospital?”

Dan shook his head and shut his eyes. “No, I’m fine.” He didn’t look fine; the white button-down shirt was mostly open, and where it was unbuttoned Phil could see red marks and bruises forming on the boy’s skin. He was trembling and though he had stopped crying, his cheeks were blotchy.

Phil stood up to grab a paper towel from a nearby dispenser. He dampened a corner of it in the warm water before turning it off. Then he returned to the boy’s side.

Dan was staring at him again with wide eyes. When Phil held the paper towel before his face, Dan cringed away.

Phil bit his lip and pulled his hand back. “I’m sorry. I know you have no reason to trust me after seeing me in that room tonight, but I swear that I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to help.”

“I know that,” Dan said softly. “I do. I don’t think you’re going to hurt me.”

“Oh?” Phil asked. He decided to try touching Dan’s face again, and this time Dan didn’t flinch. Phil wiped the drying tears from the boy’s blotchy face, noticing how soft and smooth his skin was.

Dan nodded. “I don’t think you’re the type of person who hurts people. Actually… that guy you were here with tonight. I saw him grab your neck.”

Phil looked at Dan with wide eyes. “You did?” It seemed remarkable to him that anyone could have noticed Phil’s distress while going through what Dan had felt at that moment – and this was contrasted by the months Phil had been suffering while in a relationship with Jake. Phil’s family, his friends, and his neighbors had all seen him with Jake, and none of them had noticed. But this poor injured boy had seen Phil once with Jake and he had known what was wrong. It made Phil feel uneasy and exposed, though oddly comforted at the same time – this boy knew what he was. “Um, that was…”

“I know what it was. Really, I know,” Dan said, leaving no doubt that he saw his own situation mirrored in Phil’s. He gave Phil a wobbly grin. “Takes one to know one. Seriously though, I was worried about you when he chased you. Did he catch you? Are you hurt?”

“He didn’t hurt me this time. I’m fine,” Phil said. He was running the damp paper towel across Dan’s forehead to clean him of sweat. “I hid in the stall and locked the door. He said that he was leaving me here. I think he’s gone.”

“Oh, good. I’m glad you weren’t hurt, too.” He was having trouble keeping his eyes open and he looked like he might tip over at any moment. The chocolate-brown eyes opened fully when Phil put a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, Dan, is there something I can do to help? Someone I can call? Or someplace I can take you?”

Dan shook his head. “I don’t have anyone – I ran away from home recently and I’m never going back. And I don’t have anywhere to go. I’ve been staying here, but… but my boss said that he wanted to see me after the show, and I didn’t like the way he looked at me when he said it. I can’t handle what he wants to do to me right now; it hurts too much. I don’t want to do this anymore. I just want to leave. I…”

Phil gave the shoulder under his hand a soft squeeze. “I’ll help you leave. Let me know where you want me to take you.”

“Anywhere,” Dan sighed under his breath. “I’m so tired. I just want to sleep.”

“Okay, let’s go,” Phil said as he stood up. He tossed away the paper towel and then offered Dan a hand.

Dan took his hand and whined as he stood up. “Ugh, my whole body hurts. I don’t know how much I can move.”

“It’s okay. Lean on me,” Phil said, taking Dan’s arm and placing it over his shoulder. “We’re going to get a cab. Just walk outside with me. If you can’t walk any farther after that, I’ll carry you.”

They made it outside without Dan collapsing, and they got lucky once more – a cab was driving past, looking for customers, so they didn’t have to phone for one and wait. They got inside and Dan fell asleep against Phil��s shoulder almost as soon as they sat inside the cab. Phil let him rest there during the ride, but it wasn’t long before they arrived at Phil’s apartment and he had to wake Dan up. Dan grumbled when Phil shook his shoulder gently, but he climbed out of the cab and followed Phil into the lobby of the apartment building.

Only once they were in the elevator did Dan ask, “Where are we?”

“My place,” Phil answered. He saw the way Dan’s eyes widened. “I have a spare room. If you feel comfortable with it, you can sleep there tonight.”

Dan made a soft noise in response as he relaxed again and his eyes glazed over – he was asleep on his feet. When the elevator doors opened, Phil guided Dan to the door of the apartment, which he unlocked.

As he closed the door behind them, Phil asked, “Dan, do you want me to show you where the bathroom is? Or did you want to go right to bed?”

“Bed please. In the morning I’ll probably wish I took a shower first, but I think I’d just fall asleep in the shower if I tried to clean up now.”

Phil started guiding him to the spare bedroom. “I could bring you a washcloth if you want to try to clean yourself up a bit before lying down. I can lend you some pjs, too.”

“Thank you, I…” Dan stopped walking to stare at him. “I just realized I don’t know your name.”

Phil smiled. “Oh, I’m Phil. Nice to meet you.”

Dan gave a breathy laugh. “Yeah, nice to meet you, too,”

Phil woke slowly to the realization that his bed wasn’t empty. There was a warm body lying next to him. The person ran his fingers through Phil’s hair, making Phil sigh in pleasure. He wasn’t fully awake yet and his glasses were off, so he had no idea who the other person was. His sleepy mind started to recall the events of last night, which had been awful except for the boy.

The sight of that boy being hurt had been nightmare material, but then getting to take care of him hadn’t been so bad. It had made the whole night worth it, and Phil had felt like his actions had put some good back into the awful world. And the lovely boy had made the night a whole lot better, too.

Phil wasn’t quite sure who Dan was yet since they had only just met and Dan had been in so much pain, but so far Phil like the things that he had learned about the boy. He was sweet, gentle, and caring. Phil had never met anyone like him before, and he wanted to get to know him so much better. Phil rolled towards the person in bed with him, sighing, “Dan?”

“Who is Dan?” asked a familiar voice with a snort. “Not cheating on me in your dreams, are you, Philly?”

Phil stiffened, focusing on the pale blob that he now knew was Jake’s blurry face. “What are you doing here?”

“I felt bad about how we left things last night. So, I decided to let myself in so that we could talk. You don’t mind, do you?”

Phil did mind, but he knew from experience that Jake didn’t like it when Phil told him about things that bothered him. “Um, could I put on my glasses first? And maybe have some coffee before we try to talk?”

“Sure, but why don’t you put in your contacts instead? You know I don’t like your glasses.”

Phil nodded and climbed out of bed, doing his best to find his way to the bathroom half-blind. Once he had completed his morning routine, he went to the kitchen where he supposed Jake would be, probably making coffee. He found Jake there, but there was no coffee.

Jake was sitting stiffly at the breakfast bar, and he glared at Phil when he walked into the room. The glare froze Phil’s feet to the tiles in the center of the room. “Um, is something wrong?”

Jake snorted, “Is something wrong? Are you seriously asking that? I noticed the guestroom door was closed, which seemed odd. So, I peeked inside. Phil, why is there a fucking prostitute asleep in your spare bed?”

Phil shook his head. Everything he had learned about Dan had convinced him that Dan was a teenager who was taken advantage of last night. Not that there was anything wrong with being a prostitute, but he didn’t like the way that Jake had applied the label to Dan in a way to dehumanize him. “He’s not a prostitute. He’s just a hurt boy who needed someplace safe to sleep last night, so I brought him here.”

“Not a prostitute?” Jake repeated with a shake of his head. “I believe what we watched last night contradicts that claim.”

Phil’s cheeks flushed with shame, and suddenly he was so angry; he felt like Jake had tainted him by bringing him to that awful place. “About that, you were wrong. You were so wrong. You told me it was all a show, but those men really hurt him. He didn’t like it and he could barely walk after. I can’t believe you made me sit there while an 18-year-old boy was abused. I can’t believe you got off on it.”

“Didn’t like it?” Jake said with a chuckle. “Is that what he told you? He’s a fucking whore, Phil. And you’re so gullible. He manipulated you so that you would bring him home. If I hadn’t come here this morning, you probably would have woken up later today to find that he’d stolen your tv and laptop. Or if you fucked him last night, he would’ve just demand cash. So, Phil, did you fuck him?”

“You’re disgusting,” Phil said as he took a deep breath and shook his head. This wasn’t going to be the first time he had tried to break up with Jake. But this time he was sure this had to happen. “Jake… I’d like you to leave. And not come back. I don’t want to see you again.”

“What? You want me gone now that you have a whore in your bed? Really classy, Phil. You know he’s going to leave the second you pay him. And then you’ll be alone. Missing me. Wanting me back.” Jake sat at one of the breakfast bar stools, showing his unwillingness to leave. “I think I’d rather cut to the chase. Pay your whore. I’ll wait while he leaves.”

Phil shook his head. He knew that once Jake’s dark amusement faded, the situation was going to take an abrupt turn, and he was afraid but he fisted his hands so that Jake wouldn’t see them shaking. “Dan isn’t leaving. You are. Go. Now. Don’t make me call the police to escort you out.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Jake demanded as he stood up so fast that the stool fell over with a crash, making Phil flinch. “You can’t break up with me. You are nothing without me.”

Phil licked his lips because his mouth felt dry, but he managed to say, “At this point I’d rather be nothing than be with you.”

When Jake started coming forward, Phil retreated a few steps, but his back pressed against the cool steel of his refrigerator and suddenly there was no where to run. Jake was standing in front of him with one hand on the fridge to cut off Phil’s escape path and the other hand raised – it was hanging there in the air, not yet a fist but close to it. Jake’s hot breath was on Phil’s face as he stared at him with cold green eyes. There was nothing he could do – Phil surrendered himself to whatever would come next. He braced himself for the blow that was about to fall.

“Let him go.”

