My favorite part of sorority initiation was getting chosen to be the “emissary” to our sibling frat that year, getting dropped off all tied up outside their door for them to use as they please ;)
Thomas Pernette, journaliste chez BFM Paris, nous a rendu visite vendredi 23 mars 2018 pour la promotion du festival des arts martiaux à Bercy. Thomas Pernette, BFM Paris’s journalist, came to my shool Friday 23 march 2018 to promote Bercy martial arts festival and introduce Pak Mei. ▼ Follow Us! ▼ INSTAGRAM – FACEBOOK –…
These are worn by all Voodoos to carry the protection and blessings of their favorite Orisha.
The first one to be worn is of course Eleggua or Legba (black & red). To open the doors, clear the way, remove barriers and obstacles in life.
Other beads shown are Oggun (green and black) . For work opportunities and protection from accidents and in battle.
Obatala (white). For peace and justice in all things.
Yemaya (blue and white). She is the Godess of all mothers and all seas and oceans. She helps protect mothers and children, promotes fertility, abundance and calm your sorrows.
Oxun or Oshun (yellow/amber). Our Lady of Charity, patron-saint of Cuba. She is the mistress of all loves and passion. Brings abundance but remember that abundance is in the sharing!
Chango (red and white). Once king of Africa, Chango promotes virility, good health and vitality. Will protect you from lightning and storms.
Oya (not shown: wine color). The wise woman, she facilitates changes in life and helps you fight your battles.
“Come on, joke’s over. Give us back our clothes and stop taking photos… Please?” “Sorry guys. If you want to join the frat, you need to get completely hard and show off those boners. And if you’re real good, you’ll get your clothes back when we get back to campus, where everyone can see you.”
Time to introduce some new characters! It’s Mallory’s 18th birthday and as a long standing family tradition it is time for his initiation, a test to determine if he’s cut out for the family business or not.
CW: character death, reluctant whumper, forced to hurt/kill someone, knife whump, referenced kidnapping and captivity., organized crime whump.
Most people probably looked forward to turning 18, but not Mallory. Because he knew it wouldn’t be like for other people his age; going on to study, traveling, getting a job. A normal job. A normal life. Sadly that wouldn’t be in the cards for him. As much as he loved his family, Mal knew they wouldn’t take kindly to him leaving. Now that he would be considered an adult, he would be expected to join the family business… And his 18th birthday marked the time to make it official; the time for his initiation. Mallory could barely sleep anything the night before, he spent hours staring at the ceiling, tossing and turning as he agonized over what would come the next day. He remembered his older sister’s initiation a few years ago and shuddered at the thought. How she could go through it like it was no big deal was beyond him. The rest of his family dind seem to mind either, several of them seemed to outright enjoy it. Maybe it was something wrong with him for being so bothered by it, when by all accounts he shouldn’t he shouldn’t mind; he should be used to the thought of it by now.
The Kyrano’s were not Italian in any shape or form. But they were smart, they were hard-working and above all else they were bloodthirsty.
Not long after the Tracy’s appeared in New York, the Kyrano’s came and began making a name for themselves.
Not a good name. They took to killing and taking over many of the smaller families on the outskirts of the larger ones, hoping it seemed that they would become acceptable.
The divide between the true Mafia and these Malaysian upstarts could not have been bigger. No matter what the head of the Kyrano’s did, he and their family were spurned.
CW/TW: multiple whumpers, knife, blood, killing, death, emeto. Wart data for Sasha and Kolya. For @amonthofwhump Mafia Madness.
The boy in front of him is terrified, and trying not to show it.
“It’s all right,” he says. “I’ll help you, Kolya.”
He wraps his hand around the other’s hand, his partner, his lover. Under his, Kolya’s hand trembles.
“It’s all right,” he says again, and together they guide the knife home, cutting deep into the other’s throat, opening the veins, hot blood spilling over their joined hands.
Sasha watches the life leave the man they’ve killed, the bright eyes dulling. It’s fascinating. It’s the first time he’s done this, and he knows he wants to do it again, soon.
But right now, Kolya’s dropped the knife and is vomiting his guts out.
“I never,” Koyla pants, “never want to do that again, Sasha.”
tw: murder, blood, knife violence, ritualized murder, mentions of religion/Catholicism, forced gender roles, implied forced marriage, implied/threatened violence against a family member
…
“You can do it, ma petite puce. I believe in you.”
Adrián pleads for his life from behind the cloth around his mouth, and Elodie cannot help but to track the tears as they make their way down his cheek.
He doesn’t want to die.
So he shouldn’t have told the Mouret family about their upcoming job.
Now, he willdie, it is just a question of if Elodie will do it or if someone else will have to.
Traitors don’t have names. Traitors don’t have faces. They lose that right the moment they squeal.
CW: Organized crime, self depricating thoughts, gun violence, mean words, murder, death, implied non con, non con kissing (non-sexual), and lady whump
~~~
‘Mykhailo, I am sorry, but I can’t stay anymore. I can’t take you with me or else they’ll kill both of us. Remember who you are and when you are 18, you can choose your own route in life. You can go to college. You got accepted before. You can do it again, even if you can’t play sports anymore. Be the better Kysil. I love you.’
