#but not necessarily things i need to act upon (or can act upon yet)

[sag-dab-sar]

Feel free to elaborate, and reblog for bigger sample size

[howdoyouwhiskit]

*deep breath* so I’ve been meaning to make a big post about House re:mobility aids and chronic pain treatment for a LONG time so here we go this is gonna be a long ride that probably won’t make a lot of sense in regards to a linear narrative so buckle up motherfuckers

Disclaimer: I am disabled, have chronic pain, and am an ambulatory mobility aid user. I have experience using a cane, forearm crutches, a rollator, and a walker. I understand everyone’s experiences are different. I am writing this from my personal experience with mobility aids which may influence some interpretations of things

Let’s start with the obvious one, House uses his cane wrong. They recognize this in canon. It isn’t simply a case of “oh the show writers were lazy and it’s never mentioned.” What I haven’t seen people discuss is that using a cane the way House does (in my experience anyways) fucking hurts. It isn’t comfortable at all. It feels awkward and clunky and at least personally within a few minutes of using a cane in that fashion my *entire body* hurts. Plus, it doesn’t even really help take the pressure off of my leg pain.

Given the all of him there’s two conclusions that I’d like to make about this (and remember this isn’t canon, just simply my interpretation as a disabled person):

It’s very obvious that House has Feelings about mobility aids. Society can often make people think that using mobility aids is a weakness. Admitting something is wrong. House very clearly doesn’t like to do either of those things. I personally have incredibly complicated feelings about mobility aids that I can’t even begin to put into words. I see myself in House in this regard.

I can’t help but think that him using his cane incorrectly is some fucked up form of self punishment. It’s been brought up in canon that House has a tendency to self harm in various ways. I don’t think that people realizing that him using a cane incorrectly could be related. For those who are unfamiliar, using any mobility aid (even a cane) incorrectly can cause damage. I do not claim to be a doctor but I imagine that House would be dealing with back and shoulder issues at minimum from using his cane the way he does.

The next thought I have is something I think about a lot. It’s clear House’s pain fluctuates, as it does for a lot of chronic pain patients. What I don’t see a lot of people talking about is realistically he could fluctuate mobility aids with the fluctuations of his pain. Yes, I understand there are limitations within his career as a doctor, but this is House MD were talking about there isn’t exactly always exact medical realism is there? I just can’t help but wonder, what would House’s life look like, if he let himself use something other than a cane?

I know there’s an episode where House does use a wheelchair for access to an accessible parking space, and I really really wish they expanded upon this more in canon. Personally, I think House needing to be (but not necessarily acting on it) a part time ambulatory wheelchair user makes sense.

I’ve read some fic/headcanons about House needing a wheelchair (Berber it be due to an advancement in disability or as an acceptance of his current disability) yet everyone talks about him using a shitty hospital grade chair. He’s a doctor who probably has great insurance plus a lofty department head paycheck. If House were in a position to have a wheelchair, he could very very easily access a top of the line custom made chair.

I understand the representation of the standard hospital chair often comes from a place of ignorance about custom wheelchairs, I really do. I just think that the concept of using a hospital chair permanently can cloud the judgement of if it’s truly a “bad thing” or not. Hospital wheelchairs are fucking uncomfortable and not easy to use. A custom chair, when built right, is none of these things.

Just, I’d love more House fanwork that embraces the idea of mobility aids. No, I don’t mean make House randomly decide “oh I’m gonna accept help now” and make him OOC. No, I mean let’s actually dive into House’s feelings about mobility aids, create some fanworks where maybe he works through some of his internalized ableism and self hatred and lets himself be accommodated. I hate seeing fic after fic that makes it seem like it’s some tragedy that House needs crutches or a walker or wheelchair. I want it to be normalized. Disability can be progressive and that’s just life. Yes, it’s upsetting. Yes, it can be sad to those involved. No, it doesn’t mean the end of the world.

Now I think it’s time to talk in regards to the treatment of his chronic pain, outside of the way he accommodates his mobility. I think that, while this is probably related to the writers wanting to stick to the “addicted to Vicodin” plot line, House’s pain management in the series, sucks, to put it lightly. I’ve been to multiple pain management programs (both at formal PM clinics and informal PM done by other specialists) and any doctor worth their salt would have had him on some sort of nerve pain medication and probably some form of muscle relaxer from the very beginning. While, yes, one could argue that House is on these medications and it’s just not mentioned, I really really don’t think that’s the case. You could also argue that he may have been offered these things, and simply refused them. This could very well be the case. However, that doesn’t erase the fact that these things could be helpful.

When House is off Vicodin, they have him substantiating off of exclusively ibuprofen. I’ve had chronic pain bad enough to need opioids treated with high doses of ibuprofen and in my personal experience, it doesn’t do shit. It just upsets your stomach and risks kidney issues and doesn’t actually help with the pain. The fact that just because he deals with addiction he doesn’t get proper pain management is BONKERS to me.

I understand that they were, within the shows canon, attempting to claim that at least some of the pain was psychological. Just because someone’s pain is psychological doesn’t mean you do not treat it. There are plenty of ways to treat psychological pain. Again, one could argue that House simply refused. Again, I’d say that you might be right.

You notice that I say that House very realistically could’ve refused various treatments that could make his life better. Just like how it is with his cane, I believe this is an effort at self punishment. If these efforts at self punishment are conscious or not is genuinely up to you. I personally view it as unconscious, but again, as I said in the beginning, I’m interpreting this the way I see things.

Anyways, just needed to get my thoughts out there, as a crippled person who’s been obsessed with House since before they realized that their chronic pain wasn’t normal. Since before they realized that the word disabled was something that could be applied to them.

Feel free to reply to this with thoughts or questions and y'all are more than welcome to DM me to pick my brain about this!

[effloradox]

I’m slightly obsessed with this vampire cowboy if you couldn’t tell 😅

Being the baby in a family of vampires is a difficult position to hold. You're not a baby by any means, you're in your thirties by now, but compared to the patriarch of your new family who is over three hundred years older than you, the other vampires dwarf your time on this planet. You know that this life is a blessing, that without it you'd be long dead by now, but it still stings having your age used against you in practically every family discussion.

Carlisle has more sympathy for your age difference but Edward is the worst for it. He's only seventy years older than you and yet you'd think he was seven hundred years older from the way he acts. You can't help the fact that people born in the same year as you are still alive and well, it's not like you can make time pass quicker and yet your adoptive brother seems to take great delight in pulling rank over you in any discussions about the future of the coven. Knowing he can read your thoughts of frustration does nothing to help the situation either.

Jasper knows it bothers you. He was still fairly new to the coven when you were turned, so whilst he's older than Edward he doesn't have the same position in the coven. It doesn't bother him as much since he outlives Edward, but he understand your frustrations. One of the perks of his abilities is knowing when you're reaching the end of your patience so he can quickly intervene with the suggestion of getting out of the house if only for a while so you can calm down.

It's almost a tradition at this point that not long after a move, the two of you will seek out some private spot far from the new house, far from the new town, that will become your spot for the duration of your time in whatever new place the coven has moved to.

As far as your limited experience goes, Forks seems to be a fairly nice town. Nothing like the small English town you lived in when you were human, but it's nice. It rains almost constantly, which is a nice feeling of being back home, and the people seem more than friendly enough. Carlisle had mentioned you having your tour of the high school in the upcoming days once enough time had passed for the family to have 'settled in'. The only thing you'd actually done upon arriving in town was choosing a bedroom for you and Jasper and immediate heading out to find your new spot.

Carlisle had warned you about not breaking the treaty he had formed with the Quileutes but aside from that, you and Jasper had been given free reign. It still hurt when the last thing you'd heard before you left the house was yet another snide remark from Edward about needing to baby proof the house before the two of you returned. You'd stopped running after maybe twenty minutes, and this was definitely not going to be your spot, but Jasper got the impression you needed time to process the past rather than look to the future.