Both Jake and Phil looked in the direction of the voice. Dan was leaning in the doorway, looking like he would fall over if he tried to stand up without the support. The bruises that were forming last night had set now and were dark across his wrists and neck – Phil couldn’t imagine what the rest of him under the pjs must look like right now. Dan looked so exhausted, and yet here he was, trying to help Phil. He didn’t pose the most intimidating figure in the doorway, but he glared at Jake as he held up a cellphone, showing him that he had already entered the number to call the police, and all he had to do was dial.

Jake snorted as he looked between Dan and Phil. His eyes eventually settled on Phil. “So, this is your savior? Your big hero is a fucked up and over-fucked boy?”

Phil narrowed his eyes. “Don’t talk about him like that. And get out of my home.”

“You have ten seconds before I call the police,” Dan warned, his finger hovering over the screen of his phone.

“Whatever,” Jake said as he finally pushed off the fridge and took a step away from Phil. “You two are pathetic. You deserve each other.”

Neither of them moved as Jake stormed out of the apartment and slammed the door on his way out. When they were alone again, Phil looked at the Dan, who was relaxing with a sigh as he returned his phone to his pocket. Dan was lovely – that was undeniable, even when he was covered with bruises – but what was stunning Phil in this moment was how brave and selfless he was. After going through such an awful night, he had still come to Phil’s rescue.

Jake had said that they deserved each other. All Phil could think was that he would be lucky to deserve having someone like Dan in his life.

Dan was still a bit shaky on his feet, so he accepted Phil’s help getting to the sofa in the living room. Phil left briefly to make them both a bowl of cereal for breakfast. When he returned, he saw that Dan had put on an anime. “Could we watch this?” Dan asked.

“Of course,” Phil said, taking a bite of cereal to distract himself. Something about this was unsettling him. Then he realized what it was. After being with Jake for so long, he wasn’t used to feeling at ease with the person who was sitting in the room with him. He wasn’t used to feeling content and happy. This moment with Dan was perfect.

Dan took a few bites of cereal before dropping his spoon in his bowl, seeming distracted by something. Finally, he asked, “Phil, do you want me to leave after breakfast?”

Phil blinked in surprise. “Why would I want you to do that? And I thought you had nowhere to go. Would you go back to the club?”

Dan shrugged and looked away. “Probably. I don’t want to go back, but I have nowhere else.”

“You have here now,” Phil smiled when Dan met his eyes. “Stay in my spare room. I could use a good roommate.”

“Why would you want me?”

“Well, there’s the small fact that you saved my life today. I don’t know what Jake would have done to me if you hadn’t come into the room, but I’m pretty sure it would have ended badly for me. If not today, then someday I know that Jake would have hurt me very badly.” Phil felt free now. His smile widened as he looked at the lovely boy sharing the sofa with him. “Let me return the favor. Let me help you by giving you a safe place to live. I like you. I want you to be okay.”

Dan nodded, giving Phil a small smile in return. “I like you, too. Okay, then. Roommates. I’ll find a job so that I can chip in on rent.”

“Alright, but don’t stress out about it right now. Just relax. Feel better,” Phil said, and they both settled in on the sofa to enjoy the anime.

It took time as they got comfortable with each other. They both had some healing to do, both emotional and physical. Dan’s bruises faded eventually, and Phil stopped jumping at the sound of loud noises that startled him. It would have been so much harder to heal alone, but they had each other – their home was their haven, and they kept each other safe, even from nightmares. Dan had them often when he first moved in, so when Phil woke up to hear the boy thrashing and whimpering in his sleep in the next room, he went in to check on him. He sat on the edge of the bed and shook his shoulder gently to wake him.

“Stay?” Dan asked when he realized that Phil woke him from a nightmare. Phil obliged, climbing into bed beside Dan. He wrapped his arms around the boy, wanting to make him feel safe and loved.

Because Dan was loved. So much. It hadn’t taken Phil long to fall for him after he moved in, but Phil kept his distance, giving them both the time and space they needed to recover from their traumas. Dan deserved to be with someone who wasn’t broken, so Phil focused on healing. Dan was the reason why Phil needed to get better. Dan gave him a future to look forward to, which was the most amazing thing that anyone had ever given him.

Then one night Phil woke to a dark room. There was a hand gripping his shoulder while fear gripped his heart. He bolted upright in bed with a gasp.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” said a familiar voice. It was Dan who stroked his neck to calm him. “This time you were the one having a bad dream.”

“Oh,” Phil said as he sagged back against his pillows. The bedsprings shifted as Dan crawled in beside him, resting his head on the other pillow. Phil could make out the curve of Dan’s cheek in the darkness, edged with moonlight, and the glint of his eyes. “I had a dream that you were gone. I couldn’t find you.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Dan said. He found Phil’s hand in the darkness and gripped it tightly. He chuckled as he ran his thumb in soothing circles over Phil’s skin. “I’m starting to think that we should just sleep in the same bed, since it seems like we need each other.”

Phil felt his heart start pounding again, this time from excitement instead of the fear from his nightmare. “I wouldn’t be opposed to that idea. And yes, I do need you. I… when I lost you in my dream, there were so many things that I had wanted to say to you. I tried so hard to find you so that I could say those things.”

“I’m here now,” Dan said softly.

Phil reached out so that he could run his fingers across Dan’s smooth cheek. “Oh, Dan. There’s about a million things I want to say to you. It would take longer than all night. It would take a lifetime. So, if you want to hear it all, you will have to stick around for a while.”

“I told you, I’m not going anywhere.” Dan grinned, flashing his teeth in the darkness.

Phil leaned in so that he could brush his lips softly against Dan’s. Then he waited to see what Dan would do, just in case he had misread the signals Dan was giving him. Dan’s mouth started moving against Phil’s as he enthusiastically returned the kiss.

Dan was still kissing him, but all Phil could do was smile under the attention Dan was giving him because he was just so happy. Dan felt that the lips under his were stretched into a wide grin, and he leaned back with a chuckle, saying, “You’re silly.”

“You’re sillier,” Phil said before pecking Dan’s lips with one more soft kiss. Then they settled into bed together, and this time Dan was the one who wrapped his arms around Phil so that he felt safe and loved.

#phandom #phanfiction #phanfic #dan and phil #dan x phil

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ahhhsami · 6 years

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Hi! Prompt suggestion (Omegaverse universe be it Korrasami or Pharmercy, your pick): Probably you've seen around tumblr how Charlize Theron was doing a charity thing but no one was bidding enough, so she said the winner would be able to kiss her for some seconds. And this female hero out-bid everyone. So, that's the prompt. A is holding a charity event and offers a kiss to the highest bid. B has had a crush on A for ages now and takes this chance. Then they date and then do the do. Thanks!

They kinda do things out of order, but it’s basically your prompt, lol. (AO3 LINK)

Angela rolls her eyes as she watches hands continue to pop up and raise the bid. She wasn’t one to watch a lot of television, but obviously this show was a big deal. This director, Gabriel Reyes, was offering a walk-on role in his show Blackwatch. All Angela really knew was that the show had something to do with a futuristic military and politics. One of the main reasons people were so eager was the chance to meet the lead actor, Jack Morrison. One of the most famous alphas on television at the moment. Even with that knowledge, Angela still had no interest. So she waits, there have to be better things for her to bid on, at least she hopes.

The number keeps climbing, until it stalls at 280 thousand dollars. Angela’s brow raises at the number. For a single walk-on role, that was impressive.

“I wonder who’s next,” Amelie asks, drawing Angela’s attention.

They’d come to the event together after both being invited. Amelie was one of the top ballerinas. She was actually dating one of the omegas Angela worked with at the hospital. But since Amelie knew that Lena would hate this kind of event, she had reached out to Angela, asking if she’d be interested in coming together. Angela was quick to accept the offer, considering that she didn’t actually know many people going to the event. A lot of them were big time businessmen. Most of them alphas, but not all. Either way it was good for Angela to be with an alpha, even if it wasn’t her alpha. On top of that with Angela being a doctor and scientist, she didn’t really fit into the crowd. The only things she had in common with them was that she was respected in her field and wealthy. Pretty much the main criteria to be invited tonight.

“It could be anyone,” Angela said and it was true. The event had already had multiple athletes auction off season tickets, actors auction off movie premiere tickets, producers auction off props from past movies, and much more.

“Well I just hope it’s more interesting than the past auctions. I hope they have another NASCAR driver like last year, Lena would love season tickets to the tracks again,” Amelie says as she looks at her nails, evidently bored. Angela found it cute that the alpha consistently thought of ways to please her omega. It was something she’d always respected about Amelie.

“I heard that Hana Song was going to auction something off. Wouldn’t Lena like whatever she auctions?”

Hana Song was a leading gamer from South Korea. Last year she had auctioned off tickets to the Overwatch World Finals, which she’d probably do again if she truly was here.

“Oh.” Amelie lifts her gaze, a tight smile on her lips. “She actually would.”

Angela crosses her fingers. “Let’s hope she’s here tonight then.”

“And now for the next auction we have Fareeha Amari. What do you have for us tonight?” the MC introduces.

Angela’s eyes widen and her mouth falls open just a bit. She was not expecting to see Fareeha Amari ever again. And to see her now, she was definitely caught off guard. She’d met the actress because of an accident on one of her sets. The actress had sustained an injury to her shoulder, to which Angela had treated. She had owed the director.

Even though that was two years ago, Angela could feel her heart rate pick up a little. During the time she had treated Fareeha, she had developed a little crush on her. The alpha was dorky and extremely friendly. She had a good sense of humor and even though she was having some severe pain, she always found a reason to smile. Her positive energy was contagious and Angela always felt better around her. Always felt comfortable, which wasn’t the case for most alphas she’d met. In most cases they’d try to flirt with her and be dominating, but Fareeha never flirted or powered over her. She was more than respectful. And somehow, that had made Angela feel a bit disappointed.

