it sounds better anyway

  • Wade: You know what, Weasel. I can't do this anymore. I can't keep pining after Peter! I have to tell him. What have I got to lose?
  • Weasel: Your dignity? Possibly a couple of teeth.

So, let’s start this off w/…My name’s Hayven, obviously. Eighteen-year-old trans girl from Decatur. I’m really boring, so it’s not that much to tell about myself. But I just came out as trans last year. It was around winter when I did it. The first name I came up w/ was Kylan. I ended up changing it to Hayven, because Kylan sounded too much like Kylie. Hayven’s better anyways…As the day goes by, it’s a lot i’m really starting to dislike about myself. Like the fact that I have really broad shoulders. I also don’t like the fact that i’m a really hairy person. It’s extremely aggy. I don’t like my head…it’s shaped really weird in my opinion and it’s really big. I’ve always been insecure about my weight and how fat my face is. Tbh, the only thing that will make me happy is getting my hrt, which I am currently in the works of getting. At first it was my piercings that made me feel good about myself. My piercing had my confidence at a 100. I was working at a call center and saddly, my piercings had to be taken out. I just deleted all of my social media apps and decided to just make this Tumblr account. I also want to share it to show my transformation as well once I receive my hrt. I hope to gain a lot of followers, supporters and friends while i’m on here. I don’t know how to close out this caption, sooooo yeah…✌🏾😬


interconnectedness, coincidence : a dirk gently fanmix

life out of balance : cristobal tapia de veer journey of the sorcerer : eagles who are you : the who i’m gonna win : rob cantor meditative chaos : cristobal tapia de veer face to the sun : galahad kiss the sky : shawn lee’s ping pong orchestra saint claude : christine and the queens deserted skies : s u r v i v e

anonymous asked:

How do I give a guy a good blowjob that will suck his soul out?

I whole heartedly believe that anything intimate that being sex, hand jobs blowjobs anything is all about the build up. You could give the shittest  blowjob ever but if you have the right build up it will make them believe that there is a god. Hype yourself up all the time, always say that they aren’t ready for this pussy, and that it’s the bomb. And then when you give decide to give it to them they’ll believe it was the best thing ever even if you weren’t having a great day. Fake it till you make it. If you’re out start buy giving a little dirty talk, tell him that when you get home you’re going to ‘rock his world’ tease him like there’s no tomorrow. Give him a few gentle touches and a few quick kisses. When you get home or to somewhere private start off slow. slowly pull out his dick and come up and give him a kiss. If you can feel a response from down below then you’re off to a good start. Now slowly go down to his cock, don’t be afraid to get a bit sloppy, I always say that saliva was god’s answer to lube. anyway a wet dick sounds better than a dry dick slowly lick your lips whilst making eye contact with him, by this point hopefully you’ve built the tension so much that he’s ready to burst already. Give him a bit of a tease by starting off with a few little licks or kisses. Slowly lick from the base of his shaft up towards the tip. Wet his dick up again, if you need to use your hand. slowly massage his balls and if you think he’d be into it gently scratch them with your fingernails. continue licking up and down the shaft, he should be squirming by now, you should be able to tell when it’s getting to be too much for him. It’s all good to tease a little bit but at some point you’re going to have to get down to business. Slowly lick around the head and in the centre before taking him into your mouth. We all know that dick is not the best taste ever otherwise we’d have mouthwash tasting like it. despite this you need to act like what he’s offering is like champagne, ice-cream on a hot day, hot cocoa on a winters evening. But don’t pay all your attention on the head, although this is where most men are the most sensitive, like, ice-cream is great but if you could have an ice-cream sunday you’d want all of it not just the cherry on top. Once you’ve paid attention to the head take him all in your mouth and kind of hold it there for a moment. Then come back up. He’ll probably want you to deep throat some more but don’t let him get bossy, YOU ARE THE BOSS!!!! suck up and down his cock as fast as you can but don’t let him cum just yet. If he gets close slow down. You want this blowjob to be drawn out and not be over with a couple minutes. You can suck it like a straw or you can just take it in and out, But keep it changing, you don’t want him to get bored. when you think you’ve worked him up enough use your right hand to kind of squeeze the base of his shaft. This will make all of his blood rush and make him even more sensitive. Now go to town, as fast as you can using different techniques. I would swallow however you may choose not to, It just means less cleanup 💁🏼 Just make sure you hold off a bit towards the end when you can feel he’s about to cum as otherwise it’ll spurt right back into your mouth and you’ll choke which is not particularly sexy… You’ve just given him the most amazing blowjob x well done x give yourself a pat on the back xx have fun 😉