"Do you think he'll always treat me like that?" You question makes Jasper pause for a moment as he considers his response. He lets his eyes drift over the small clearing the two of you are sat in before his gaze falls back to you.

"I hope not darlin'." His words do nothing to stop the ache in your chest and he knows it. He can tell from the defeated look on your face and the way your emotions flicker across your face. He doesn't need to be an empath to know how much this tirade is starting to bother you.

"Alice said that he'd stop with time, but I don't think I can spend another thirty years listening to him be so condescending about me." The mention of your precognitive sibling makes Jasper pause. For her to have a vision of something so specific would be unusual from what he's discerned over the years.

"Did Alice see something about him stopping?" You shrug lightly, pulling your knees close to your chest.

"Not necessarily. She said she saw something big happening whilst we're here that will make him stop but that could be years away." Jasper lets out a quiet noise of consideration at your words. Alice had been having more frequent visions since you'd all moved, maybe something big was on the horizon. Last time she'd had this many was just before you'd come into their lives.

"I can ask Carlisle to speak to him if you want." You take a moment to consider his offer before shaking your head lightly.

"I think that would just make him do it more out of spite. Thank you though." You outstretch a hand to him that he's more than willing to take. Even after over a decade of being together, it never fails to fill him with joy how perfectly your hand fits in his. Like you were made for him, or he was made for you. Maybe both. It certainly feels that way when you look at him with a smile that could rival the moon for how beautiful it is.

"You want to head somewhere new?" You nod at him and allow him to help you to your feet. Even now you're both standing your hands are still entwined and he smiles as he feels you squeeze his hand gently.

"Lead the way cowboy."

[thegirlwhorideslikeasamurai]

I'm having a déjà-vu that I've already posted about Yuuri's inner monologue at the beginning of episode 3 when he agonises about the stakes the Onsen on Ice has for him, but it's so hilarious that I need to pick it up again.

What cracks me up is that right after explaining that Viktor will return to Russia if Yurio wins, Yuuri goes like, "If I win, Viktor will stay in Japan and be my coach." But Yuuri doesn't think of Viktor skating in Ice Castle or accompanying him during his workout—no, he thinks of Viktor flirting with him on his first night in Hasetsu.

Yes, you've read that right: While Yuuri explains what is at stake for him at the Onsen on Ice, he thinks of Viktor flirting with him.

Note also the warm colours and the blurred lines of the image that add an atmosphere of nostalgia to the scene, like a memory Yuuri holds dear...

...compared to the actual scene in episode 2:

Seems like Yuuri isn't that opposed to Viktor's courtship endeavours, right?

Which leads me to the question: Is there anything else Yuuri wants Viktor to teach him except figure skating?

At this point, Yuuri is far from understanding sexual desire (that will come along with the discovery his Eros over the course of the story). He is also still far from being romantically interested in Viktor. To him, Viktor is a god-like creature he admires and has a crush on since he was 12, an fellow skater Yuuri copied over and over because he secretly craves to become his equal. And that is absolutely enough to be flustered when Viktor becomes flirty, even if the poor boy has no idea how to respond. (for clarification: crush, i.e. superficial fancy ≠ being in love, i.e. butterflies, wanting to date the other person, I had people trying to split hairs over this, no kidding)

Yuuri has been obsessed with Viktor throughout puberty and his entire adult life. That's long enough to have a whole library of fanboy fantasies in his brain. I believe that Viktor becoming his coach is a dream that formed in Yuuri long before the fateful banquet where he made Viktor crush on him. And what would be a better way to catch up to your idol than having said idol teach you? Where this fantasy is, there are bound to be others. After all, fantasies are a safe space, untethered from reality in the sense that the unhinged things Yuuri and Viktor would do in these are entirely decoupled from the things Yuuri would want from the real Viktor at some point in his existence because that fictional Viktor would be an abstract entity to project his fantasies upon, an ooc version of the real Viktor, and the fictional Yuuri would be an ooc version of the real Yuuri (I'm no longer talking about coaching figure skating. I'm talking about "Viktor-sensei, please teach me how to kiss!", or maybe even "Viktor-sensei, I want to do unspeakable things to you, please teach me how!", depending on how you headcanon Yuuri to act when he gets horny)

Yuuri's desire to emulate Viktor (and not necessarily being able to tell this apart from have Viktor around—yes, these two can be intertwined, and there are many hints in YOI that this is the case for Viktuuri), describes a characteristic of same-sex relationships that are depicted in other pieces of media, e.g. Bourne's Swan Lake or the novel Call Me By Your Name by André Aciman (I'd like to point you to that wonderful quote from this book).

I've digressed. My point is that Yuuri has still a long way to go until he figures out his feelings for Viktor. But this scene strongly suggests that he wants more from Viktor than keep on winning and keep on eating katsudon together, even though he might not yet be aware of the full extent of his wish.

If you enjoy my meta posts, please consider giving my blog a follow or checking out my works on AO3 (link in bio). You will find the results of my meta musings in there!

[sisterdivinium]

Genetic engineering, DNA modification, tested it on herself... Why would Jillian go through all this trouble? Adoption would be easier, surrogacy wouldn't be an issue for a woman with so much money, so why this devotion to medical science, to gene manipulation?

This doesn't seem very logical unless we take one step further in examining her characterisation as a sort of Virgin Mary character implied by her clothing and framing during season one: a man is never mentioned in connection to Michael's conception, either as donor or father... Possibly because Michael has no father. Jillian has made him up from scratch or, at least, using only her own genetic material.

This would surely equate to an awesome "medical marvel" and it would accomplish two additional things: first, it would account for just how sick Michael needs to be so that an extremely rare substance that doesn't even belong to this world can be his sole hope in surviving (the result of a miscalculation, an unforeseen mutated gene, some error in Jillian's design, the absence of something); and second, reproduction without the aid of man ("sinless", sexless) not only ties Jillian's character more closely to the theme of the holy mother, it also more strongly makes a Jesus figure out of Michael.

This is significant because it makes him into a designated saviour: Michael, too, "dies", crossing to "the other side" and later returning with the mission of saving humanity, which is the role he is sure he will play during all of season two. This story has been told before, the structure is the same and we all know it. He mirrors Christ in his being born of a woman untouched by man, in going beyond life and back, in being tasked by a higher power to act for others in his sacrifice. It is a destiny clearly written out for him, a classic narrative, a hero's journey neatly set up for Michael to accomplish and all he has to do is follow the script.

And yet, doing everything right, by the book, Michael ultimately fails.

If, according to all of the doubts awakened by the developments in Warrior Nun (is Adriel's realm not Heaven? Is he not an angel? Is Reya God? Is Jesus just as alien as Adriel? Etcetera), the Catholic church's teachings are all twisted, incomplete, when not simply ignorant of all that is true in spiritual, metaphysical matters, then this saviour narrative that constitutes the foundation of the institution itself is doomed — as well as whatever guidance it could supply.

I was discussing with @halobearerhavoc earlier about (among many other intriguing things) how myth informs the show and how it might predict Reya's fall, but also how that event would necessarily depart from how it plays out in the original myth. That is due to the fact that our protagonist here is Ava, a woman, and that this tiny little fact of sex alone forces a shift in how things are presented, in which values are prioritised, in how conflict is treated, escalated or resolved — this applies here as well.

Michael was the textbook redeemer, he was made for this, brought up by Reya with this explicit purpose and with the acquired conviction that he was the key to it all.

Ava, on the other hand, is a product of coincidence, of accident, of the unfathomable. She is already a rupture in tradition — dead and brought back, unknowingly, unwillingly the "usurper" of the halo, inserting herself in the line of bearers at random when she doesn't even seem to have any belief... Ava exists outside of tradition. To Michael's determined "Destiny", she is the one imbued with free will (it isn't out of guilt or duty that she returns to the Cat's Cradle, but through Mary's sympathy, through her own understanding and action). Ava is the unplanned factor, contrasted with Michael who was so planned that his life might have begun inside a Petri dish.