Angela wasn’t able to put her morals aside though. There was no way she was going to ask a patient out on a date. It was something she had always been adamant about. But even if she had broken her personal oath, Fareeha had shown no interest in her, meaning that she probably would have declined.

“Isn’t that the-”

“Yes,” Angela answers before Amelie can say anymore. She knew the whole story from Lena.

“As many know, I’m from Egypt,” Fareeha begins. “There’s a beach house that I own down there. The highest bidder will get a two week vacation, staying at that beach house. The vacation also includes historical tours and sightseeing. On top of that, you will get to meet the actors Khaled Nabawy and Menna Shalabi.”

“You’re going for it, correct?” Amelie asks Angela.

“I mean, maybe…” Angela says hesitantly. It’s not like she’d have anyone to bring on vacation with her.

“Just bid and win. At least you’d get to go up on stage and shake her hand. Maybe ask her on a date while you’re up there,” Amelie teases.

Angela rolls her eyes and takes a sip of the wine she has. “Not funny.”

“You should take the opportunity.”

“Yeah, not happening.”

The bidding began and even though the prize was nice, the number wasn’t getting very high. It started to slow around 30 thousand and then completely stalled at 37 thousand.

Before the MC can call it, Fareeha stands up and takes the mic.

“Oh for fucks sake, people,” the alpha groans. “There is no way I am leaving here with Gabriel Reyes getting a higher bid. I’ve got tits for God’s sake.”

The audience laughs at the confident alpha’s words.

“I’ll throw in a seven second kiss.”

The whole room fills up with chatter and Amelie locks eyes with Angela.

“You’re winning this fucking bid.”

“Oh my god,” is all Angela seems to be able to say because the bidding starts happening again, the number climbing fast. “Oh my god.”

“Shut up and raise!”

Angela’s hand pops up, not even listening to the number that they are actually on. She’s winning this one.

But when the bidding slows once more, Fareeha stands again. “20 seconds,” she says with a big grin.

And again the number climbs.

“I’m not going to win this,” Angela sighs, evidently disappointed.

“Yes you are. You’ve got plenty of money, splurge tonight,” Amelie encourages.

“Isn’t it a bit desperate?”

“Do you want to kiss her?”

“Yes,” Angela whines. Just thinking about kissing the alpha has her squirming in her seat.

“Then raise.”

Angela listens to the number, it was starting to slow around 130 thousand. And that’s when Angela swoops in.

“140 thousand,” she raises.

Eyes fall upon her and the omega she had been in a bidding war looks at her with surprise. She ignores him though and focuses on the MC as he asks for any final takers. When there are none, Angela lets out a long relieved sigh.

“Wow,” Amelie says next to her. “Way to go.”

“Oh shut up. You encouraged this.”

“Yes. Yes I did,” Amelie teases as it seems to dawn on Angela that she’d won. That she now was going to kiss Fareeha Amari. That she was going to kiss Fareeha Amari in front of hundreds of people. And that thought makes her feel slightly sick to her stomach. She’d never done something so brazen in her life before and she wasn’t sure if she was ready.

“Please come up to stage, Miss,” the MC says.

“Oh my god,” Angela whispers under her breath as she pushes her seat back. She smooths her hands down the front of her white blouse and takes in a shaky breath. She can feel everyone’s eyes on her, causing her to feel even more nervous. She worries her lower lip and shoves her hands into her red dress pants.

As Angela had walked, she had been focused on the ground and not tripping. But when she finally lifts her head, she sucks in her lips. Fareeha is looking right at her and the corner of her lips twitch as if she’s trying to hold back a smile.

Fareeha is quick to step forward and hold a hand out for Angela to take, supporting her as she walks up the stairs and onto the stage. Angela’s palm feels as if it’s on fire and once she’s on stage, she pulls it away. If just holding hands affects her that much, what was this kiss going to do to her?

“Hey,” Fareeha greets, only loud enough for Angela to hear.

“Hi,” Angela says shyly.

Fareeha chuckles softly and smiles at her. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“Likewise.”

Fareeha’s gaze drops to Angela’s lips for just a moment and the Egyptian wets her lips with her tongue. It’s quick, but Angela catches it and she bites into her lower lip, anticipation coursing through her body and causing her to start breathing a little faster.

“So, twenty seconds.”

“Twenty seconds,” Angela repeats.

“You two ready?” the MC whispers to them.

Angela and Fareeha lock gazes and then both nod.

“I need everyone to count with me, okay?!”

The MC waits for one of the women to make the first move. And surprisingly, it’s Angela that does so. She cups Fareeha’s cheeks and surges upwards to meet Fareeha’s lips. She hears a soft gasp leave Fareeha and then strong hands on her hips. Fareeha pulls her in close and kisses her more firmly. Fareeha’s lips are so soft and the kiss sets Angela aflame.

Angela leans up on her tiptoes even more and the two of them sway slightly as they kiss. Angela wants to deepen the kiss, but knows that it’s not her place to. Knows that she can’t truly kiss Fareeha like she wants to. But she makes the best of the closed mouthed kiss and holds Fareeha’s face in her hands, not letting their lips part for even a second.

When the count reaches eighteen, Angela’s hands leave Fareeha’s cheeks and slip around her shoulders. She grasps tightly at the fabric on Fareeha’s back and she hears Fareeha moan softly. Fareeha pushes forward, tilting Angela backwards into a more romantic pose as if they were in a movie. She supports the smaller frame of the omega with one hand on the small of her back.

And then the MC reaches twenty and Fareeha stands straight once again. She ends the kiss, but they stay close, their lids heavy as they pant for breath. Angela’s heart is pounding and even though she knows that the crowd is cheering, it’s as if they don’t exist. The only thing on her mind is the alpha holding her still.

Fareeha leans in towards Angela’s ear. Angela can feel her hot breath against her neck and a shiver goes down her spine.

“Meet me at the back entrance, please,” Fareeha whispers.

Angela’s words leave her and when Fareeha stands tall again, she nods affirmation.

Fareeha smiles softly at her and then takes the offered microphone from the MC. She thanks the people for bidding as Angela leaves the stage.

“Holy shit,” Amelie says before Angela’s even seated. “That looked worth it.”

“It so was,” Angela sighs as she plops into her seat, still a little dazed.

“What’d she say to you after?”

“She asked me to meet her at the back entrance. Oh my god. I need to meet her at the back entrance.” Angela stands up and grabs her purse. “Shit, the check.” Angela quickly pulls out her checkbook and scrawls 140 thousand on it. She then writes the charity. Signs it with her messy signature and hands it to Amelie. “Give that to them?”

“Of course. Go have fun,” Amelie says with a smirk.

Angela can’t hold back her excitement. “This is happening,” she squeals as she quickly hugs Amelie goodbye. “Eeeeee.”

Amelie rolls her eyes. “You needed to get laid anyway.”

“I don’t even know if that’s what’s happening…” she says softly as she lets go of her friend.

“It’s happening,” Amelie’s words exude confidence.

“Ahh, okay. Bye!” Angela tosses over her shoulder as she rushes out of the main room and towards the back entrance of the building.

She doesn’t make it all the way though. She’s suddenly pulled into a room attached to the hallway leading to the exit. A hand covers her mouth quickly and the door’s presses shut as her back is pushed against it.

“Shhhh.”

When Angela blinks a couple of time to get used to the darkness of the room, her eyes widen in surprise. Fareeha drops her hand from Angela’s mouth and then smiles widely at her.

“You scared the shit out of me,” Angela gasps.

“Sorry. I just…” Fareeha’s eyes were barely visible in the dark room that was only lit because of the moonlight filtering in through the windows. “It’s good to see you again.”

“You already said that.”

“Yeah, but honestly. I didn’t think I’d see you again and then you were up on stage and…”

“Did you want to see me again?” Angela dares to ask.

“Yes,” Fareeha confirms with no hesitation.

“Really?” This surprises Angela. She had really thought that Fareeha had no interest in her.

“Honestly I wanted to ask you out after my treatment, but you had that convention you went off to and I missed my chance.”

“You did?!”

Fareeha covers her mouth with her hand once more. “Shhh,” she shushes and lowers her hand again. “Yeah. I-I thought I made it clear I was interested in you.”

Angela looks utterly shocked and struggles to find the right words.

“What are you talking about? You didn’t seem interested at all.”

“What?” Fareeha gasps. “I did everything to show I was interested. I was super nice to you and made a fool of myself trying to make you laugh. I-I, what?” Fareeha asks still confused that Angela had thought she wasn’t interested.

“I thought you were just being nice! Most alphas are really forward when they flirt…”

“I thought I was being forward,” Fareeha returns.

Angela smiles at the cuteness of the alpha. She lifts a hand and runs the back of her fingers over the tan cheek. “We really messed up,” she laughs.

A small smile spreads over Fareeha’s face and she laughs too. “Yeah, yeah we did.” Fareeha takes Angela’s hand into her own and kisses the back of it. “We shouldn’t mess up this time,” Fareeha whispers as she lets go of Angela’s hand and cups her cheek instead. She leans down, her lips barely a hair’s breadth away from Angela’s.

“I agree.” Angela slips her arms around Fareeha’s wide shoulders and tugs her down. Their lips meeting once again.

It deepens instantly, not like the kiss they’d shared on stage. Fareeha is quick to drag her tongue across Angela’s lower lip, begging for entrance. And Angela’s knees go weak when she allows it, parting her lips and feels Fareeha’s tongue against her own. She lets out a whines as she feels Fareeha’s fingers dig into her hips and Fareeha push her body into her own.

