Lots of mirrored pairs in this design: Two heads are better than one. Twinsies. Dynamic Duo. Double your pleasure, double your fun...
What’s usually the first line of Shakespeare every kid learns? It’s from Macbeth, a tale of betrayal, from three witches: “Double, double, toil and trouble ...”
What’s that on the left side? It looks like couples kissing. Or a quartet in close communication?
Appropos of nothing, of course. Don’t mind me, I follow where my mind goes on these things. 🙃☺️🧐✨👯♀️✨
TW: man-handling, non-consensual touching, casual power imbalance, forced obedience, exploitation of someone referred to as a child.
Everyone had their dirty little secrets, their guilty pleasures. The things that excited them, or kept them up at night fantasizing, or simply made the day to day more bearable, but which were demonized by society.
The thing about existing for only a short period of time, especially as compared to the world one existed upon, was that while the exact nature of said sinful indulgences varied, at their most basic, they were all primal, even if they didn’t appear to be. The needs for socialization, for amusement, and for comfort and pleasure, drove all mortal creatures.
It was a lovely and oh-so fascinating observation Granville had made about ten years ago, after five years running various Underworld dens of inequity. Whenever the moral powers that be declared something an affront to the deity no one had ever met or had proof of existing, a new den opened. A new niche for the hungry and desperate to stumble into and trade their valuables for a chance to satiate their desires.
For now, and for the past seven years, he and his partner ran the casino, the brothel and the speakeasy, though they’d have previous ventures. Granville had been disgusted by the moral laws set in place on sex for only his first year. In the Underworld, one had to become well acquainted with the inherent disconnect between one’s own morality and that which imposed by the Upstairs.
The desperately hungry and needy trickled down to the Underworld, no matter how often they were warned, how many mundane or magical defenses were put in place, because it was simply in the nature of the world to twist and reshape reality to open the doors to wherever that thirst could be slaked. It wasn’t as though anyone Upstairs had the ear of an actual holy being to enforce the rules created.
And tonight, as testament to that, the casino pulsed and throbbed with life, full to bursting, but that wasn’t what had captured Granville’s attention.
“Kastrom,” he said idly to his partner by his side as they overlooked the main floor. “Do you see it?”
“There’s a lot to see,” she replied. “Be more specific.”
He snorted, then gestured to the oddity.
A child, though obviously old enough they would take great offense to the description, sat at a blackjack table with a glass of amber liquid and a veritable pile of chips. They winked at the croupier and added their latest winnings to their stash.
He nodded at the hellhound croupier at the table. “Rot Bite typically has turned the tables by now. Our guest is skilled.”
She hummed her agreement. “They appear… young.” Her gaze flickered briefly to his, lurid orange cat’s eyes meeting pale brown.
To be fair, recognizing the ages of mortals was hardly a priority for an effectively immortal being such as herself. Demons didn’t typically interact directly with mortals. He was a select exception.
“I would wager they are,” he agreed.
This was hardly the first time a young soul had found their way to the Underworld and it wouldn’t be the last. It was merely the nature of the prices paid in such a place like this that made it tricky. While Upstairs, no child could legally drink, for example, but a soul belonged to a mortal just as soon as they decided that for themselves. A guardian could teach, could bring them to religious institutions or elect not to, but it was the individual who owned their own soul, no matter the age they recognized this natural right. In the eyes of the Underworld, in the eyes of countless demons, that meant the souls were afforded the same responsibilities and contractual autonomy as a legal adult.
Admittedly, Granville had just enough of Upstairs morality clinging to him to keep the youngest souls from leaping headfirst into a contract, to warn them prior to signing that dotted line just what they were selling. He collected enough souls to make quota without being reduced to such easy pickings. It was pride, perhaps, and not Upstairs morality, that stayed his hand.
Kastrom snaked the tip of her tail under his shirt, untucking it to drag a cold line along his lower back. “Their luck has to run out soon,” she said.
Steadfast in place despite the chill, Granville merely angled his head, trying to determine whether she meant that as a passing comment, or for him to make sure of it. “I believe I’ll visit our young friend then.”
With her silence as answer enough, he started to make his way to the main floor of the casino.
“Once you’re finished mingling,” she called, her tone stopping him in his tracks, “I believe you still haven’t finished your collections.”
No, no he hadn’t. Between running the casino, brothel and speakeasy, he’d gotten sloppy. Four souls had escaped in the last month alone, and two the month previous, each taking with them their talismans. Then there were the derelicts raiding the Outskirts, and the squatters camped in the Sweltering Plains. The infestation of Crawlers needed exterminating, and the old opium den was still to be cleared for demolition. Yes, there was work aplenty and yet… Very carefully not clenching his jaw and forcing the muscles in his neck not to tighten, he smirked and offered a flippant wave. “Have a little faith, partner,” he said before continuing down the stairs.