It isn't determinism that will save us, a mantle of glory woven by someone else wanting to place it upon our shoulders regardless of our own wishes; it isn't a decrepit institution or some despotic deity that will define us or what we do; it isn't the heavy, malodorous layers of ancient mould gathered over the endless tomes of Established Tradition or the carefully made calculations of arrogant scientists who think they can predict and explain and control everything.

Salvation cannot be through what Michael represents: an imposed duty, a stagnant, hackneyed story.

A story, we would do well to remember, which was already used to subjugate others, whatever its initial intentions might have been; Jillian certainly didn't predict what would be of her son and surely the primitive Christians didn't see into the future to understand what their devotion and their modes of its transmission would cause, yet it came to happen. The extermination of the Cathars, the persecution of pagans, the burning of "witches", the suppression of indigenous beliefs, activities and lives, to name but a few of the atrocities committed in the name of this one story...

So it cannot be Michael, embodying this narrative so well, that will bring about a fortunate ending to humanity's troubles.

Instead, salvation comes through Ava. She herself might be inhabited by a number of parallels with Christ, but she also carries freedom, an outsider's view which makes the inside so see-through, love, an ability to move outside of what had been previously set for her by someone else (one might even argue that these are the traits that made Christ before the story surrounding him came about)...

The walls built around her needn't contain her — and, phasing as she does, they do not.

Moreover, what would have been the real ending to Reya's plan, had it been followed exactly as it should have? The divinium bomb did hit Ava in the end, but wouldn't it have been worse had she not been interrupted in running up to Michael while he immobilised Adriel during the televised freak circus?

Ava's unpredictability, her impulse, her innate need to act with free will rather than constricted by what others dictate — Ava is the foil to fate itself, the foil to a structure, to a hierarchy that has been festering and rotting from the beginning of time, it should seem.

The hero of this story could only ever be her.

[ygdrasilly]

i have a lot of thoughts that have been collating for the last three months about crowley and aziraphale and i'm going to foist them upon everyone now.

this is probably an unpopular opinion, but i'm personally of the thought that of the two of them, crowley is the one out of a/c who is ace/demi leaning, and that he's the one more... i don't know, wary about touch.

there is no argument that crowley loves aziraphale. he does, utterly and completely and stupidly. (so very, very stupidly.) but i also think, much as he might vehemently argue about it, that crowley is more about the romance side of things. he watches richard curtis films. he takes aziraphale to the ritz (and other restaurants) for lunch. he saves aziraphale's books over the alcohol during the bombing just because. he drives aziraphale around in his beloved bentley (and let's him drive it to edinburgh!). he miracles hamlet to be a success as 'his treat'. he takes him to a graveyard so they can laugh at a statue of gabriel together. acts of service and all that.

even his kiss looked as though he had seen it in a romantic film, like that's what he thought you do in desperation. (not that i'm complaining lmao.)

aziraphale, in series two, shows his love through a lot of physical touch and looks. obviously he has the romantic side as well - he turned himself into a sidhe and abducted all of whickber street so he and his beloved could dance together, even giving away one of his books to do so - but he touched crowley a lot this series. the pub chest trail was very. well. and the looks. how many times have we caught him either looking crowley up and down or outright leering at him? there's a reason why i keep saying 'rip crowley when aziraphale gets his hands on him again' because goddamn. the whole 'there must be... something... i can do for you?' in 1941.

aziraphale shows his love through kidnapping an entire street of humans so he can dance with crowley and openly thirsting and starving for crowley ('please, do it again, right now'). but he also does things he knows crowley likes. he lets crowley rescue him, despite being more than capable enough of getting himself out of his own messes, because 'it makes him so happy'. i think he threw the ball for crowley because he knew that crowley likes romance, even if he'll never admit it. he knows what crowley likes ('you like waiting inside!').

looking at the physical touches, i don't think crowley is ever the first to initiate a touch between them, other than the kiss of desperation and the handshake on stage in 1941 (which was for public appearances and was so brief it barely counts). in their private moments, he lets aziraphale come to him. he holds out his hand to aziraphale in the bookshop in the 1941 flashback, but aziraphale is the one to close the distance. when they're swapping back to the actual forms post-heaven and hell trickery, crowley holds out his hand yet again, but aziraphale is the one to take it.

i think, the next time they kiss, aziraphale will have to be the one to bridge the distance between them because i think crowley will be wary of doing so again. and i do not think aziraphale's kiss will be as chaste as crowley's was.

this got away from me a bit, but my (original) point is that a/c doesn't need both of them to be full of lust (as i've seen in a, frankly, exhausting amount of fics) for it to be a fulfilling, love-filled relationship. aziraphale obviously has enough lust for the both of them, and crowley has all the genders. balance. or something.

(and once more, ace/ace-leaning people don't necessarily not experience sexual attraction. for a lot of people on the ace spectrum, it's about finding a person with whom they have a meaningful emotional connection, and aziraphale is that to crowley.)

[ridl]

So like with ganqing

Who fell first and who fell harder?

Hmm, not sure if i have a truly definite answer. It could go either ways - Keqing realizes her feelings first because she's analytical, she quickly notices all the changes in herself in regards to Ganyu. And Ganyu is more of the quiet type, who also doesn't think abt doing things for herself. Being like 3000+ could also mean she's fine with living alone, she doesn't necessarily need romance. Maybe even neither of them need it. But eventually she realizes that maybe she can take a chance at some new happiness, at sharing a life with someone. So once it hits her how much she cares about Keqing, it kinda just hits very strongly all at once. It becomes a strong want that she's finally willing to follow, despite her withdrawn nature. - Ganyu realizes her feelings first because her experiences with Keqing taught her to be bolder, to live more for herself and pursue her own wants and happiness. On the other hand, Keqing is focused on her dream of building the new era of Liyue, she's straightforward but cares about boundaries, so maybe she's not aware just yet of what she's actually feeling for Ganyu, who's fully supporting Keqing in that goal. And once she realizes those feelings, it hits her all at once like "oh. i'm in love with her. of course!", and she basically immediately wants to act upon it, because that's just how she is.

[inposterumcumgaudio]

Maybe u could talk about the Byngs? Not necessarily as a family unit, I just never see people talk about them in depth despite their importance in the game and lore.

You know what I noticed the other day? When Victoria meets with General Byng after her jailbreak, he offers her a place in his safehouse. This would have to be after Sally's escape from it or else he'd be planning for her to stay there instead (and also because by this point, Victoria's begun her assault on the Joy supply in the water so the town is going properly insane about it). And yet, Byng's not got his face all slashed up as he should. I think Victoria would have noticed that.

You could write that off as unintentional oversight, but they do have a texture of slashed-face Byng they could have used. On the other hand, that texture is only seen for a split-second in Sally's act.

It happens so fast one might even wonder if it actually happened at all.

The foundation for questioning Sally's perception of things is a whole other post (which this fandom desperately needs), but let's just say that everyone is the hero of their own story and wants to remember themselves as more than they probably were in a moment.

A lot of what we know about Byng is through the lens of him as a burdensome necessity to Sally's survival. Sally certainly spends a lot of her time soliloquizing to herself about how much of a chore entertaining him (and men like him) is. But she also fondly calls him "Byng-a-ling" on her clientele list that no one but her will ever see. She likes Byng, but she has to complain to herself to maintain her self-perception as the put-upon pretty girl.

I would argue Byng is actually the best suitor she's had, exactly what she's spent her entire adult life looking for. She can lie to herself about wanting Arthur, but if an Arthur was what she wanted, she could have found one. You can't throw a dead rat in Wellington Wells without hitting an Arthur. But she doesn't actually go for Arthurs, does she?