It’s everything and more than she could have ever imagined. Fareeha’s so strong and comforting to her. She feels safe, just like she had when they were together during Fareeha’s treatment.

Her hands fist at Fareeha’s shirt as the alpha rolls her hips into her smaller frame. She can already feel the bulge straining against the front of Fareeha’s jeans. And she wants to feel her. Feel all of her. She wants Fareeha to fill her, to take her. All these thoughts race through her head and she feels her stomach tighten and wetness seep from her core.

She trails her hands over Fareeha’s shoulders and chest, down her stomach and to the button of her jeans. She waits though and pulls back from the kiss.

“I need you,” she begs, her fingers playing with end of Fareeha’s shirt.

“I-I don’t have a condom.”

“I’m on birth control.”

“Are you sure? We can go back to-”

“Positive.”

“I’ll pull out,” Fareeha says as she reaches for Angela’s blouse and starts unbuttoning it.

“You don’t have to.” Angela undoes Fareeha’s jeans and pushes them down. She then reaches into the opening of Fareeha’s boxers, cupping her member.

“Fuck,” Fareeha groans as Angela squeezes her teasingly.

Fareeha seems to lose her composure. She jerks down hard on Angela’s dress pants, causing them to fall to the floor. She pulls Angela’s hand from her boxers, pulling them down and freeing her cock. It bounces slightly as she steps even closer to the omega, closing the space completely between them. She reaches down with one hand, sliding Angela’s panties to the side and then running her hand through her slick folds. Angela moans and leans her head back against the door.

“You’re so fucking wet.”

“Mmmm,” Angela hums as she watches Fareeha take her cock into her free hand and lines it up to her entrance. Angela’s hips buck when she feels the tip of the cock teasing her folds and then pressing against her clit. “Please, I need you now.”

Fareeha grunts as she guides her cock back to Angela’s entrance and starts pushing in.

“Shit,” Angela groans. “So fucking big.”

Fareeha leans forward and starts kissing Angela’s neck and jawline. “Relax,” she says softly. “You can take it,” she encourages.

Angela’s teeth dig into her lower lip as the widest part of Fareeha’s cock slides in. Fareeha waits, allowing the omega to adjust to the stretch.

“Good, girl,” Fareeha praises. “You’re so good.”

Fareeha pushes in just a bit more and then pulls out. She starts thrusting slowly, each time pushing a little bit further in. She presses one hand against the wall to steady herself. With her free hand, she pushes Angela’s bra down, freeing her breasts. Angela moans loudly when Fareeha starts massaging her breast. Angela’s hands dig into the alpha’s shoulders with each movement. Discomfort quickly replaced with overwhelming pleasure.

“You need to stay quiet. People are still around,” Fareeha instructs.

“Fuckkk,” Angela moans as Fareeha sucks at her neck. “Oh shit… shit. You’re filling me so well,” Angela gasps as quietly as she can.

Fareeha pauses when there’s no space between their hips. “You okay? Not too much?”

“I-I’m good. So good.”

“Tell me when you’re ready for me to move,” Fareeha says softly before she goes back to sucking the omega’s neck and leaving light bruises. Her thumb flicks over the stiffened peak of Angela’s breast, causing the omega’s hips to buck.

“Fareeha, please. More,” she pants.

Fareeha doesn’t need to be asked twice. She pulls out almost completely and then thrusts right back in as deep as she can go into the wet heat. Angela yelps. Fareeha keeps thrusting into her, but moves the hand that was against the wall to cover Angela’s mouth. She muffles the cries, but the omega is still louder than she should be.

“Angela,” Fareeha growls.

Angela whimpers, already knowing why Fareeha has taken such a dominating tone. Her inner walls clench around the alpha and her fingers drag down her back. She can’t help making noises. Fareeha feels too good in her and her mind is hazy with pleasure. Her legs quiver as Fareeha sets a pounding pace, the sound of wet slapping filling the room.

“Are you close,” Fareeha groans.

“So close,” Angela answers breathlessly.

Fareeha moves her strong hand away from Angela’s breast and slides it down her stomach. She uses her fingers to press down onto Angela’s clit over her panties. The omega let’s out the loudest moan and her whole body jolts. Fareeha has to move her hand from Angela’s mouth, instead wrapping her arm around her waist to hold her up. Angela’s cries of pleasure now freely fall from her lips, filling the room along with the sounds of their bodies connecting with each furious thrust.

“Come for me,” Fareeha whispers and then kisses Angela hard, knowing that she’s going to have to muffle her cries somehow.

And Angela does. Her whole body tenses and her nails dig into Fareeha’s back. Her inner walls flutter and throb, the wetness of her release gushing out of her. Fareeha’s thrusts become gentle and shallower as she guides the omega through her orgasm. Her fingers gently rub Angela’s clit and the omega begins to whimper at how overly sensitive she is now.

Fareeha’s lips leave Angela’s and she takes a step back, pulling her cock from her. She looks down at her throbbing member and takes it into her own hand, jerking herself off. She had said that she would pull out, not being comfortable taking the risk of coming inside the omega, even if she was on birth control.

Fareeha grunts as her knot starts forming. She’s surprised because she’s not even in Angela anymore, but her body still reacts as if she were.

Suddenly a pale hand covers hers and stills her. “Let me.” Angela drops to her knees and without hesitation takes her head into her mouth. She sucks hard, knowing that the alpha is already on the brink of coming.

Fareeha’s mouth falls open as she lets out shaky breaths. Angela’s baby blues meet her gaze as she takes Fareeha as far as she can into her mouth. It’s not far, but she uses her hand to pump the rest of her cock. Fareeha’s stomach tightens and she threads her fingers into Angela’s hair.

“I’m gunna-”

She’s cut off by her own release. Her eyes fall shut as she feels Angela swallow and try to keep up with each spurt from her. Angela’s hand squeezes around her knot and milks her for all she’s got.

When she opens her eyes, Angela’s still looking up at her. The omega’s mouth and hand leave her softening cock and she stands up. She uses a finger to wipe a trail of come that had slipped from her lips and then holds her finger out to Fareeha.

“You taste so good,” she hums as Fareeha takes her finger into her mouth, tasting herself.

Fareeha can already feel herself hardening again, but she doesn’t want to stay in this random room all night. She lets go of Angela’s finger with a pop and smirks at the omega as she starts fixing her clothes. Angela seems to get the message and starts doing the same.

“So are you going to invite me back to your hotel, alpha?” Angela asks as she’s buttoning the last button of her blouse.

Fareeha adjusts herself in her jeans and takes a step forward, pressing Angela’s back to the door again.

“Well I was going to ask you on a date first… and then invite you back to my hotel.”

Angela smiles at the sweet alpha. “And what do you have planned?”

“Honestly I’m starving. So dinner?”

“Are you sure you want to wait?” Angela reaches down and cups Fareeha’s bulge.

“Taking you on a proper date is more important,” Fareeha says honestly.

“God,” Angela sighs. “You’re perfect.” She leans up kissing Fareeha softly. “Any chance you’d be free for a two week vacation in Egypt. I kind of just won an auction and spent 140 thousand dollars for a kiss, but the vacation was also included.”

Fareeha chuckles and rests her forehead against Angela’s.

“I’m free indefinitely for you.”

#pharmercy #pharah #mercy #overwatch #fic #my fic #omegaverse #Omega/Beta/Alpha #smut #reply #anon

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jacobwalkerjacob · 3 years

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Ahmet Ertuğ'

Ahmet Ertuğ': A Turkish photographer

Ahmet Ertuğ's eye for expound insides didn't develop from imaginative preparing but instead from his experience as a modeller. A Turkish picture taker, he continuously got some distance from planning structures to catching the excellence of those that as of now exist. Ertuğ's excursion would take him from the sanctuaries of Japan to the Hagia Sophia to The Martha Stewart Show.

One of the artist’s signature wall-sized chromogenic prints came to auction in Phillips’ Photographs event.

It was the stature of 1970s Postmodernism when Ertuğ moved on from the Architectural Association School of Architecture in London. Ertuğ spent the initial not many long periods of his vocation working in the field in England and Iran prior to accepting a partnership for his movements to Japan. There, he acquired an appreciation for both antiquated sanctuaries and requested ceremonies. He took those exercises with him subsequent to getting back to Istanbul.

Ahmet Ertuğ started utilizing his focal point to catch the set of experiences and culture of his city, especially the sumptuous insides of temples, public structures, and other legacy destinations. His strategy draws upon an implicit comprehension of structure and construction: "I put myself in the shoes of the engineer who made and planned the structure. Furthermore, I consider where that person would have remained to see his work," he says. "The whole soul of the structure springs up in my first photo."

Drawing on the perplexing history of Istanbul, Ertuğ has caught spaces of Ottoman, Roman, and Catholic impact. His homegrown acclaim soar once he started delivering his photos in extravagance workmanship books. Ertuğ's distributing house has since delivered more than 30 of these assortments.

Ertuğ focuses on detail and balance in his work, yet he considers variety. The offered photo from the Hall of Perspectives in Rome's Villa Farnesina shows the cleaned marble floor of an elaborate lobby. The watcher's eye is brought into a long point of view suggestive of the Renaissance aces. Nonetheless, Ertuğ incorporates slight disturbances to the equilibrium. Bars of light from the open windows reflect off the floors while steel platform is practically imperceptible to the eye at the focal point of the work. This 2019 chromogenic print is offered with a gauge of USD 30,000 to $50,000.