Lots of love, Mary xoxo


A Series of Unfortunate Events Fancast → Main Cast

“If you are interested in stories with happy endings, you would be better off reading some other book. In this book, not only is there no happy ending, there is no happy beginning and very few happy things in the middle.”

Joey King as Violet Baudelaire, David Mazouz as Klaus Baudelaire, Maggie Elizabeth Jones as Sunny Baudelaire, Adrien Brody as Count Olaf and Anthony Mackie as Lemony Snicket

can’t live with him but can’t live without him - oliver x marcus

“I can’t do this,” Oliver whined, sitting up among the whirlpool of crumpled sheets, fleecy blankets and duck-feather pillows that seemed to be suffocating him as he tried to sleep. “I just can’t.”

He melodramatically kicked the duvet off him, cheeks a deep scarlet colour as he leapt from the bed and stood by the oak chest of drawers, one hand propped on his hip while the other wearily rubbed over his eyes. It was a late night and through the break in the curtains Oliver could see the moon hung proudly in the sky, surrounded by its very own sea of stars. Among the navy canvas the stars almost looked like a dot-to-dot pattern, just waiting for someone to come and connect them to complete the image. Oliver liked to imagine the stars would create an outline of Marcus’ face, perfectly accentuating his angelic cheekbones and God-like jawline. He was unfairly gorgeous, Oliver thought, which only made this hindrance more aggravating. 

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Tano and Kenobi: A Profitable Exchange

Previously on Tano and Kenob…

Captured by pirates, Jedi Knight Ahsoka Tano and Padawan Learner Obi-Wan Kenobi lead their fellow prisoners to freedom. Now in possession of the very ship that boarded their own cruiser, and surrounded by the rest of the pirate fleet, Ahsoka Tano must strike a hard bargain with the pirate matriarch Mama Ohnaka if she and Obi-Wan want to make it back to Coruscant and the Jedi Temple in one piece.

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“I’m listening, Knight Tano. Tell me more.”

Let’s hope this works, Ahsoka thought to herself as she stepped forward to face the viewing screen, noticing out of the corner of her eye Obi-Wan stepping up next to Hondo in case he decided to try anything foolish.

She wasn’t sure if Obi-Wan was fully capable of handling Hondo at fifteen but she didn’t have time to worry about that right now.

“I would like to propose an exchange, Mother Ohnaka,” Ahsoka said, holding open her hands. “You see, we both have something the other one wants. Your son’s pirates have control of my ship, and I have your son, his ship, and his crew.”

“You are a Jedi,” Mama Ohnaka snickered, waving a dismissive hand. “It is against your Code to harm an innocent like my precious little gorka berry.”

Obi-Wan frowned at that. “What is a gorka berry?”

Hondo rolled his eyes and leaned over to mutter to Obi-Wan. “A sweet fruit my mother favors above all others save peaches from Naboo. She thinks it is a charming nickname.”

“Hondo, I can hear you!” Mama Ohnaka shot back, her beady eyes narrowed at son. “Oh, what happened to my sweet little boy? Where did I go wrong? How could you have fallen prey to Jedi of all people! They do not know the value of credits! They do not even like credits!”

Obi-Wan and Hondo exchanged looks and wisely went silent.