Piercing Kysil blue eyes stared at themselves in the reflection of the wardrobe mirror, the man standing there adjusting his red tie, wearing his entirely black suit, from dress shirt, blazer, slacks, belt, shoes, and even his heart. Mykhailo knew he was staring at his greatest nightmare, but he raised his chin high, his confidence a sham.
Anything to appease the monster of a man his father was, but also to keep his insane body guard off his back. For two years, being alone with them, occasionally having Ivan around, drove him to this moment; the moment and the day he would have to prove his worth and take claim to the dark crown of being a Kysil.
He sneered at the man in the reflection. A crown fit for a bastard and a burden heavier than a real heart of gold. No one could ever know what he was truly like. No one could ever see the other side of him. He couldn’t love another. He wouldn’t ruin them like he ruined Ivan. He has to see the scar he gave him for the rest of his life ever since Ivan became his personal bodyguard, Vasyklo training him here and there.
He sat at the desk in his little room, a white-walled, thin-carpeted square broken only by the locked door and the small, thickly-barred window. He was below ground, as best he could tell through the clouded glass, in a converted basement. He was delivered a tray of food each day good enough for three meals, and there was even an en suite with drinkable water in the tap. It was obvious that he wasn’t the first to live here. The bathroom had scratches in the doorframe from someone keeping count of the days. The mattress had a dip in the centre. In the middle of a sleepless night, it was like he could feel the ghosts of previous abductees breathing in the same air.
Most of his nights were sleepless now.
The desk was had recently been sanded down. It was obvious by the fresh, unblemished grain of the wood. Perhaps the person in here before him had left a message he wasn’t allowed to read.
On the desk was a stack of plain paper, and two wax crayons. It would have been funny, if it wasn’t obviously done to make sure he had nothing sharp to use as a weapon. Not that Bennett was stupid enough to try and stab Alfonse Dechart’s guards with a ballpoint pen, but there was no accounting for desperation.
Each day, he sat at the desk with the Crayola Black Stars in his hand and wrote as much as he could think of about work. They weren’t selective. On the first day he wrote about the layout of the headquarters. By the sixth day he was writing about what everyone ate for lunch and where they went if they wanted coffee.
All of it was treated the same. The more he wrote, the better things got.
Armani returns the next morning. He still hasn’t changed, though he’s discarded his jacket, and under the edge of his rolled-up sleeves, hidden so hospital workers won’t question, Cyril spots flecks of blood. Fresh.
“I brought one of the boys to sit outside your room,” he announces, folding into the chair by Cyril’s bed with a stifled sigh. “He’ll stay until you’re well enough to go home.”
“Do you really think that’s necessary?” Esme cranes his head to peer out of the door. “Oh, hey Dan.”
Dan waves before turning back to watch nurses and doctors hurry by.
“I mean, they’re all dead but one. Right? And this is a hospital.”
Cyril exchanges a glance with Armani, surprised– and not, at the same time– at the way his expression mirrors their own thoughts. Esme was always the sunshine prince of his father’s shadowed kingdom. Even before their impromptu absence, Cyril often found they knew the darker underbelly of humanity better than the crime lord’s son.
He looks down in horror at his leg that was still being held in place by a fist vlenched around his ankle. The stench of burnt flesh clings to his nostrils and the heat was intense.
The pain even more so.
He had made the horrible mistake of trusting the Professor, not once but twice now.
Curse Dragon, why did he have to suggest him of all people.
Tears slip as he remembers the desperation he felt to get his old memories back, to understand who he was. Claw was an empty shell of a man that had once been in his place. He wanted to know who he was.
He feels himself slip into unconsciousness as his thoughts wander. He was sure there was a way to get his memories back. There had to be. He couldn’t bear a life of not knowing himself.
The rebel leader had told him he could get them back here. He was a rather agreeable fellow, as charismatic as one might expect. Claw met him for tea on Fridays.
His eyes close but he is suddenly jolted back into the waking world when the brand on his leg is prodded by the man still wielding the iron in the other and.
“Wake up, Isaiah. I still have a lot of work for you to do.”
His wound is jabbed again and the Professor laughs as he lets out a scream.
“One on each leg now, Isaiah. You should know if you pull any more stunts like you did last time, I’ll put one right in your forehead so everyone can know who you belong to.”
Claw takes gasping breaths as he looks down at his legs, each horrible marked with the initials T.P. One brand still burning bright red.
He should have remained nameless. He never should have accepted the offer. His memories aren’t worth having to go through the hell of being the Professor’s pet again.
But he never could have known. It was an inescapable trap from the start.
The Professor presses a kiss to his forehead, a mock display of affection. Claw’s eyes sting with tears as he feels heat rising up him with humiliation.
“I can’t wait to put you to work again. We’re going to have so much fun together.”