Ertuğ's creative voyages have taken him across Turkey and all through Europe. He is routinely welcome to photo delightful spaces, remembering the State Hermitage Museum for Saint Petersburg. Among the eminent areas in his oeuvre is the Hagia Sophia, one of Istanbul's generally conspicuous and celebrated tourist spots. An Ertuğ photo catching its inside was sold for $62,500 in a 2013 Phillips sell off, landing simply over the high gauge of $60,000.

Intersection the Atlantic, Ertuğ has likewise widely shot well known American libraries. Considered one of Boston's "common spots that are holy," Bates Hall in the Boston Public Library was captured by the craftsman recently. Ertuğ caught the space's particular understanding lights, vaulted roofs, and half circle apse in a photograph that came to sell in October. Its last cost was $47,880.

These bartering costs are normal for Ertuğ. As indicated by Widewalls, most of his photos have sold for more than $25,000 since 2016. For more such information of auctions view auction news of auction daily.

Photographs from Ertuğ have been shown in independent displays at La Conciergerie, the Tuileries Gardens, the Kunsthistorische Museum in Vienna, and the Penn Museum in Philadelphia. In spite of the fact that Ertuğ stays lesser known in quite a bit of North America, his work has not gone completely unrecognized. It apparently motivated TV character Martha Stewart's 2010 excursion to Cappadocia. "At the point when I asked her how she'd gotten keen on Cappadocia, she said that she'd seen the marvelous photos of Ahmet Ertug and concluded that she just needed to come," keeper Robert Ousterhout reviewed.

Some contend that Ertuğ has gone past simple catch of social destinations. Rolf Sachsse, a functioning German photographic artist, has expounded on his specialty: "Ertuğ isn't only a functioning contemporary of the world social legacy – his work has become part of this social legacy itself."

Media source: Auctiondaily

#Artist #Auctions #Paintings

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gokul2181 · 4 years

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Top five: Players who have been big performers in IPL after switching teams | Cricket News

New Post has been published on https://jordarnews.in/top-five-players-who-have-been-big-performers-in-ipl-after-switching-teams-cricket-news/

Top five: Players who have been big performers in IPL after switching teams | Cricket News

NEW DELHI: Over the past 12 editions of the Indian Premier League, there have been many instances when the players have shifted from one franchise to another. Apart from the marquee players, retained by the eight teams, every year there have been intense battles at the auction table where there is cut-throat competition among the franchises to buy the best players from around the world for their respective teams. Some of these players who changed teams have taken their performances a notch higher after switching franchises. Not being able to perform in a certain edition(s) has forced the franchises to release them, but other teams have boosted their squad with the help of these players. TimesofIndia.com here takes a look at some of the players who have moved to different franchises in the last couple of years and have performed exceptionally well to take their new teams to new heights: Marcus Stoinis (From RCB to Delhi Capitals)

(Photo credit: BCCI/IPL) Australia’s Marcus Stoinis has been a standout performer this IPL when it comes to performances by all-rounders. Winning matches with both bat and ball, Stoinis has been one of the top-ranked players for Delhi Capitals this season. But things were not always bright for Stoinis. Last year, playing for Royal Challengers Bangalore, Stoinis had a decent outing (10 matches – 211 runs and 2 wickets). But he was released by the franchise. During the bidding war at the December 2019 auctions, DC management rightly saw the potential in the 31-year-old and bought him for a whopping Rs 4.8 crore. Repaying the faith, Stoinis this year, has been at a whole new level. In the 7 matches played so far, Stoinis has scored 175 runs at a strike rate of 175. And in the bowling department, Stoinis has picked up six wickets, including in the nerve-wracking final over against Kings XI Punjab, that forced the game into a SuperOver, which Delhi eventually won. In the 5 Delhi wins out of their seven games so far, Stoinis has played a crucial part almost in every single match, helping his team stay in the top bracket of the points table. Quinton de Kock (From RCB to Mumbai Indians)

(Photo credit: BCCI/IPL) The most successful franchise in the IPL, Mumbai Indians has a knack of picking the best players at the right time and moulding their capabilities to their advantage. One such player in the recent past has been South African wicketkeeper-batsman Quinton de Kock. After a par 2018 edition with the Royal Challengers Bangalore, where De Kock managed runs at a poor average of 25.12, MI bought him from RCB ahead of the 2019 edition. And De Kock just took off after finding his new home. Scoring 529 runs in 16 games, De Kock ended as the third highest run-getter in the 2019 edition and played some really crucial knocks in MI’s journey to their fourth IPL title. This year too De Kock has been on-song for MI. After struggling at the start of the tournament, De Kock has now found his lost form and has been one of the biggest factors in MI currently being at the top of the table. With 191 runs in 7 matches, De Kock has been providing MI some perfect starts alongside ‘Hitman’ Rohit Sharma. Behind the stumps too, De Kock has shown some brilliant glove work, taking 7 catches and effecting a stumping so far in the competition in 2020. Trent Boult (From DC to Mumbai Indians)

(Photo credit: BCCI/IPL) Currently the joint second-highest wicket taker in the tournament in IPL 2020, Trent Boult has been right on the money this year for his new franchise Mumbai Indians. Traded in from Delhi Capitals ahead of the 2019 auctions, Boult previously played two seasons for Delhi but did not make much of an impact. After a 18-wicket season in 2018, Boult played only 5 matches for Delhi in the 2019 edition and managed to take 5 wickets in that period. That forced Delhi to release him. But Mumbai, seeing it as a big opportunity, cashed in at the right time to snap up Boult. Along with the likes of Jasprit Bumrah and James Pattinson, Boult’s inclusion in Mumbai has bolstered their pace attack and it is now perhaps the most lethal pace combination in the IPL. Bowling beautifully with the new ball, Boult has given skipper Rohit Sharma a big advantage to use Bumrah at the death. Boult himself has been superb in the death overs too and is been the top wicket-taker so far for the franchise alongside Bumrah. Chris Morris (From DC to Royal Challengers Bangalore)

(Photo credit: BCCI/IPL) South African all-rounder Chris Morris made the biggest positive impact in the last couple of matches for Royal Challengers Bangalore. Coming back into the playing XI after missing the first five games due to an injury, Morris’ return has been a big boost for RCB, giving the Virat Kohli-led squad the perfect balance. In the 2 matches played so far, Morris has bowled brilliantly, returning figures of 3/19 and 2/17 in the games against Chennai Super Kings and Kolkata Knight Riders. Bought for a whopping Rs 10 crore in the last IPL auction in December 2019, Morris, whose base price was Rs 1.5 Crore joined RCB after his 3-year stint at Delhi Capitals. A par outing in the 2019 edition for DC, where Morris managed 13 wickets and just 32 runs in 9 games, forced the franchise to release him. Realizing the window of opportunity to buy the Proteas all-rounder, RCB spent a hefty sum for Morris and the results have started to pour in for the franchise, putting them on the third spot at the halfway of the tournament. Morris so far has nailed it for RCB in the bowling department but however till now has not got an opportunity to show his heroics with the bat. With the business end of the tournament approaching, a fit-again Morris possesses a great threat to the opposition and will be a key player for the Virat Kohli-led RCB, eying their maiden IPL title. Mohammed Shami (From DC to Kings XI Punjab)

(Photo credit: BCCI/IPL) Mohammed Shami has been the biggest revelation in the Indian team in the last couple of years. Shami 2.0 has been fast and furious and has been menacing against the opposition. And his performance has exactly been the same for his IPL franchise Kings XI Punjab in the past two years. After a four-year stint at Delhi, where his last 3 years were well below par — 13 wickets in 20 games across three years, KXIP showed faith in his abilities and bought him in the player auction before the 2019 edition. Making the most of the second chance given to him, Shami was at his lethal best in the 2019 edition for KXIP. With 19 wickets in 14 matches, Shami was the joint fifth-highest wicket taker in IPL that year and the top performer for KXIP in 2019. And in the 2020 edition as well, the 30-year-old has been in top form, so far managing 10 wickets in 7 games. However, the performance of his team has not been up to the mark this season, as KXIP have lost 6 out of their 7 games and are currently languishing at the bottom of the table.

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techcrunchappcom · 4 years

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New Post has been published on https://techcrunchapp.com/iowa-stymies-public-information-requests-in-pandemic-news-sports-jobs/

Iowa stymies public information requests in pandemic | News, Sports, Jobs

photo by Olivia Sun/The Des Moines Register via AP, Pool Gov. Kim Reynolds holds a news conference on COVID-19 at the State Emergency Operations Center in Johnston .

COVID-19 has Iowans wanting more information from federal, state and local governments to guide life-or-death decisions raised by the unprecedented pandemic.

Is it safe to go to the store? Do masks prevent spread of the virus? Should my kids go to school in the fall?

At a time when Iowans need accurate and complete information, some state agencies, including the Governor’s Office, are ignoring questions from reporters, refusing to do interviews and stalling on public records requests — sometimes for months, Iowa journalists said.

“I’ve heard from newspapers and TV stations that are at the end of their rope,” said Randy Evans, executive director of the Iowa Freedom of Information Council. State agencies are “facing legitimate concerns about coronavirus, but they are seemingly using it as a means of deflecting public records requests.”

Without critical pieces of information, residents may not fully understand changing public health recommendations and lose trust in public officials, said Gunita Singh, the Jack Nelson/Dow Jones Foundation legal fellow at the Reporters Committee for Freedom of the Press.

“Open government isn’t just a nice idea, it’s a cornerstone for an informed citizenry,” Singh said. “We see reporters going above and beyond, but we aren’t seeing government bodies across the board facilitating access to the information.”