“Mother Ohnaka,” Ahsoka interrupted what looked like the start of a long tirade against the Jedi with a forced, bright smile. “While it is true that we Jedi are taught to eschew the search for credits for credits’ sake, we do understand that there are some things that are worth more than credits.”

Mama Ohnaka scoffed at that. “Oh? Like what?”

Ahsoka activated her blade in a bright flash of blue and held it up to Hondo’s throat. “This.”

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At some point I’m probably going to watch the new Beauty and the Beast before it leaves theaters, since my mom wants to go see it.

Will try my best to go in with no expectations….but so far, I’m not impressed by Emma Watson’s singing. >>;

Nostalgia and New Beginnings

Wolf Link POV

I’d travelled the land for longer than I could remember. My memory was always good, but after all this time…it was a miracle I still remembered this place of all things.

The Temple of Time was in shambles. Falling apart at the seams, holes in the ceiling and walls. A statue was present at the back of it, different than the pair I remembered being there. It looked like a woman praying, though to whom I was unsure.

Nostalgia cloaked the place. I bowed my head, nose to the floor and ears flat against my head.

I heard a noise. Footsteps. I whipped my head around, seeing a young, blond-haired man standing in the doorway. He was different than the old man I’d seen on the plateau on occasion. This man was not a spirit. He was very much alive.

He looked rather startled to see me. Wolves did not live on the plateau, from what I’d gathered. He had a woodcutter’s axe in his hands, and his form was still and unmoving.

I remembered in that moment that the fact he could see me was an oddity in itself.  Most could not see me at all, unless they were spirits. It seemed to be a strange side effect of spending so much time in the Twilight realm, at least as of late. Humans could not see me anymore.

Why was this one an exception?

I got to my feet, turning around to face him properly. I saw his hand clench around the axe he held, and I paused. He seemed to be assessing what threat I posed to him. I tilted my head to the side in a manner I hoped was endearing, hoping the man would be convinced of my intentions. I had no desire to harm him.

He seemed confused at my movement, grip loosening on the axe. I looked at him with my senses then, trying to see if I could determine the reason he was able to see me.

I looked at his soul, and saw in him myself. My breath hitched, but I took another step towards him. If he bore the same mark of courage as I, then perhaps it was smart to stick together.

Seeing that his hand did not tighten around his weapon like it had before, I stepped forward once more. The Temple wasn’t very big, so there wasn’t too much distance between us now. I continued walking until he looked nervous, at which point I sat on the ground. I wagged my tail, hoping I looked harmless.

He hesitated for a moment or two before taking a step towards me. I cocked my head at him, ears twitching. He took another step, tentatively placing the axe on his back. My tail wagged again.

He stopped approaching me then, looking rather hesitant. I put my head forward, nose twitching. He made a motion as if he was trying to beckon me over, but stopped in the middle of it.

I took the cue anyway, getting to my feet and walking towards him. He flinched, and I stopped again. I did not sit down, rather deciding to stand there and wait for him to come to me.

He looked me up and down again, caution painting his features. He took a step, then another. He was right in front of me now.

I looked up at him expectantly. I hoped he’d do what I was expecting, so I’d have a chance to prove he could trust me.

Soon enough, he reached out a hand towards me. I rose to meet it, my nose pressed against his palm. He flinched for a brief moment before calming down, his hand still resting on my snout.

I’m not sure how, but he managed to communicate to me that he’d appreciate my help in conquering the plateau, or at least helping him survive against the monsters that roamed here. I gave a nod, bowing my head to him.

And, deep in my heart, I was smiling. I wasn’t alone. After all these years, I wasn’t alone.


Is it just me or does the Japanese version of Love Box sound even more heartbreaking?