What she seeks out are men who can do something for her. But those men want things in exchange, they make demands on her time and attention. She has to give to get. Men like Stewart Adams are happy to give her practically anything for a smile, but they hardly have anything to give. She complains constantly about how Verloc required all of her attention, but she got status, education, access to chemicals and equipment, the list goes on.

But Byng! Byng shows up, what, once every week or so? A spritz in the mouth and a little manic-pixie-dream-girl dance and he's good. Very low maintenance comparatively.

And he gives her equally as much as Verloc did with the added bonus of protecting her from Verloc. Really, his only overt demand is still a passive one: keep the Bobbies supplied with Blackberry, thus maintaining the power balance in the town to Byng's favor. She'd have to do that anyway.

And the difference is Byng sees this relationship the way Sally would like the relationship to be. They meet periodically, she gets everything she wants from him and barely has to do anything for it. The promise of being the prettiest girl in the world, finally fulfilled! Even that once-a-week encounter can't be that much of a chore. Imagine being a girl as insecure as Sally, thinking your only power in the world is your looks, you just had a baby when everyone around you is a waif and the local tabloid said you could stand to lose some weight, and the most powerful man in town is content to get high, watch you do a little dance, and fuck on off when he wakes up without even demanding a goodbye. That's quite ideal, if you didn't have a baby upstairs.

But she has to think of it as a hassle because otherwise, she'd have to admit that it's what she always thought she was entitled to.

She only really starts to turn on Byng when he suggests that she should let him take Gwen across the bridge. And that sounds just monstrous if you're Sally but... is that really so unreasonable? If you are looking at this objectively, that's whole-ass a plan. Wellington Wells is incredibly unsafe for a baby!

I'm not saying Sally's wrong for being like, "Uh, no?" about that because she does not know what's on the other side of the bridge. We know there are children out there, as evidenced by Shitty Day Kid. You don't learn about him until after Ollie's act, so you don't know when Byng is making this offer to Sally, but there is conceivably a place for Gwen to go. Therefore, there's no reason why we should assume any nefarious intent behind his offer to get her out.

Yes, Byng does have his ulterior motives for wanting to send Gwen across but not Sally. He needs Sally; the entire town does. Her departure would have meant the end of order in Wellington Wells, even outside of Arthur's, Ollie's, and Victoria's actions. And, if you are Byng, even if (as Indira says in a cut line) "an Englishman’s duty has an uncanny knack of being whatever it is he wants to do anyway", well, it is in this case. His duty to Wellington Wells would very explicitly be to not allow - let alone enable - one of its most valuable assets to leave.

I think my favorite thing about Byng, though, is that he often has to be the adult in the room to a populace that has elected to remain children. And as such, because you are as a player made to empathize with these adult children (and indeed because most of the people who played this game were children themselves), this more than anything is why Byng comes off as the game's ultimate villain.

Unfortunately, he's also very often right.

"Sally. Do you love her? Or do you just love having someone who needs you?"

"Really? Would the good townsfolk of Wellington Wells have followed me into the machine guns? Or would they all have hidden in their basements?"

"[The Executive Committee]'d tear me apart like starved jackals. And then they'd pop a Joy."

"Nothing is exactly what we must do. If our people realize they're running out of food, they'll kill each other for the last box of V-Meat!"

Like, none of these statements are untrue. In the context that you hear all of them, you're in the position to read them as self-serving excuses and rationalizations. But Byng is perhaps the person best equipped to see the big picture. He does not take Joy like Victoria, he's not under the same pressure and emotional distress as Verloc, he has been awake and aware the entire time. "Excruciatingly well informed," as a certain memory of an ex-wife once put it.

He's also a skilled tactician and knows the limits of his own powers (which he makes a point of multiple times: "there's only so many strings I can pull" to Victoria, "even I won't be able to save you then" to Sally, "you don't think I'm the one who decides these things, do you?" to Ollie). He can predict what outcomes will occur based on what he can do with the resources available to him and frankly, Wellington Wells is not the best hand to be dealt. Like I said in the Haworth and Verloc post, it's a city of cowards and savages.

Even the point at which Victoria loses all faith in him, when he says that "Our duty now… is to rescue what we can. Salvage something from this whole rotten mess. Even if it's only two or three people," is not an unreasonable position to take from his perspective. The citizens of Wellington Wells are behaving exactly as predicted. To narrow the scope of his interest to just the few people he can save, and narrowing it again as those people reject his offers? It's a tactical reallocation of resources. Every day is a fuckin' battle when you're the General.

I'm not saying he's a good person. He's not. Even his own biography - which presumably would tell you how he himself would like to be perceived - paints him as a self-serving tattletale. He's as much a shitheel as everyone else in this game. But I do think anything you hear about him (and this is true of everyone in this game, all the time) needs to be viewed in the context of the person who's stating that opinion.

And always remember what they tell you right at the beginning of Sally's act:

[remyfire]

If you’re still doing kiss roulette can I get hawkeye and Mulcahy ?

(Hello! Sorry these are getting done so late, but I am still working through them and loving every moment! You get! A kiss to the neck!

I really hope you enjoy!)

There is never necessarily a convenient time to search for something in the supply tent—if an item is requested, then it is always needed with incredible haste—but there's a certain frustration in having only the moonlight by which to comb through the shelves. Despite his quiet questions after if there was a spare lamp, which went ignored, and his decent memory of where they might be, which has failed him, Francis finds himself huffing a sigh as he slips past the door and lets it shut quietly behind him.

It's no one's fault, he reminds himself, that the power has been cut off from a faulty generator, and frankly he should be incredibly grateful that there are no wounded who need surgery right now. Radar has already sent for the part that's needed to fix the generator, and they have confirmation that it's on the way and should be here within the hour.

There too is another way to deliver light—through an act of service—and truly if the only way Francis can currently be of assistance is to find a fresh box of gauze in here and deliver it to post-op, then he'll do so with a grateful heart.

Though they might've sent someone without a preexisting vision condition, he thinks wryly.

"Well." He heaves a sigh, grips his crucifix. "If it be Your will, then perhaps You might illuminate my path."

Unsurprisingly, there is a faint pang of amusement in Francis's gut, one he doesn't associate with himself, necessarily, and he rolls his eyes. "Or maybe not," he murmurs back, but with a degree of fondness.

When Francis is alone like this, he finds it monumentally less difficult to find the divine threads interwoven with  his veins. When he is leading a poorly-attended service, offering confession, or doing most any ceremonial task, it's difficult for him to own up to, but there's an element of the performative there, something which always plagues him. He'll know the right words to say, the right movements, and yet he'll be powerfully aware of the eyes on him and the calling he doesn't wish to fumble.

Tucked in a dark room with no one around but himself, Francis has fewer senses to distract him. He can interpret the emotions he feels with less uncertainty. He knows where he feels his own joy...and where he considers the mirth that he'll feel from, well, Him.

Things he can't really talk about with anyone else in this camp—and without many of his fellow practitioners either. Not without feeling their confusion, their concern, their judgment.

The longer you think about this, the longer those patients go without fresh bandages, he remembers, and with a deep breath and a hand held far in front of him, Francis begins feeling his way through the tent.

Due to the watchful eye of Major Houlihan, it's rare that the supply tent is rearranged in between shipments. If there's a large-scale shift needed, she supervises carefully, and after Francis gets through the initial hiccup, he inevitably finds his way around once again. But thankfully it's been quite some time since one of those, and he knows to trace along the cool metal of the shelf, all the way to the end, then let his fingertips hop to the next, and the next.

It's these shelves tucked near the back that hold his quest item, and Francis finally slows his progress to squint, do his best to discern one object from the next. He'd rather not experience the humiliation of bringing the wrong type of gauze nor the humility of needing to smile through his mistake as he returns to locate the correct one. But as he's halfway down the row, he catches sight of the nook at the rear. Pauses.