He felt fire on his back and knew she’d taken her leave for the night. What a cluster. His neck ached and his temples throbbed, reminded him of his own outstanding balance several months building. Even he had to acknowledge that he had his limits, much as they were far beyond the typical mortal’s, and he could feel their rapid approach.
Concentrate on the present issue, he thought as he reached the table. Plan for exhaustive collapse tomorrow.
As Granville approached and placed his bet, Rot Bite barely looked up before seamlessly dealing him in.
How to play this, beyond carefully? The kid, perhaps, didn’t recognize him, or they were pretending not to. Either way, so far they hadn’t so much as looked at him, keeping their gaze on the dealing shoe. The other two at the table, a nervous looking kelpie and a snake picking at her shedding scales, didn’t seem to care either about his presence.
It wouldn’t do to tip hands too early, to declare his intentions so immediately. He had to hold off a minute, get a feel for the table and the kid’s tells. And while they would hardly lower their guard quickly, sometimes observing their inaction was twice as informative as catching someone in the act.
As expected, their effortless flow and easy wins became more ragged and sporadic. Certainly they still won, but their luck took an abrupt turn away from the preternaturally profitable. Still, Granville wasn’t about to let the kid off the hook quite so quickly. He could be patient. Dealing with immortal beings necessitated some degree of patience.
Mortal humans, especially young ones, did not have much patience.
A scant couple hands later, the kid’s luck began a miraculous comeback Granville studied them in his peripheral vision, watching their hands fluttering over their own cards and tapping a nervous pace.
Nervous, or were they signaling someone?
No, they had to be working alone. The angle of their seat offered poor lines of sight, the din of the casino was too loud to allow the sound to carry clearly, and the only other two at the table were still wholly absorbed their own business. Desperate, he’d say, and ripe for a deal. Perhaps after dealing with the card shark he’d make a deal or two.
Then the kid doubled down on a eleven and hit blackjack.
That was something he didn’t miss about his youth— the foolhardiness to assume his plans infallible and those around him blind.
Rot Bite gave them congratulations and their winnings. Granville offered only the bare minimum to match the kelpie and the snake’s interest. Another hand later and the kid stood on a twelve while Rot Bite busted.
Interesting. Some sort of card counting, or— yes, there. On the back of the queen Rot Bite had drawn, a mark in the upper right corner.
He’d wasted enough time in observation, now he could act.
Smoothly, he slid out of his seat to move behind the cheater.
“Say, friend,” he drawled as he roped an arm around them. “You and I ought to go cash out.”
To their credit, they merely brought their drink to their lips and took a sip from the trembling liquid.
“I’m going to keep playing,” they said as they tried to pry him off them.
He merely readjusted his hold, left hand digging into their scrawny upper arm and right arm wrapped around their shoulders. “With what money? Not a single scrap of that’s honest pay.”
The kid went very, deathly still, which was smart. Before they could get any wise ideas, Granville allowed a crackle of magic to dance along his fingers as he waved them in their face.
He chuckled, low and smoky, the charcoal taste of his little display on his tongue. “Now… Let’s you and I talk terms. Step into my office.”
They audibly swallowed.
Ah, how sweet youth was. So easily exploited and wrong-footed.
They resisted him for all of a second, long enough for his magic to singe their shirt, before obedience reasserted itself and they leaned into his direction.
“You are going to give me your name,” he said, smirking as he led them across the floor. The other patrons, if they acknowledged them except to move out of the way, tried not to glance too obviously at the scene.
The kid puckered their lips.
Tasting each honey-sweet enchantment on his tongue now, he insisted, “You will give me your name, my friend, or I will take it by force.”
With his every word, their expression strained and crumbled further as they valiantly fought the compulsion, but, like a sapling branch steadily twisted, and bent, and sawed, and folded until it sprang free of its trunk, their resolve split open.
“Jules!” Their name burst from their cracked will, music to his ears and a heady rush through his whole body.
“This will go much smoother with some measure of cooperation,” he reminded them as he led them into his office.
As he all but shoved the kid into the chair opposite him, he smiled, far away from prying eyes. Jules watched him with wide eyes
“‘Jules’ is a very decidedly human name, as is your appearance, and yet you know to be wary of anyone asking for your name. You, my young friend, are multi-talented, worldly. Why, I do wonder what ever could draw you here.”