Michele/Emil random headcanon

So, I’ve had this headcanon that, at one time through his life Emil would have tried getting closer to Michele using Italian pick-up lines. Obviously, it was not so much of a success. Here it goes:

  • He asked Sara for tips on how to get that oblivious Italian to realize he had been in love with him for ages (because obviously, not everyone is as blind as Mickey)
  • Sara thought it would be fun teaching him a few pick-up lines in Italian.
  • And maybe she should have written them down to him somewhere, because Emil ended up messing them up comletely. (“Hey, Mickey! Mi ero perso nei tuoi oli.” “Do you mean occhi?” “Maybe?”) Because, frankly, he had no idea what he was saying.
  • It took Michele only two of those sentences to get what they were. He only chose to pretend not to. Watching Emil struggling was a lot of fun, even for him. (“Hey, Mickey! Nel cielo manca un congelo!” “Che congelo? Are you cold?” “No?”)
  • He thought that if he did not react whatsoever, Emil would give up rather quickly. Obviously, it was not knowing him and the whole thing rapidly started to get on Michele’s nerves.
  • “Hey, Mickey!” “Hey, Emil!” And Emil immediatly shuts up. That’s not everyday he has Michele answering back. “Polib me.” And he’s just left in shock, because Mickey is speaking in Czech and asking him to kiss him. Which he does not. He is too surprised for that.
  • So Michele did.
  • “I swear if I ever hear one of those pick-up lines again, I’m punching you in the face.” He said as he took the other’s hand. Emil did not answer back, just laugh because, hey, he had just been kiss by the man he had been running after for months. So, was he in the mood for useless argument? Hell no. (But was he in the mood for a second kiss? Hell yeah!)
  • (“Mickey, Mickey! Where did you learn Czech?” “Not where you learnt Italian, apparently.”)

Do I need to give the translations? Probably, so here it goes. First one is “I got lost in your oil” (obviously, he meant eyes) And second one is “There is one I am freezing missing in the sky” (he meant angel) As I’m not Italian, only learning, I’m sorry if any of this is wrong!

Today we went on an adventure!

codyswritings  asked:

I recently read your "What NOT to do with Assassin's" post, and wanted to ask you about them. I'm writing a story that revolves around a team of superpowered assassin's on the hunt from their organization because their latest target was a friend of theirs. They refuse to kill her, and the organization attempts to kill them. I don't know if this falls under the same category as "Biting the Hand that Feeds" or "The Atoning Assassin," but if it does, is there anyway I can make it sound better?

I’ll give you a piece of advice that’s going to save you a lot of trouble.

Tropes are descriptive. They’re not prescriptive.

TVTropes is helpful for analysis, or finding research materials. It’s helpful for figuring out what you have and what you want. It’s not puzzle pieces. If you get too caught up in them, they will own you. You’ll end up writing to them or find yourself stuck trying to get away from them instead of telling your story.

Your work is going to go through many drafts as it evolves, you’re going to change things, switch it around. It is the rare writer who churns out a perfect draft on every hit, and they’re the novelists who put out a book every ten years.

The first draft is often made of cliches, and it will seem like you’re holding a piece of coal. There’s insecurity, fear, worries about what we have and if anyone will ever want to read it. Everything is exciting and then it seems awful. When everything feels black, remember: you’ve got a diamond.

You’ve just got to put the work into polishing it. We must always begin at the beginning, which is one of the most crucial times in your creative life. (The other being the Middle). So, write the damn thing first.

When we get stuck on “is it good enough?” (and most of us do), we end up ignoring the part where we need to do in the storytelling. Give yourself time to think of ways to get past the cliches and flesh out your characters as you pursue your narrative.

There are plot twists behind the plot twists you haven’t even dreamed of yet. Give yourself a chance to get there.

Go to sites like TVTropes last instead of first, wait until you have a novel written and you’re preparing for other drafts. When you want to be able to describe what you have, because you know what it is rather than what its going to be.

As creatives, we’ve no guarantee that the story we envision in our heads is the one that ends up on the page. If we end up getting stuck fighting with it or running from it, then we’ll never get anywhere. Just let it out.

You’ve got plenty of time to make the whole thing sound better after the fact.