Behind him, a streak of moonlight cuts through the window, illuminates the mattress and rumpled blankets upon it. He can see the bare edge of a shiny plastic thing on the ground, and Francis blinks as he takes a step closer, pauses, then a few more. There's nothing to fear here. What this area symbolizes has no more power than a purple mark he'll see on a neck, a bra pinned to the bulletin board.

But when he kneels down and picks up the open item, he realizes it's an empty condom wrapper, and in a flare of shocked heat, he flicks it away.

A man of his age—and especially of his calling—should be less...less reactive to things like this. Not so flustered when he realizes what he's touched. But all he can suddenly think of is a man's nude body, painfully erect, his strong hand slowly rolling a condom down his hard penis, and suddenly he might as well be sunburned from head to toe.

Francis rises to his feet. Tugs his hat off and clutches it in his hands, right against his belly. He doesn't...it's not that he thinks that he'll need to...conceal anything, not when he's become such an expert over the years of redirecting his mind. In fact, now that he's staring holes through the tent wall, he can summon all of his focus to reject this part of himself. Tamp it down. Envision sitting within a frozen field of snow and ice, meditating, not a single soul for miles. There is only Francis, his Lord, and the lovely frigid walls rising up within him, and the clack of plastic—

The clack of plastic.

"There you are."

As arms wrap around his waist and yank him backward, a million things swim at once into dizzying focus—the hanger finally settling against the Supply Tent door, the syrupy masculine voice that could only belong to Hawkeye Pierce, the hungry and biting heat right on his throat. Francis lets out a sharp cry as he stiffens in place, hands flying down to push away the grip that holds him there, but...but then he bites and sucks and moans, and all at once, his knees give out completely.

"Been thinking about you all day."

If he was sunburned before, he's thrown straight into a bonfire now, where his ancestors used to toss women who were too independent, not to mention other sinners—

Hawkeye's groan is sugary sweet yet rich as licorice, the conflicting sensations sending Francis on a roller coaster as he throws his head back and finally drops his hat. This. This is what they warn about, the way that you'll be overtaken all at once, how a million devilish servants will pick you up and fly away with you and never let you find the ground beneath your feet again. You'll chase and chase and chase and chase, but there'll be no peace, only—

"C'mon, lemme hear you, huh? Gimme those pretty moans you've got." Hawkeye purrs right before he shifts to hot, wet kisses over Francis's sensitive skin, the kind that leave him sinking back into his grip, overwhelmed, somehow finding himself at the point of tears at the exquisiteness—no, no, at the...the...

It's only when a hand rushes up his body, under his green jacket, and over his chest that everything stops.

Francis whimpers, tips his head further.

Suddenly he's falling backwards, and Francis just barely manages to catch himself on a shelf, on the hand he throws behind him too. Like an awkward crab just recovering from escaping a boiling pot, he blinks, skitters slightly to flop onto his knees, then chances a nervous look up.

Hawkeye gapes at him, brows high, mouth hanging open, and when he starts shaking his head, there is no true way to articulate Francis's level of shame. He feels it so rarely. Only on the nights where he...lapses a bit. Where his hand might wander while he's alone in his cot, thinking of clever surgeon hands and mischievous smiles.

Right. Francis bows his head and clears his throat. I...yes, right.

"Jesus, Father, I—sorry. Sorry about that. About the Jesus. About the—" Hawkeye splutters for a moment longer, then holds out a hand. "You okay? You hurt?"

"Well, I..." Francis can't help but breathe a single chuckle, one that's tinged with a taste of his own bitterness. "Only on the neck, I believe."

"Shit. Sorry. I, uh..." As Hawkeye helps him to his feet, he's careful about it, his other hand coming to cup Francis's elbow to steady him as though Hawkeye was perhaps the one to push him. "I know it's not exactly the dead of winter or anything, but can I suggest a turtleneck?"

"I'll consider it. Though perhaps we can pass it off as a creative form of stigmata."

Hawkeye barks a shocked laugh, but it falls away just as fast, and Francis is left with his hand held, his throat sore, his neck cooling from...from Hawkeye's...saliva, where he'd bitten, where he'd marked him. Another flood of fire washes over him, but he doesn't feel as cleansed as the three who were thrown within Nebuchadnezzar's furnace.

There are words that need to be exchanged here, of course. The reminder that even if Hawkeye Pierce might think about Francis in this sort of way, it isn't permissible. That there's nothing Francis could ever give him that could make him happy. That—

The hanger clatters louder this time, and suddenly Nurse Madeline comes around the corner, tall and lovely and...blonde. That darling little pixie cut of hers.

The realization hits and makes Francis's blood run cold. Of course.

"Goodness, I seem to have...interrupted a medical discussion," Francis manages to say with a small smile.

"Don't worry, Father," Nurse Madeline murmurs with a smile. "I'll see you this weekend."

At confession, he realizes. Ah. His brows shoot up as he looks between them both, but all he can find is amusement on her face, something indecipherable on Hawkeye's. It isn't the first time that Francis has interrupted an interlude, just...just not...quite so preemptively. But while he'd expect Hawkeye to tease him about that, all he can see through the darkness is how the dark-haired man is refusing to look away.

Finally, Hawkeye seems to come back to himself. "Gauze, right?" He takes a quick step, leans, and snags a fresh box of it. "Here. Should be what Margaret's looking for."

"Oh, why...thank you." Francis reaches for it, but Hawk cups his knuckles and makes him gasp. Very carefully, Hawkeye makes sure that the box is tucked safely into his palm, then uses his own touch to wrap Francis's fingers around it.

He looks at Hawkeye one more time. And from this closer distance, he can more easily interpret the flecks of blue heat in his irises.

Francis clears his throat as he slips between them, making sure he brushes neither. "I'll be going then."

"Good night, Father," Hawkeye says softly behind him. Almost fondly, he might be tricked to say.

Francis hesitates at the end of the row, swallows the stone in his throat, then quickly makes his way out of the tent. To safety. To linger in disappointment, confusion, and incredibly fervent prayers.

[kikiiswashere]

Children of Zaun - Chapter 22

Pairing: Silco/Fem!OC

Rating: Explicit

Story Warnings: Canon typical violence, drug use/dealing, dark themes, smut

Chapter Summary: Piltover makes initial decisions in response to the Children of Zaun claiming responsibility for the airship crash. The Undercity suffers at their response - unwittingly sending more Trenchers into the Children's ranks. Silco and Katya continue to flirt. Kells commits a horrific act, for which he is promptly punished.

Special Note: Many, many thanks to @sand-sea-and-fable for being my bestie and beta for this chapter!

Chapter CW: Sexual assault. The text right before and after this part with be in bold and will be colored red so you may choose to skip if that is safest for you ❤️

Previous Chapter

Word Count: 6.1K

“We have a problem,” Grayson announced, striding into Bone’s office.

The Councilor looked up from his desk, pen pausing in the middle of the sentence he was writing.

“What is that?”

The Captain sighed and sat down heavily in the chair in front of his desk. She fidgeted her hat between her fingers, spinning its stiff brim to and fro.

“Someone has laid claim to that airship crash.”

Bone blinked. Then set down his pen. “Who?”

The airship crash and subsequent arrest of a teller at Clockwork Vault had thrown Piltover into a tizzy. Not much information had been made available to the public yet, but it had kept Grayson busy; unable to commit to the work she had agreed to do with the Undercity Councilor.

“Some group in the Undercity. They are calling themselves the Children of Zaun.”

Bone stared at the young woman across from him, his gut growing heavy and sinking to his feet. He felt cold sweat begin to accumulate on the back of his neck. He could feel his dreams for the Undercity slipping away. It would have been one thing if the airship crash had been perpetrated by one or two people; but a group admitting responsibility for it?

“I have not heard of them.”

“Neither have we,” Grayson admitted.

“Why did they attack the ship?”

“To get the money. They sent LeDaird a note saying that it was the start of Piltover’s ‘reparations’.”