Since March, Iowans have been deprived of information in the following ways:

• The Iowa Department of Public Health initially would not release data on hospitalization of COVID-19 patients, which KCRG-TV9 in Cedar Rapids requested in early April, KCRG News Director Adam Carros said. Ultimately, KCRG had an attorney issue a demand letter to get the numbers made public in mid-May.

• Gov. Kim Reynolds’ staff would not answer the Centerville Iowegian’s questions about why an April 2 Seymour horse auction involving hundreds of people was allowed, even after Reynolds on March 26 had issued an emergency declaration banning gatherings of more than 10 people.

Editor Kyle Ocker or his staff tried to ask the question during then-daily press briefings.

“I have dialed in two to three times, one time up to 15 to 20 minutes early, and never got a question,” Ocker said. “The questions were never addressed by other media during the calls.”

• It took the Governor’s Office 142 days — more than one-third of a year — to fulfill a records request The Cedar Rapids Gazette filed March 3 to find out about communications between Jake Ketzner, the governor’s former chief of staff, and state officials over a $50 million cloud computing contract with Workday, which hired Ketzner in 2018.

When the office finally fulfilled the request July 24, it said there was one responsive email.

• Reynolds has so far declined to do an interview with Brianne Pfannenstiel, the Des Moines Register’s political reporter, about what it’s like to lead the state through a pandemic.

“I’ve suggested a short phone interview. I’ve pledged to drive to meet her wherever she is. I’ve said I’ll make myself available whenever she can squeeze me in — even if it’s off hours on a night or a weekend. But I’ve been given every variation of ‘we see the value in this interview but she’s just so busy right now,’” Pfannenstiel said. But “she has managed to make time for conservative radio and KCCI, though.”

• The Iowa Department of Education has said no to repeated requests from the Iowa Center for Public Affairs Journalism, or IowaWatch, for an interview with Ann Lebo to talk about COVID-related issues, including how rural school districts were going to serve students with limited internet connectivity.

• The Governor’s Office has not responded to a Register request for an audio recording or transcript of a call between Reynolds, Nebraska Gov. Pete Ricketts and Dr. Anthony Fauci, director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases and a COVID-19 adviser to President Donald Trump.

Reynolds tweeted about the call April 6, saying Fauci was “100% supportive, saying IA and NE ‘were on the same page’ with guidance he’s providing other states.”

Reporter Jason Clayworth said he thinks the governor’s tweet probably is accurate.

“But I also think it’s possible the conversation involved important context that may be valuable for the public’s ongoing assessment of how to save human life,” he said. “By thumbing her nose at record requests, the governor dodges accountability to the people she represents.”

Pat Garrett, Reynolds’ spokesman, said he believes his office had provided answers to many of these requests.

“Governor Reynolds and her administration has given an unprecedented level of access to the media and the public throughout the COVID-19 pandemic,” he said in an email.

“Whether it’s through daily press conferences, regular media availabilities, and hourly responses to media inquiries, we strive to be transparent. While there’s no way to immediately satisfy everyone’s request, the governor, her cabinet, and the entire team will continue to be as accessible as possible while combating the COVID-19 pandemic.”

Garrett announced Thursday that Reynolds would resume twice-weekly news briefings starting Tuesday.

Pandemic rules

Iowa isn’t the only state where reporters are struggling to get public information during the pandemic.

Since March, officials in 31 states and the District of Columbia have modified Freedom of Information Act laws or warned requesters to expect delays or lack of response, according to a review by the Reporters Committee for Freedom of the Press, a Washington, D.C., group that provides legal resources to protect First Amendment freedoms and newsgathering rights of journalists.

San Francisco Mayor London Breed in a March 13 declaration proclaimed two parts of the city’s administrative code requiring agencies to respond to immediate disclosure requests in a timely manner had been “suspended for the duration” of the coronavirus emergency,” the Reporters Committee found.

Chicago Public Schools said the COVID-19 pandemic “may result in responses to FOIA requests being significantly delayed or impaired.”

The Student Press Law Center, a Washington, D.C., not-for-profit that promotes and defends free speech rights of high school and college journalists, reported May 21 that “COVID-19 has created real challenges for record holders, and a convenient excuse for schools looking to stonewall journalists.”

In Iowa, Reynolds has temporarily suspended the requirement that public meetings or hearings be held in person, as long as the public can participate remotely.

There have been no formal changes to Iowa Code Chapter 22, which provides access to public records.

Chapter 22 requires government bodies to provide access to public records as soon as possible. Agencies are granted a “good-faith, reasonable delay” if they are trying to determine if the record requested is indeed public or if they are filing an injunction to stop release of the record.

One part of the law says a reasonable delay for determining whether a record should be open for inspection should not “exceed 20 calendar days and ordinarily should not exceed 10 business days.”

Bottleneck

Some state agencies, especially the Iowa Department of Public Health, are funneling information requests through the Governor’s Office, which creates a bottleneck. And because the governor isn’t subject to oversight from the Iowa Public Information Board, reporters have no recourse when requests are ignored — other than hiring attorneys.

“It removes a low-cost means of getting a resolution,” Evans said.

The Public Health Department, which has been a focus of many COVID information requests since March, earlier this month fired its longtime spokeswoman, Polly Carver-Kimm.

She told Register reporter Tony Leys it was because her bosses thought she shared too much information with reporters.

When Iowa Capital Dispatch reporter Clark Kauffman asked for emails between Dr. Caitlin Pedati, the state medical director, and the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention regarding COVID-19 outbreaks at meat-processing plants, the department asked him to pay nearly $10,000.

The department also refers all questions about Test Iowa, Iowa’s $26 million no-bid COVID-19 testing program, to Reynolds’ office.

“It’s her program,” Garrett said.

When The Gazette followed up on a week-old request asking why Test Iowa had stopped sending health surveys to thousands of Iowans, Garrett said July 24 he had missed the previous email forwarded to him from Public Health.

He provided the answer July 24 (surveys stop after seven weeks if survey takers report no symptoms) but the delay points out the challenges of one office overseeing hundreds of requests — some of which could be handled by others.

Iowa Department of Human Services Director Kelly Garcia, who this weekend also becomes the new director of Public Health Department, has indicated plans to focus on transparency and communication within the department.

Solutions

Some state agencies across the country have proved a pandemic doesn’t have to hinder the public’s access to information, Singh said.

The Minnesota Department of Administration issued a statement in March reminding agencies of their obligations to respond to public records requests in an emergency.

“Entity responses must be prompt and appropriate, and within a reasonable amount of time. The reasonable and appropriate standards are flexible enough to accommodate changes in circumstances due to the current emergency. However, data request response times for data subjects remain 10 business days. … Entities might also consider waiving copy fees at this time when they deem appropriate.”

The Vermont League of Cities and Towns recommends agencies post records online so they are available to the public even when offices are closed, according to the Reporters Committee’s research.

The committee recommends journalists submit requests electronically to help records custodians keep track. Journalists also should prioritize requests related to COVID-19 and streamline requests that need a timely response, the committee said.

“One practice we recommend is keeping lines of communications open,” Singh said. Agencies should tell reporters when there will be a delay, but estimate when the information will be available. Journalists should communicate more about their deadlines, she said.

“I don’t think the argument ‘we need to be making these sweeping changes’ carries any weight,” she said. “We are seeing examples of jurisdictions that are easily balancing the need to stay safe and also to provide the free flow of information.”

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sweetsurrcnder · 3 years

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muse: Miles (23) open to: m / nb (tops / doms) scenario: This thread is set in a universe where everyone has a biological designation: dominant, submissive, and neutral. Within the d/s categories, there are various subcategories. Submissives are encouraged to match with a dominant as soon as possible once they’re adults, if not, they’re taken into care-taking custody and more or less auctioned off to interested dominants. Miles is participating in his first auction after aging out of the bracket where subs can live on their own and try to procure their own match, and he’s less than thrilled about the whole thing.

Remember to smile, sweetheart, had been Miles’ temporary care-taker’s last words to him before he left him. . . here. In this ridiculous place. This whole scenario pissed him off if he thought about it for any length of time. He was only twenty-three years old. That wasn’t old by any stretch of the imagination. And yet, somehow submissives were supposed to find themselves a dominant between the ages of 18 and 22. The second you turned 23, the government stepped in. For Miles, it had been a little longer than that. He’d managed to game the system a bit, but even so, he was only halfway through his 23rd year when he’d essentially been scooped up out of nowhere and carted off to a facility for unattached submissives like himself.

They’d given him a few days to settle in, and then this morning, several care-takers had converged on him, along with the one who had been delivering his meals and, embarrassingly, rubbing his back to get him back to sleep when he woke up in the middle of the night and became disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. They took him from his room, decided to make it a joint effort to get him bathed and dressed in a pastel blue sweatshirt and jeans of a darker blue and slightly looser fit than he would’ve chosen himself, and deposited him. . . here. It was basically a playpen, which was enough to make him blush all on its own. There were plenty just like his lined throughout the room with sufficient walking space for dominants to come through and peruse at their leisure. Miles had tried to assure them he wasn’t a flight risk, no matter how much he wanted to be, but apparently they’d had too many attempted runaways to make any exceptions, so his ankle had a soft cuff around it, attached via a tether to one of the corners of the space.

More embarrassing than his current situation was the sign on the front of his little space, which was less a name-tag and more one of those signs you’d see on the cage of an adoptable animal. Hi there, my name is Miles Octavio! the sign declared in an obnoxiously cute font. I’m 23 years old and a submissive. Subcategory: Little. I like art and nature! Once a dominant was interested, submissives were encouraged to speak with them, but not before then. Hence, the signs. Miles was just glad he hadn’t been. . . physically discouraged from speaking like some of the others on the floor today.