He leaned back in his own chair and studied them for some sort of reaction. They were very obviously trying to keep from speaking again, going so far as to grip the arm rests with white knuckles, pressing themselves against the chair back.
How cute. If slightly predictable.
Beyond that, they seemed far too out of their depths to manage any sort of intriguing reaction to their situation.
“How fortunate for you I am not truly Fae, or else you’d be fully committed to my offer already.”
“What is your offer? You speak a lot in vague terms, saying barely anything worthwhile.”
Irritation sharpened his smile. “How would you like to walk out of here with both your soul and your winnings?”
Their dark green eyes gleamed, a slight furrow on their brow. Interested, but not yet sold. Foolhardy enough to attempt to cheat the most powerful demon currently known, yet nowhere near desperate enough to leap at the chance to save their soul.
“Say, you may even keep your hands, you filthy thief.”
“I didn’t take anything,” they protested. “Just some liberties with your rules.”
Granville masked his wry amusement. Finally he recognized why the kid’s behavior felt so unduly familiar— his own greed and ambition, his own hungry childhood, reflected in their features. “You have cost me a small fortune,” he said after his study. As entertaining as this has turned out to be, it was time to cut to the quick. He required a final determination now. “My time is a precious commodity, luckily, and you will repay your debt by performing menial tasks to free my schedule.”
“You want me to run errands for you. That’s what all this is about? ‘Run along to the store and pick me up some tea and biscuits, dearie’!”
They laughed, the sound harsh with hysteria, and laughed again when his expression didn’t so much as twitch. Their bravado melted.
“Wh-What do want me to do?”
He reassured Jules, “Nothing overly sordid.” They were too young for his tastes to bind a contract, but there were other methods to ensure some degree of compliance. In a practiced motion, he took hold of their left hand, removed his pen from his inner pocket, and drew a simple glyph on their palm.
“Hey! What gives?”
Granville twisted their arm, their bones birdlike in his grasp. A quick flick of his wrist would be more than enough to get his point across. Instead he left bruises under his fingers.
“Hush. Now.”
They stilled.
His focus frayed to the end of the mark, sparks flying off, but while it was ugly, it was perfectly serviceable collateral. With an exaggerated, insouciant flourish, he released them.
Jules yanked their arm back, nearly tipping over their chair, and cradled their no-doubt stinging hand. Even at this angle he could see his list beginning to form on their skin.
“What the fuck is this?” they demanded. “This isn’t a grocery list!”
“Hop to it, kid,” he ordered.
“You want me to deliver a hand!”
“Yes. Risk disobedience at a cost.”
Pushing past the building tension in his magic, Granville discorporated from his office and left them to their tasks.
After journalists contacted him for comment, the US commerce secretary opened a short position against Navigator Holdings.
Always be Profiting #RussiaGate
Ross #MuellerIsComingForYou
In late October 2017, US commerce secretary Wilbur Ross was asked for comment about a damning story (paywall) on his business ties to the Kremlin. Bad press was inevitable, and the company that tied him to Russia was sure to suffer a hit in its market value.
Ross “retains a financial interest in Navigator Holdings via a number of companies in the Cayman Islands”. #ParadisePapers #TaxEvasion
“The story would show that Ross owned stock in shipping company Navigator Holdings, which counted as a major client a Russian company part-owned by Putin’s ex-son-in-law [Kirill Shamalov] and a close friend.”
But if that revelation from the Paradise Papers was giving him lemons, Ross found a way to make lemonade. Forbes reports that a few days after the New York Times reached him for comment, Ross opened up a short position against Navigator Holdings—essentially, a bet that its stock would go down.
'Ross insisted there was “nothing wrong” with owning the stock, since the Russian investor wasn’t sanctioned (even if its shareholders were).’
This has to be the first time a Cabinet official tried to make money off of his own ethics scandal
- Citizens for Ethics @CREWcrew - June 19, 2018
Paradise Papers: Wilbur Ross says 'nothing improper' about Russia links, BBC
Double Dealing - Urban fantasy with numerous whumpers and whumpees. Also, focus on deep, platonic love. Redemption and damnation, role reversal. A lot of magical whump and also non-human whumpees. [1]
The Whumper Zone - Named right this very minute. An exploration of whump tropes alluded to in famous Twilight Zone episodes.A distant memory in the back of my mind that I’ll keep coming back to to work on, but nowhere near my main focus.
Live Feed - Inspired by a post I can not find at the moment concerning a whumper steeped in the digital age. An experiment of sorts in tone, dynamics and lady whump. One of the whumpers has wholly irreverent, dark-bordering-on-sociopathic humor. Based off the February Whump Challenge by @yuckwhump [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15]