“When was this note sent?”

“Yesterday afternoon. Tubed from a public booth in the Undercity to the station. LeDaird has a meeting with Heimerdinger in an hour about it. I am to meet him there.” Grayson paused before saying, “I wanted to give you a heads up.”

Bone nodded, fingers drumming nervously on the desk. Heimerdinger would call Council to a private assembly upon hearing this news. He knew what the Council would say. That the airship attack was an act of terrorism. That these ‘Children of Zaun’ were terrorists and needed to be dealt with swiftly.

Not necessarily justly.

Justice couldn’t exist in a vacuum of panic.

Bone would not be able to work towards his goals of Undercity equality and equity with Piltover concerned and smarting from underground retaliations.

His access to Grayson would diminish, too. Their fragile olive branch already bending under the conflicting weight of her duties and his goals.

“LeDaird doesn’t know you’re here right now?”

Grayson shook her head. She ran a wide hand through her black hair and repeated, “I wanted to give you a heads up. This group is demanding secession from Piltover. At the risk of being crass, Councilor Bone, shit is going to hit the fan.”

“Indeed,” he muttered, mind whirring frantically.

The scandal of a Piltovan teller trying to fleece Topside families would be old news by suppertime tomorrow. All anyone would be concerned with was this burgeoning terrorist group and their divisive demands. His seat on Council would be met with more scrutiny. His goals for the Undercity completely undone and unjustified.

“I am going to do what I can,” Grayson said, placing a hand on the desk, “to keep helping you. This doesn’t change that. To be clear.”

Bone swallowed and nodded. “Thank you, Captain.”

Council met for an emergency assembly later that day. When Bone limped into the chamber, Sheriff LeDaird, Captain Grayson, and Heimerdinger were already present. The two Enforcers stood with rigid spines in the center of the floor; Piltover’s founder sat in his seat looking uncharacteristically grave.

Bone took his seat as the rest of his peers strode in. Each of their faces were variations of the same theme: exasperated. As if being called to action was a major inconvenience.

“Councilors,” Heimerdinger greeted. His tone was serious as his bright blue eyes flicked to each face seated around him. “Thank you for meeting here on such short notice. This call is in regards to the airship crash that happened earlier in the week. Sheriff LeDaird has come into some alarming evidence.”

All the Councilors – save for Bone – mumbled surprised sentiments, looking to one another. The sheriff took a step forward, folding his hands behind his back.

“I have alerted Professor Heimerdinger that a group has claimed responsibility for the crash.” He paused as he withdrew a weathered envelope from his inner-breast pocket, holding it up. “This arrived to the Enforcer Headquarters yesterday afternoon.” He took out the scrap of paper housed within the envelope and read, “We are the Children of Zaun. Consider the coin the beginning of your reparations. We are the Children of Zaun. We are The Storm’s Fury. And we demand freedom.”

LeDaird’s deep voice echoed through the deadly quiet chamber. Bone felt a chill go down his spine and a flame light in his belly.

“Zaun?” Xiu sniffed.

“It is a reference to Oshra Va’Zaun. Or Kha’Zaun. The true name has been lost to time,” Bone said, quietly annoyed that the other council members did not understand the connection. “The port city from whence Piltover rose.”

“So, this letter came from the Undercity,” Krum said.

“From a public booth in the Lanes,” LeDaird confirmed. “Enforcers are currently investigating these booths, asking questions to see if anyone recalls someone suspicious or out of place using them.”

“Who are they? These Children of Zaun?” Bolbok ground through his gears.

“We are investigating that as well,” LeDaird promised. “They are not a gang or terrorist group we are familiar with. Likely, they are a new development. We are doing our best to get an idea of their numbers – “

“What about the money they stole?” Hoskel voiced. “The families that odious teller stole from are upset enough already. Now, their money is in the hands of a terrorist group? Reparations, indeed.”

Bone’s fingers clawed slightly on the table, waiting for the inevitable.

“Councilor Bone,” Heimerdinger finally said. His tone was kind, but prompting. “You are our eyes and ears into the Undercity. Have you heard any rumblings amongst your constituents?”

Bone closed his eyes, felt the drag and scrape of breath down his throat. His very being thrummed as years of tamped down distrust pulled at his bones. There had always, always been rumblings of secession in the Lanes. Fissurefolk grumbling and dreaming of a better life. But those moans and wishes fell by the wayside when mouths needed to be fed, and housing needed to be maintained. At the end of the day, they were too tired to rail and fight against their overlords.

Independence was too lofty and unrealistic a goal. Even Bone knew that. That was why he was on Council, why he had reached out to Captain Grayson; to try and bridge the gap. And what these people – these Children – were demanding, what they had done, would jeopardize that.

“I do not know them,” he promised.

“Are these the same individuals who attempted to rob that shipment for the Enforcer Headquarters a few weeks ago?” Councilor Thornenburg asked, stepping over Bone’s answer.

“At this point there is no evidence to suggest a connection,” LeDaird explained, “but we are looking at it as a possibility.”

“Councilors,” Heimerdinger interjected, his bright tone sharp and grabbing. “I called you here today because as the leaders of Piltover, we must decide how to move forward with the information we have. The safety of our citizens takes the utmost priority. We cannot tolerate anything that stagnates our great nation’s progress.”

Bone pursed his lips together. His eyes flicked over to Grayson, who exchanged his gaze with one of careful aloofness; but in the depths of her brown eyes, he saw a flash of concern, a muscle in her jaw flexed. Around him, his Councilor peers nodded and got to work.

Katya rifled through the shipment that had just been delivered to the clinic, carefully stocking the product while internally making note of which items would be stowed away in her coat later.

She felt . . . strange. A confluence of feelings had taken root within her over the past several days, and most of the time she couldn’t make heads or tails of them. The past two weeks had been very eventful – both broadly and intimately.

In the days following the Children’s letter, Council published a very scant bulletin about the airship crash and the Children’s involvement. She heard rebellion members and other Zaunites alike scoff and roll their eyes at Topside’s carefully crafted announcement. About how, suddenly, disdain and interest in the crooked Clockwork Vault teller was no longer anywhere to be found. The attention and fault fully shifted to the Undercity. As unsurprising as it was, the benefit of Topside’s compulsory prejudice resulted in the Children’s numbers growing again; now knowing that there was a cause to funnel that ire into, that there were likeminded citizens actively pushing for change, more and more Trenchers showed up. Sick and tired of being blamed and persecuted.

And persecuted they were.

Despite Council insisting that the actions they were taking were for the benefit of the entire Piltovan city-state, their solutions only negatively affected the Undercity. Registrations for Bridge passes was put on hold; those – like Katya – who already had Bridge passes were temporarily denied entry onto Piltover’s side of the river. Exemption was made for Viktor, Heimerdinger had seen to that. But Katya now passed him off to Ivy at the attendant’s hut on Piltover’s side of the Bridge, as oppose to meeting on campus.

The day those actions were put into effect, Viktor had limped toward the Bridge’s gate, Ivy at his side, with an expression that both cracked Katya’s heart and set it aflame in righteous indignation. He looked scared and confused. She had twisted the thread inside her coat sleeve tightly around her finger and bit the inside of her cheek.

I am doing this for us.

She felt more certain about that sentiment now. More solid. More sure. Her and the Children’s efforts would wipe away the concern from her brother’s face; from the faces of Lanes’ children across Zaun. It was an emotion they should not have to experience. Certainly not at the hands of their government.

As the attendant lifted the barricade, Ivy had ducked to protect her hair and Viktor limped toward his sister.

“Hello, Katya,” Ivy had said, her signature kind smile setting her face aglow. She unshouldered the bag on her back and held it out.

Katya took it without greeting in kind.

“Let’s go home, Viktor.”