After all, draft number one isn’t the end. It’s another beginning. You’ve got miles more to go. Those miles will strip away the ugly, the cliche, the fears, and everything else in between.

Forget the tropes. Just do it.


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वसुधा मर चूके है।

फिर, आप कों हो?

कोई नहीं।

“Vasudha is dead.”

“Then, who are you?”

“No one.”

Vitality at her most sads, sometime after the whole ordeal… when she was wandering… nameless and an abomination.

INTP: Yesterday at a party, one of ESFJ’s friends told me that I was looking “pretty”.

INTJ: Why do you say that in such a suspicious tone?

INTP: That’s what I did yesterday, I looked suspiciously at her and said “thanks” sounding unconvinced.

INTJ: You useless human.

INTP: You’re not better than me. Anyway, she said it was the eyeliner that suited me.

INTJ: …?

INTP: I didn’t know what to say and I just replied “Oh really? I never thought I’d be complimented for my inexistent make-up skills”.

INTJ: And then?

INTP: Silence. Just awkward silence.

Scar Tissue

Draco had learned a lot from the Dark Lord.

He’d learned how to think quickly and critically—how to isolate alternative exits and easily accessible windows immediately upon entering a new room, how to evaluate escape routes and measure the weight of excuses, omissions, denials and exaggerations and lies.

Similarly, he’d learned how to strategize; how to infiltrate an enemy stronghold and capitalize on fear, disorganization, surprise—how to plot a successful murder, too, even if he hadn’t quite had the stomach to finish the job.

The Dark Lord had been incredibly generous with his knowledge.

He’d taught Draco how to hide in the shadows of his own house, how to deflect attention and, perhaps more importantly, how to steal attention, how to keep that narrow, endlessly curious crimson gaze away from his mother and firmly on himself.

He’d taught Draco how to differentiate between what was nice and what was necessary, and he’d taught Draco how to correctly identify the appropriate times in which to utilize the Unforgivable curses; because it wasn’t about not getting caught, no, that was child’s play—adequate advice for the Draco who’d been young and stupid and frozen, maybe, desperate to fix what he’d broken but unable to rationalize why; the Draco who’d been stripped raw, flayed to the bone, left to haunt the roof of the Hogwarts astronomy tower like the dried-out husk of a long-shed snakeskin.

And Draco, he had adapted since then, he’d had to, had felt the shift in his temperament—in his demeanor—in his veins, and he had relished it, absolutely and resolutely—and it was entirely thanks to the Dark Lord.

For example—

Draco now knew how to properly barricade a door, how to pretend—how to believe, truly believe, that was the trick—that a solid mahogany chest of drawers could protect him from the things that went bump and bang and boom in the middle of the night.

He knew how to avoid a mirror and block out reality and grit his teeth against the sudden, blinding pain of having to listen to Hermione Granger be tortured on his sitting room floor—and hadn’t that been a particularly illuminating lesson in humility, his mother’s fingernails digging deep and sharp and hard into the bend of his elbow as if she’d understood that this was going to be it, this was going to be the thing, the moment, that finally shattered his composure and attacked what remained of his conscience with all the efficacy of an ice pick against a glacier—because in all the years that he’d been acquainted with her, Hermione Granger had been equal parts annoying and infuriating and captivating, unfairly so, and as much as he’d loathed her—sometimes, only ever sometimes—he could not watch that, could not watch the tears streak her face and the breath get trapped in her throat—

But he knew better than to speak up.

The Dark Lord had made sure of that.

He’d made sure that Draco knew how to stay quiet; knew how to keep his head down and his mouth shut and his screams—thick like honey in the quivering cavern of his lungs, thick like Granger’s blood as it seeped into and around and across his mother’s priceless antique rugs—locked tight inside, always, always, always inside—right where they belonged.

And really—

Really, the Dark Lord had been an excellent teacher.