Miles was so desperate to keep the polite look on his face and not allow the boredom to peek through that he didn’t realize a dominant was looking at him until they were entirely standing in front of him. And they’d just asked him a question. “Uh. . .” he floundered, flushing. “Sorry, I just--could you repeat that?”

#indie kink rp #indie gay rp #indie smut rp #finger painting on canvas; (miles)#open

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ruthpastor46 · 5 years

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A decade after the housing crash, busted mortgages are back

Sándor Lau, once a filmmaker, found his calling on YouTube when he came across instructional videos about how to buy seemingly worthless home loans.

Mr. Lau, of Portland, Ore., started accumulating mortgages, some of them delinquent for many years, dating back to the housing bubble. He owns more than 100 now, he said, with millions of dollars in payments owed to him. His full-time job is trying to collect.

A decade after the financial crisis, there is a new breed of risk-takers in the U.S. housing market. During the boom before the bust, lenders made mortgage loans to countless buyers who couldn’t afford them. Lenders later wrote off many of the loans, but borrowers’ obligation to pay remained. Today, in an improved economy, a rag-tag group of individual investors, plus some Wall Street giants, is buying these old loans and trying to tease value out of them.

The trade goes like this: Buy mortgages available for very low prices because no one has made a payment on them for months or even years—nonperforming loans, they are called. Track down borrowers and let them know they have a new creditor. Tell them they need to resume payments, at least at a partial level, perhaps offering to modify terms. Threaten foreclosure if necessary. If all goes well, collect on the debt or resell the mortgage as a now “reperforming” loan.

The process marks a new chapter for hundreds of thousands of crisis-era borrowers who often had heard nothing about their unpaid loans for years and thought the debt had been disposed of. For investors, legal wrangling with such borrowers is common.

The small-time investors, who by some estimates number in the thousands, operate alongside major financial players such as Goldman Sachs Group Inc. and Cerberus Capital Management LP. Individuals find their way into the business through video tutorials, seminars and hotel-room conferences that pitch delinquent-loan investing as a route to stable income.

Mr. Lau said he once lost $46,000 he paid for a second mortgage when the first-mortgage holder foreclosed. But he also once made $70,000 on a loan he had purchased for a dollar.

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“You can do incredible returns in this business,” he said, “and you can lose your shirt, pants and everything else if you do it wrong.” He wouldn’t say how much he has made, only that he no longer sleeps on the floor of his office.

The investment opportunity exists because as the U.S. economy slowly recovered from the 2008 crisis, government agencies and financial institutions wanted to clean up their books and auctioned off billions of dollars of misbegotten credits.

Today there are nearly 800,000 nonperforming loans—defined as those delinquent for 90 days or more—on single-family homes, reflecting $135 billion in unpaid principal, according to loan-data provider Black Knight Inc. “It’s a market that really is the result of the financial crisis,” said Andy Walden, the firm’s director of market research.

Some financial firms buy and sell such loans without making an effort to collect from borrowers. Others use loan servicers to try to get mortgage payments restarted so they can feed the loans back into the Wall Street mortgage securitization machine. Investors pooled and resold over $15 billion of reperforming home loans in residential mortgage-backed securities last year, more than triple a year earlier, according to Fitch Ratings Inc., which tracks only rated deals. The top tranche has often received a sterling triple-A grade from rating firms.

Greg Paulus coordinated loan sales over the past two years as a consultant to Urban Partnership Bank, a Chicago-based lender to low-income communities. He said he received 10 to 15 emails a week inquiring about delinquent loans for sale, sent by investors ranging from small-time buyers wanting just one loan to financial firms with millions to spend.

“Everybody and their brother is getting into the business,” Mr. Paulus said. After speaking at a June conference for investors in Dana Point, Calif., Mr. Paulus was swarmed by people looking to make deals. An after-party featured the CEO of a title company playing a retired pro basketball player in a timed chess match.

Gail Greenberg of suburban Philadelphia embraced the nonperforming-loan trade to build up her retirement savings, which took a hit in 2008. She started in 2016 with a loan in Flint, Mich., she bought for $15,000.

“I only owned it for nine weeks and the house burned down,” Ms. Greenberg said. Thanks to an insurance payout, though, she said she made a profit of $27,000.

Ms. Greenberg took that as a sign she should make loan investing her day job. She now owns 58 mortgage notes, as they’re often called, totaling more than $2.4 million in unpaid principal.

Paige Panzarello of Simi Valley, Calif., organizes workshops for aspiring investors, charging $697 to attend. In a session at one of her conferences in Costa Mesa, Calif., people role-played conversations with real-estate agents to get comfortable gathering intelligence about local markets.

Ms. Panzarello, who calls herself Cashflow Chick, got into nonperforming loans after nearly two decades in real estate. “For me, angels sang, honest to God, when I got into this space,” she said.

Part of the agenda at the June conference where Mr. Paulus spoke was a session on tips to keep payments from homeowners coming. Speaker Terry Vaughan suggested bringing in repossession professionals to scare them. “If you do it right, it’s not illegal,” he told shocked attendees.

Regional meet-up groups, where investors network and share advice, have also sprouted.

Mr. Lau is a regular at such gatherings. He peppers his public remarks with motivational phrases and calls himself “chief inspiration officer” of his investment shop in Portland, which has two full-time employees.

“There are no bad loans, only bad prices,” he said.

Mr. Lau grew up in a trailer on a 37-acre plot in eastern Colorado. His mother operated a sewing business out of their home and the family of four slept in one bedroom. Mr. Lau said this modest childhood gave him a nose for bargains.

After cycling through jobs in filmmaking and journalism and living for a while in New Zealand, Mr. Lau bought rental property, but couldn’t always profit. Between 2013 and 2015 he often slept in a sleeping bag on his office floor so he could rent out his house on Airbnb. That was when he found his way into nonperforming loans.

On a recent Thursday afternoon, Mr. Lau, 43 years old, hovered over a standing desk staring at a color-coded spreadsheet with data on about 40 delinquent home loans. They were second mortgages, holding a secondary claim on homes after someone else’s first mortgage.

He scanned information on the homes and the borrowers, including social-media profiles, ages, neighborhood details and property values. Some properties he deemed worthless, such as one in Oregon that had been foreclosed on by another lender. A Florida loan looked promising because the borrower was a man with a LinkedIn profile, a sign he cared about his career.

Mr. Lau and another investor purchased the 40 loans for few hundred thousand dollars, a deep discount to the more than $2 million face value of the notes. It was the largest purchase of his career.

After buying, Mr. Lau and other investors typically contact borrowers to try to make a deal, such as with softened repayment terms. If borrowers won’t come to the table, investors know their strongest leverage is the threat of foreclosure. Mr. Lau keeps a list of the varying state foreclosure laws next to his computer. He said he has initiated dozens of foreclosures, but completed only a handful.

If investors manage to get the flow of loan payments started again, they sit back and collect the cash as steady income. If the homeowner refinances, the loan investors may get what they are owed in a lump sum.

Salem, Ore., homeowner Rebecca Devereaux had been sparring with her lenders for years when she was contacted by Mr. Lau in 2016. Ms. Devereaux was trying to sell her home for less than the total she owed on her two mortgages—a short sale that requires both lenders’ consent. She had been unable to get approval from the holder of her $69,000 second mortgage.

After Mr. Lau bought that loan in 2016—he wouldn’t say for how much—he quickly approved a sale of her house for less than the amount Ms. Devereaux owed. He said he made money on the deal. And although her credit took a hit, Ms. Devereaux was happy to be rid of her wrangles with banks.

“I could have closure and move forward,” she said.

Michael Cortez, a homeowner in Vallejo, Calif., didn’t take Mr. Lau seriously at first. He thought he was being scammed when he unexpectedly received a mailing in December 2016 from a representative of Mr. Lau’s business.

“Call Us! Write Us! Email Us!” the notice read. “WE WANT YOU TO BE ABLE TO KEEP YOUR HOME!”

Mr. Lau was seeking to collect on a $190,000 home-equity loan Mr. Cortez and his wife took out in 2005 amid the housing boom. After Mr. Cortez ignored the mailing, Mr. Lau followed up with a voice mail in February 2017. “You make good money and you obviously have a good job, so call me,” Mr. Lau said, according to Mr. Cortez, who is a civil engineer.

Mr. Lau declined to comment on the exchange, citing privacy laws.

Mr. Cortez called Mr. Lau back and told him not to make contact again. He believed the home-equity loan on his five-bedroom house had been forgiven in 2011 after his lender, PNC Financial Services Group Inc., agreed to modify his primary mortgage. PNC stopped sending him monthly billing statements and repeatedly told him his loan had been closed, he said.

A spokeswoman for PNC said the bank books a loss on loans it deems uncollectible and stops billing borrowers, but this doesn’t change their obligation to repay. She declined to say how the policy affected Mr. Cortez, citing privacy restrictions.

Records from mortgage tracker ATTOM Data Solutions show that PNC sold Mr. Cortez’s debt to a Philadelphia-area note investor, who in turn sold it to Mr. Lau’s firm.

In June 2017, Mr. Cortez received a letter saying Mr. Lau’s representative would sell his home “AT PUBLIC AUCTION TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER.”

In an effort to prevent the foreclosure sale, Mr. Cortez filed for bankruptcy, at one point listing Mr. Lau’s firm as a creditor. The case was dismissed, and foreclosure proceedings resumed.

In June 2018, Mr. Cortez filed suit in California state court accusing Mr. Lau’s company, called Second Chance Home Loans LLC, of unlawful business practices.