At home, she explained what Council had done, why she couldn’t pick him up in Piltover anymore. She left out her involvement with the Children of Zaun; she still wasn’t ready for him to know. She didn’t want him to worry about her. Nor did she want him to have to carry that knowledge and navigate his way through Piltover every week. Not until he absolutely had to.

“Why did those people steal? Why is Topside closing the gates, though?” He had asked.

Katya looked at him intensely, every cell of her body vibrating with a sense of injustice. She pet a hand through his thick hair, hoping the touch would ground her. It didn’t. She felt more agitated.

“Those people – The Children of Zaun – are trying to right the wrongs Piltover has done to the Undercity,” she had told him. “Remember how you noticed your professor taught history differently than Papa did?” Viktor nodded. “Topside is in power. Wants to remain in power. So, they teach their lessons differently. So, they do not have to change. They punish us so they don’t have to change.”

Viktor’s eyebrows creased. “Then why do I go?”

“You know why – “

“I mean, besides the clean air – “

Katya had taken her brother’s face into her hands and said, “Because you deserve to be there, Viktor. You deserve the clean air and the opportunities the Academy will afford you. You do not need to give that up. These people – the Children – are working to make sure that others may have the same chances, too. We are not less because we are from this side of the river. That’s why they are doing what they are doing. That is why Piltover is doing what they are doing.” She sighed, and loosened her hold on his cheeks. “Do your best not to worry about this, Viktor. You will go to school. You will breathe clean air. And, hopefully, someday soon, you’ll walk across the Bridge home to a free nation.”

Viktor’s small bud of a mouth thinned, but he did not broach the subject again.

When Katya walked him to Piltover’s side of the Bridge the following Monday, Ivy had been waiting for them. As on Friday, Katya did not acknowledge her beyond handing off her brother’s bag.

She’d drawn Viktor in close, as she always did when they parted. But this time, she whispered in a voice that sent shivers down his spine, “You deserve to be here, Viktor.”

They parted, Katya dragging her hand through his hair and down his cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he had replied, and, despite everything, concern shimmered in his eyes.

Katya’s lips pursed at the memory, and brushed her fingers along the neatly packed glass vials tucked securely in the box she was unloading. For the last supply order, her request for larger vials of medicine was approved. She had managed to convince the mine’s board that it was more economically feasible to order certain items in bulk – the high-strength decongestant among them. It was a maneuver that ended up being additionally helpful since supplies to Zaun were being bottle-necked by Piltover. Shipments on everything destined for the Lanes were delayed by thorough screenings, and, in a place that already had so little, Zaunites felt this transgression acutely. Businesses suffered, food on dinner tables became more meager.

The Children did their best to counteract this by greasing the wheels and lining the pockets of the few traders who dealt with Zaunite businesses directly. They were mostly morally grey types, whose scruples laid less with loyalty, and more with extra coin. Which the Children paid to get extra food and weapons into the city.

Katya had met Silco and Sevika one of the nights a trader from Bilgewater was due to deliver a few small packages of food, a case of liquor, and a roll of leather that held a few worn sabers. The meet up location was an inconvenient distance from anything, but that was the point. It was easier to do the hand off several klicks down Zaun’s shoreline, away from the docks that faced Piltover.

In the dark, only the glow of purple algae beneath their feet, Silco and Sevika had gathered the goods into their arms. Katya handed the trader – a bent and crooked old Yordle with leathered skin, no teeth, and ears with so many holes in them that they looked moth-bitten – the clutch of agreed upon coins and stowed the rolls of knives in her coat.

“Remember us,” Silco had said gravely, fixing the trader with intense eyes, “and we will remember you.”

The Yordle chuckled – a sound more akin to a rattling motor – and returned to his small boat, carefully moored against the rocky shoreline. He had not responded to Silco with words, but he nodded. Deftly, he navigated his vessel away from the shore.

They watched him go, before Katya had said, “Let’s get this back to The Drop.”

Silco nodded and led the way. Katya at his shoulder.

She had been concerned the night after she pleasured herself to thoughts of him, that things would be inexplicably awkward between them. As she arrived at work that following day, lead-heavy regret settled in her stomach. She was certain she ruined it – whatever it was.

Her fears were dashed later that day when Silco appeared in the clinic to tell her how sore he was, and to ask questions about the lesson that had blossomed in his head over night. Warm relief melted the despair in her gut. She looked up into his pink-tinged face delighted that he had sought her out. They talked until Will showed up. Like last time, he fixed Silco with a disapproving, questioning look that had the young man skittering from the clinic. Katya was close behind. They laughed together about how uptight her clinic co-worker was.

Katya plucked two of the larger glass vials from the lineup, and set them aside, intending on giving them to Enyd. The medic had suggested to her that she may want to up her daily doses of medicine through the cold season, to see if that brought her any additional relief. It meant she’d go through the decongestant faster, which is what prompted Katya to fight for the larger bottles.

Since the airship crash, Katya had shared supper with Silco and Enyd a few more times. The older woman showed her several, easy kitchen tricks and recipes that would be simple to replicate back in her own home. In exchange, Katya shared with Enyd her attempt to cook the tentacles with herbs a couple weeks prior.

Enyd chortled upon hearing that Katya had attempted to eat the wilted plants.

“That was good instinct,” Enyd had said, “to infuse the fat with the flavor of the herbs. But, as you experienced, once the herbs have imparted their flavor to the dish, they have little use.”

“Very brave of you to test it out on yourself instead of Viktor,” Silco had snickered from his seat at the table. “Big sister, indeed.”

Katya playfully flicked her napkin at him, and he laughed.

One evening, Enyd’s cough was particularly bad, and both Katya and Silco insisted that she not cook and exert herself further. Instead, the matriarch directed the pair from the kitchen table on how to make that night’s meal. Between Katya and Silco continually messing up and laughing, the process took much longer than usual. However, Katya found the end result to be even more delicious than normal.

Katya smiled to herself at the memory of that night, closing the lid of the crate and carrying it to the supply closet. She put away the vials of medicine in neat lines on the shelf, their arrangement reminding her of the neat rows Enforcers marched in.

An unsurprising result of the airship crash and the Children’s letter was increased Enforcer presence throughout the Lanes. It was inevitable, predictable. As such, Trenchers – whether they were among the Children or not – were prepared to deal with pushy questions and accusations. And knew to protect each other.

Something that was a surprise to the Children, as well as the Enforcers, was the development of someone graffitiing ‘Zs’ throughout the Undercity. After Council had released their statement, someone – perhaps the same person – painted FREE ZAUN across the face of an abandoned Promenade shop that faced Piltover. Council had it painted over, only for it to reappear a couple days later.

No one in the revolution admitted to the tagging, even amongst themselves. Tongue-in-cheek rumors about the spirit of Janna doing it whispered through the ranks. Some Children, bolstered by the secrecy of the original artist, joined in. Soon, it was difficult to walk anywhere in the Undercity without seeing nods to Zaun and their right to freedom. Small, artfully-minded ‘Zs’ were drawn in chalk on the sides of buildings. Bluebirds cut from paper hung on clotheslines and lampposts. ‘We are the storm’s fury’ etched into metal handrails.

The Undercity was embroiled in the cause, the notion of their freedom brightening their eyes and lightening their souls. A ticking clock ready to ring in a new era.

The next box was stuffed with soft bandages and gauze. She carefully thumbed through them, checking the invoice as she went. The speaker on the desk crackled to life, causing Katya to jump and curse. She cursed again, realizing she had lost her place.

“Foreman Baz to medical.”

Katya groaned, staggered to her feet, and over to the desk, pressing the speaker’s button.

“Go ahead, Baz. This is medical.”

“There’s been an accident in Fissure 27. Kid from Unit 88 got his leg caught between the track n’ a mine cart. We got the cart off ‘em, but he’s not calmin’ down ‘nough to stand. Can you come n’ give him something? Check ‘em over?”