Officer Benny and Characterisation in Stealth

There’s a very special NPC in Thief II: The Metal Age. In the dimly-lit games room of the Truart Estate, surrounded by the discarded playing cards and abandoned dartboards of the recent party held by the Sheriff and his debaucherous toff friends, a lone drunken City Watch officer disconnectedly rambles to the barmaid on duty. His name is Officer Benny, and I love him.

“I can’t believe that s-some (hic) taffer went and spilled mead all over that rug!” he yells as you approach unseen, his model swaying unsteadily in a dramatic display of intoxication. The barmaid, clearly worn out by a harrowing work shift, sighs wearily.

“Benny… you spilled the mead on the rug,” she explains patiently. “Anyway, someone is on the way to clean it up already.”

“But you don’t understaaand!” Benny wails, now clearly, inexplicably on the verge of tears. “These (hic) taffers have no respect for such… b-beautiful things!

Around this point, it’s likely that you’ll start to tune out and skulk around in the gloom, looking for the telltale glint of loot to funnel into your pockets. Stacks of coins and rings litter the gaming tables, tempting you to sneak a hand under the hanging lamps. One of Karras’s Children—a hunchbacked steam-powered automaton with a head like a brass football —clanks around the room, mindlessly praising its creator to the heavens. It’s not much of a threat, but it’s certainly an annoying little contraption. One water arrow to the boiler grate usually does the trick.

“Benny, I think you’ve had too much to drink. Aren’t you supposed to be on duty?”

“Hah. So what if I am, huh?” he says, sounding more than a little defensive. “Anyways, I work mm-better when I’m drunk. It makes me fearless! If I see a bad guy, I’ll just point my sword at him, and saaaaaay… HEY, BAD GUY!”

You freeze, momentarily worried you’ve been spotted trying to snaffle the discarded goblet from beside the fireplace. Benny continues with his charade, utterly oblivious.

“You’re not s’posed to be here! G-go home or I’ll stick you with my sword ‘til you go ‘Ouch, I’m dead!’ Ah-hah-hah-hurgh!” He makes an indescribable sniffing, gurgling, chuckling noise, and momentarily falls silent. “See? Ain’t no one gonna be messin’ with ol’ Benny.”

“Whatever, Benny. I think you should sleep it off. No more mead for you.”

In the grand scheme of things, it’s a fairly trivial exchange: it doesn’t tie into some larger arc, it doesn’t impart any useful information about objectives or security system vulnerabilities, and neither Officer Benny nor the barmaid will ever be seen again. Benny’s emotional ping-ponging is unconvincing at best, and while his delivery certainly isn’t lacking in vigour, the only character in the room with exceptional voice acting is Garrett, the Master Thief; the one surreptitiously pocketing everyone’s gambling winnings during this exchange. And yet, Benny’s rambling accomplishes something very special. It’s the perfect, emblematic example of a quality present throughout the Thief games; one that shapes how we approach them, and in turn, the experiences they provide.

Thief II gives you a sword. Not a discreet little knife, fit for a slippery cutthroat, but a proper blade; the kind for lopping off soldiers’ limbs on a muddy, arrow-strewn embankment. It’s a silent acknowledgement that you may have to kill men, not in a surprise scuffle where you jump them from behind the bins, but in a full-on fight with multiple assailants. It’s the kind of thing you defend yourself with when things are rapidly going downhill and there’s nowhere to run; a tool for when the halls are filled with the sounds of alarm bells and clattering jackboots. In the right hands it can be quite effective, and it’s entirely possible to hack n’ slash your way through a legion of aggravated soldiers, provided they’re courteous enough to approach you in a narrow corridor or something.

Something doesn’t add up here, does it? Stealth needs reasons for you to stealth, so to speak. There have to be incentives to keep you in hiding, and those incentives usually start with some sort of punishment for being caught. You’re supposed to be outmatched and outgunned, or at the very least, have some higher-level motive for not wanting to be seen. If Garrett can accomplish his goals by going where he pleases and stabbing everyone who looks at him the wrong way, what’s stopping him, really?