“I don’t need a second chance,” Mr. Cortez said in an August interview. “This should never have happened.”

Messrs. Lau and Cortez reached a settlement in September. Mr. Cortez said he agreed to pay $260,000 and has tapped his retirement savings to help pay it. Mr. Lau wouldn’t comment on the figure.

Source: http://www.msn.com/en-us/money/realestate/a-decade-after-the-housing-crisis-small-investors-try-to-bring-busted-mortgages-back-to-life/ar-BBPVgGQ?srcref=rss

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joescanlan-blog · 7 years

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Back to Basics and Back Again: Dan Peterman

Originally uploaded to Joe Scanlan’s website.

It’s common knowledge that recycling has had a very limited effect on the imbalance between the production and consumption of natural resources. The idea that we can save the planet by managing our glass, newspapers and plastics in naïve, not only because those materials are a mere fraction of the problem but also because they have not been readily absorbed into primary manufacturing processes. In any case, the journey from the garbage bin and back again is only one of many orbits that materials go through after they cease to be bauxite, petroleum, or trees. Thus the real concern of the planet is not the dissipation of garbage but the management of materials in constant states of transformation, commodification, and motion—a fact that the recycling industry seems reluctant to admit.

As long as that is the case, Dan Peterman’s work will not be about recycling. True, over the last ten years he has worked extensively with aluminum cans, recycled plastics and flammable garbage, and if there is a flaw in his method it is his own blindness to how strictly coded these materials are for most people. To be fair, Peterman’s blindness is more accurately an extreme focus, a proximity and familiarity with waste materials that precludes the didacticism usually associated with recycling. For six years after graduate school Peterman worked as a bulk mover and sorter for a southside Chicago recycling company called The Resource Center, an experience that seems to have expanded his student interest in object making processes into a broader stream of material consciousness. Knee-deep in the flux of the city’s refuse, Peterman developed an ‘oceanic’ appreciation of its absurd scale, to use Robert Smithson’s term (via Freud) for the anxiety induced by any seemingly limitless or formless expanse.

Peterman’s projects thus far (and there are many) are the direct result of negotiating his relationship to this expanse. Sometimes he attempts to map or structure it; other times he takes samples, turning them into art. Peterman’s works do not function as conclusions of final objects but as a kind of freeze-frame of larger systems in constant motion, crude models for how materials and products have become as transient as information. They are rooted entirely in his material experience, but his sensitivity towards the life cycle of substances allows his artworks to question their less tangible traits: symbolic meanings, social functions and monetary values. While working towards a more congenerous definition of art, he resists the current distinctions between conventional, institutional, site-specific and public art, suggesting that these distinctions are created by the artwork’s reception. All his works are formulated as public propositions, but geared to different audiences and for different effects.

Chicago Compost Shelter (1988) marked a seminal development in Peterman’s conceptual sophistication and sense of humor. Winter being a particularly tough time for aluminum scavengers in Chicago, Peterman devised a temporary warming shelter at The Resource Center’s Seventy-First Street aluminum buy-back station. He began by constructing a wood canopy and door into the side of a defunct Volkswagen microbus; fashioned the interior with curtains, carpeting, blankets and a working radio; and then buried the entire vehicle in active compost, which gives off heat as a by-product of its chemical breakdown. (In addition to traditional recyclables, The Resource Center also composts a lot of the city of Chicago’s organic waste, much of which is horse manure generated by the division of mounted police.) The shelter maintained a 75-degree temperature throughout the winter, providing its audience with a reasonable place to warm up or spend the night.

The construction and intent of Compost Shelter grounded Peterman’s personal philosophy on his place in the wider scheme of things, as well as the extent to which he believed he could influence the status quo. Formally, the Compost Shelter was nearly identical to Robert Smithson’s Partially Buried Wood Shed (1970). But where Smithson’s seminal work was structured around the idea of making entropy visible (dirt was piled onto the roof of a woodshed until the center beam cracked, at which point the activity was stopped), Compost Shelter’s confluence of materials was constructive, even hospitable—bringing a dilapidated van, organic waste and natural forces together in such a way that their traits complemented, rather than contradicted, each other. For Peterman—and for a lot of us—Smithson’s willful futility and fatalism have become a matter of course. And yet Peterman proposes that realistically reducing the potential of human influence doesn’t necessarily mean a diminution of agency, nor a lessening of the belief that change is still possible.

These shifts in scale and effectiveness are most evident in Peterman’s idea of what constitutes a natural resource. For him, bricks of aluminum cans and planks of reprocessed milk cartons are no less raw materials than timber or coal. Peterman’s lack of distinction between consumer waste and natural resources shifts his concept of nature away from its classical definition towards “all the stuff that nobody else wants.” Basically, a natural resource becomes anything that is accessible or affordable, regardless of how much it has been pre-processed or post-consumed. Nature is no longer primordial, some pure place or thing to be protected, but a complex system of material weights and volumes to be stockpiled, traded, and used.

In 1993 Dan Peterman, Sonia Labouriau, Kirsten Mosher and Nancy Rubins were invited to do “outdoor” projects in the charred shell of the New York Kunsthalle, which had been devastated by fire just before its official opening. Peterman had already been experimenting with the sculptural possibilities of a plastic plank product made from milk jugs and marketed as an indestructible substitute for wood. Its primary uses have been outdoor furniture and walls for playgrounds, parks and golf courses. Amused by the irony of so many urban nature preserves deploying such a synthetic and brutally permanent material, Peterman purchased 3,600 lbs of it to construct a kind of petrochemical banquet table that was both a by-product of and a potential site for mass consumption. The table’s length also mimicked the material’s manufacturing process: discarded plastic is shredded, emulsified, compressed and then extruded faster than applications or markets can be found for it. In a limited way Peterman has done his bit by purchasing a personal allotment of recycled plastic planks from which he makes, and remakes, art. Invited to participate in a group show at John Gibson Gallery in New York this summer, Peterman shipped a portion of the Kunsthalle piece to the gallery, reconfiguring it into a patio with benches, the remainder staying at the Kunsthalle until another project beckons or some configuration of it is purchased as art. Meanwhile, the artist has a convenient stockpile of work, strategically maintaining a “presense” (or nuisance) in New York.

Peterman’s ongoing SO2Project began in the Aperto section of the 1993 Venice Biennale, where he exhibited six certificates through which anyone could grant him the power of attorney to purchase sulfur dioxide shares on their behalf. There were no takers, so Peterman purchased five shares at $250 each for himself at the most recent auction in April. He was the highest bidder, though his shares represent only 0.00005 percent of the total allotment sold. The top volume buyer was Allowance Holding Corporation, who purchased 90,000 shares at $150 apiece—89.3 percent of the allotment—which pretty much set the market price. Nonetheless, for $1,250 Dan Peterman purchased the right to place five tons of sulfur dioxide into roughly 30 cubic miles of the atmosphere.

Since then he has learned that the most effective way for coal-burning power plants to reduce SO2 emissions is to install ‘scrubbers’ in their chimneys, where limestone and water draw the most SO2 out of the coal smoke. The by-product of this process is gypsum, the main ingredient for manufacturing plasterboard and drywall. This incidental production of gypsum could end the mining of ‘natural’ gypsum, as corporations source the material from power companies instead of the hills of northern Minnesota. Drywall and electricity are important utilities for contemporary art galleries, and the versatility and economy of drywall technology played a major role in the proliferation of such archetypal spaces as white cubes, rehabbed industrial lofts, and corporate lobbies. Thus Peterman’s investment is not so much about making money on the futures market as it is about purchasing a volume of material that is obliquely linked to our experience of art, and then making these links more visible. Peterman’s SO2 allotment might be calculated into a commensurate amount of gypsum or lighting to be used in an installation; increased or decreased in terms of its monetary value as the market develops; or expanded exponentially in relation to its corollary atmospheric volume if allowable SO2 levels are reduced. Given the specific electric consumption or wall space of an art institution, Peterman might also enlist the institution itself in the SO2 market in order to transfer shares to their account, thereby indicating the scale of the institution’s waste production and consumption and its relation to culture and the environment—in other words, the marketplace.

It remains unclear whether the SO2 shares will be either a worthwhile investment or an effective control mechanism. It also remains unclear what the context of Peterman’s project is, what its audience or impact might be, or how any of his actions are being received—questions which he intends to frame more precisely in an installation at the Chicago Museum of Contemporary Art in November. For now he prefers this ambiguity, this confusion of intention and potential. This, of course, is the nature of the “free” marketplace. As the variables now stand, the gradual reduction of SO2 emissions over the next ten years will lead to either a huge surplus of gypsum, the proliferation of other power sources (most likely nuclear), or the eventual obsoletion of the SO2 futures market. Most likely, however, is that enough interested money will get involved to reduce emission levels to a certain degree, but never so far as to jeopardize the interests of business. A permanent level of managed pollution would be the result, not exactly a utopian outcome.

Peterman has clearly signed onto a system outside of his control, yet his actions as an artist don’t demonstrate a literal faith in telling stories or seizing control. Rather they operate as metaphors for what’s individually possible in the new world of managed air space and material ownership. The SO2 Project is not about playing commodities broker, but about the fact that gambling with such huge volumes—and consequences—is even possible. Is it conceivable to go shopping and have that activity ‘produce’ as many resources as it consumes? The question posed by the modest, visually deadpan, Sulfur Dioxide certificates is, do you want that to be the case? Will you have a choice? Either way, Peterman’s offer to purchase individual pieces of sky on our behalf is one of the most disturbingly pragmatic and poetic gestures of our time.

First published in frieze (Sept./Oct., 1994): 36-9

Download Back to Basics and Back Again: Dan Peterman

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