Well, it’s kind of a dick thing to do, of course, but gamers have never been above murdering NPCs for slightly inconveniencing them. It’s also a flat-out fail state on many missions if you attempt them on a higher difficulty setting, but by the time you get around to them you’ve almost certainly put the idea out of your head long ago in any case. Dishonored, Thief’s darling modern protégé, would invisibly bump up the Chaos meter—a hidden metric that determines whether Corvo’s been naughty or nice—but Thief itself has no such system, and other than occasionally dropping remarks along the lines of “remember, murdering people is for poser scrublords”, does little to impress upon you the moral wrongness of your actions. A corpse is functionally identical to an unconscious body—indeed, were it not for a single line of HUD text, they’d be impossible to differentiate at all—and sure, people might be a bit more screamy if you clobber them over the head with a blade rather than a blackjack, but what does that matter if you’ve already established you’re not interested in being quiet?

No, Thief II chooses instead to work with characterisation. Who, of the people you encounter throughout its missions, are your enemies? Not the tired watchmen trudging through the halls on a cold evening; not the harmless peasants, trying to prosper in an industrial revolution even as it crushes them between its wheels; not even the Mechanist underlings, suckered into a fad cult and set to work fulfilling Karras’s insane agenda. Your foes are far away, clinking glasses in rooms full of light and music, and most of them will never meet you face-to-face. What direct quarrel do you have with the guards who patrol the game’s moody locales, besides the fact that they’re between you and your goal?

Right. They’re not your enemies, so Thief doesn’t characterise them as enemies. Engendering sympathy to discourage murdering NPCs is hardly a novel concept, but Thief’s approach stands out, primarily because it’s less about pre-emptive guilting and more about subtle humanisation. While you creep around behind their backs, guards will hum, whistle, recite passages, moan about the cold, mumble to themselves, even wonder aloud when they’re getting dinner. You’ll find guards cracking jokes, trash-talking each other’s employers, discussing financial management, complaining about the weather, worrying about being replaced by the new-fangled mechanical eyes, and a thousand other ordinary things totally unrelated to the here-and-now of their work shift. They’re not goose-stepping around shouting “boy, I sure hope nobody stabs me in the back while I’m pacing back and forth, how would my wife and three children ever survive on the streets without a loving father like me?”; they’re just… well, bored, usually. Wouldn’t it be terrible to have to cut down a person like that, just because they made the mistake of investigating some footsteps a little too closely? Thief makes you want to stay unseen, not for your own sake, but for the sake of those who might see you.

And Officer Benny? He’s the epitome of this humanisation. Not only is he drunk, chatty, skiving off work and chewing the scenery with an unprecedented level of unhinged abandon, but through his babbling, he offers an insight into his attitude. There’s no black, tarry pit of hatred boiling away somewhere in him, fuelled by some personal vendetta, waiting to bubble over in fury at the sight of a wayward miscreant; he’s just doing what he’s supposed to. Benny sees himself as the cop in the proverbial cops and robbers: a figure of authority in a simplistic world, out to stop the scoundrels and ruffians in a game where everyone mutually agrees on the rules. His inebriated cry of “HEY, BAD GUY! You’re not s’posed to be here!” is born of this position, announcing what he sees as incontestable truths, spoken more out of convention than anything else. And what’s his ultimatum? Go home, or get stabbed. Go home. Even faced with someone absolutely, undeniably in the wrong, in his morally black-and-white world, his first thought is of telling them to scarper; to leave peacefully, without accountability or interrogation. He’s not smart, or nuanced, or even—if you catch his attention—particularly true to his word, but Officer Benny’s attitude is charming in its simplistic naivety, devoid of real malice or antagonistic ideals. For that, I could no more swing my sword at him than kick a puppy, and that’s why he holds Thief II’s formula together—along with countless other watchmen, guards and Mechanists.

Thanks, Benny. I hope your hangover wasn’t too rough.