Katya eyed the clock above the door. Her shift was due to end within the hour, but she did not want to leave this miner waiting for Will. That, and, if the boy was in Unit 88, that meant Unit 90 – Silco and Sevika’s Unit – would be nearby. It would be nice to see them, if only for a moment.

“Fissure 27? I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Fissure 27 was in the northern section of the mine, the oldest part of it. The tunnels there were large, having been carved out multiple times over the mine’s life. They were some of the first tunnels that became fitted with giant turbines, great fans that had drilled deeper and deeper into the terra. Most of the rock here had long since been squeezed of its main resources, those turbines now sitting eerily still in great, deep shafts.

However, per Piltover’s insatiable appetite for progress and productivity, some of these ancient tunnels were retrofitted to become storage space and garages for mining equipment. Others were further exploited for their resources; miners there were given orders to chip and pulverize the already dead stone to create gravel.

Grave robbers desecrating a corpse.

Since the collapse of the western mine tunnels, the units that had been working that rock were moved here until the board either found something else for them to do, or until the collapsed tunnels were excavated and rebuilt.

Katya walked the north end main vein from which the fissures branched out, clinic-issued medical bag bouncing at her hip. The foreman she passed paid her no mind, most of the miners did as well – too focused, too tired, or too hollow to acknowledge her. A few miners did catch her eye though. She recognized them as members of the Children. She nodded at them, and they nodded back. A quick, curt, but meaningful recognition.

She strode past Fissure 26, a small child accidently bumping into her. They murmured an apology and kept their eyes to the ground. Katya’s voice caught in her throat, recognizing him as the boy with the jaw injury she’d treated some weeks back. He was too quick for her to get a decent look, but the flesh around his neck and lower cheek was beginning to discolor, the sweet smell of rot gently wafting off him.

Her heart cracked and ached as she watched him scurry back into the fissure. This one – and she was guessing the same for 27 – were some of the tunnels that had been converted into equipment repair and holding space. She craned her neck a bit, glancing at the heads, faces, and bodies. Finally, spied Sevika’s tall form near the back end of an old excavator. She was holding the engine hood open with one powerful arm while a slim frame she recognized as Silco’s was half way in the machine, head first.

Sensing eyes on her, Sevika glanced up, and cracked a wide smile at the sight of Katya. She jerked her chin in greeting, and then looked at her questioningly. Katya playfully rolled her eyes and held up the bag slung over her shoulder. Sevika’s eyebrows lifted and made an ‘oh’ shape with her dark lips, nodding her head in understanding.

Her silver eyes then fell onto Silco’s back, his head still stuck in the machine’s engine. She swatted his behind with her free hand. Silco yelped and jolted, the excavator clanging as he hit something inside. He ripped himself from his work and spun on Sevika, his face contorted with disbelief and anger.

Sevika winced as his headlamp blinded her. She gripped the light with her hand, blotting it out, and jerked her head toward the fissure’s entrance. He flicked his headlamp off and turned. The glower on his face melted into an expression that tugged at Katya’s heart. His eyes brightened, a pleasantly surprised lopsided grin pulling one half of his mouth up. Then, like Sevika, his brows pinched quizzically, and she jostled the medical bag again and pointed a finger to her left, indicating the next fissure over. She waved at the pair, and continued toward her destination.

As Katya entered Fissure 27, she was displeased to see that apparently Kells was a member of Unit 88. He seemed to be expecting her, as he put himself right in her path as she entered the wide, yawning mouth of the tunnel.

“Hey, Nurse.”

She frowned. “I was called about an accident.”

“Hey! Hey!”

Both Kells and Katya spun to see a tall, scarred man in dirty overalls and headlamp waving her over.

Foreman Baz.

Without another word, she shouldered past Kells and made for the foreman. He led her to a small, dark crack in the tunnel wall, an annex of sorts. Before entering, she noted one of those humongous, inoperable turbines nearby, nestled in the deep, dark mine shaft it had once created. Katya was not naïve, but nevertheless felt claustrophobic at the thought of the near-infinite plummet that awaited some careless miner off the edge of one of those mighty blades.

She shook the thought from her mind and the shiver from her body, and followed Baz into the small tunnel.

Katya assumed that back in these tunnels’ most lucrative days, miners had followed a vein of precious minerals here, only to have it quickly run out and abandoned. Now, it was used to store small carts and a few lengths of track. A small group of young teens were gathered around a sobbing and shaking peer who was propped against one of the walls.

They parted, eyes wide and worried as Katya and Baz approached. The young teen against the wall was shaking, skin sallow, tears and snot running down his face. Katya knelt beside him and unslung the bag from her shoulder. She murmured reassuring things to the frightened boy as she pulled out a small chem-torch and turned it on. Flicking the small, tight beam of light over the patient, she assessed his injuries, and was pleased to discover that they weren’t too bad. There was a large tear down the length of his left trouser leg, the skin beneath scraped and badly bruised. There was one bleeding gash down his shin, but it wasn’t so deep that muscle and bone peeked through. The boy was mostly in shock and scared.

Katya began her work, gently asking him what had happened, what his name was, how old he was, what he did in the mines, if he had any activities outside of work he enjoyed; all questions to ground, sooth, and reassure him.

Thankfully, the wound required no stitches – it would’ve been challenging in the low light of the space. Katya cleaned and packed the injury, gently wrapping his shin with gauze and gave him a few pills of antibiotics and a small tube of salve.

“He can get back to work?” Baz gruffed behind her.

Katya pursed her lips, hating the answer she had to give him.

“He can.”

The boy should’ve been allowed to go home and rest. The boy shouldn’t have needed to work in a dangerous mine in the first place. The best she could do was give him a regretful and sympathetic look; he returned it with one of hollow understanding, the tear tracks down his sooty cheeks finally drying.

Baz ordered two of his peers to help him up and carry him over to their work area. They did so, and once they staggered from the small crevasse, Baz thanked Katya and followed them out. She nodded her head, lips sealed tight in displeasure.

Once they were gone, she took a moment to let the feelings of injustice and rage wash their way through her body. They passed, as feelings do, and she began cleaning up her equipment.

Katya started at the sound of rock beneath boots and jumped when Kells suddenly dropped down beside her. He leered at her in the low light.

“Need help?”

He reached for the partially unrolled length of gauze, and she snatched it up, shoving it into the bag.

“I am fine.”

She sloppily threw the rest of her equipment back into the bag, not even sparing Kells a glance, before standing a making for the main fissure. But a mighty, painful yank on her ponytail stopped her, pulling a surprised yelp from her throat. Her legs tangled and the medical bag tumbled to the ground. Before Katya could respond or cry out, Kells deepened the grip he had on her hair to the roots of it, slamming her front against the rocky wall. She gasped as the wind was knocked out of her. Her mind spun and body went cold. She didn’t understand what was happening . . . and did at the same time.

Kells pressed his body against hers, pinning her in place. The hand gripping her hair pressed her face into the wall, while the other had snatched her left wrist and jerked it behind her back, her shoulder barking in protest.

“You’re an uppity bitch, you know that?” Kells hissed into her ear, spittle landing on her exposed cheek. “And I’m fucking sick of it.”

Katya choked on her voice. She willed a scream to tear from her throat, but none came. She lost access to her body, limbs freezing in terror. Kells pressed further against her, using all his weight to press her against the wall. She felt his hardness against her backside and gasped in distress. The hand that had held her wrist snaked around her front, and grabbed her sex. Her mind screamed for her body to do something, to fight back somehow.

Her bladder loosened and freed its contents all over Kells’ palm. He made a disgusted grunt and smashed her face into the rock further.

“You’re supposed to pee after, dumbass. Don’t you know that, nurse?”

Undeterred, his hand reached a little higher and pulled apart the buttons on Katya’s fly. She whimpered when he kicked her stance wider and began attempting to shuck her trousers down her legs.

Finally, she found her voice. It was painful to speak, the sound sharp and brittle against her tight throat.

“Please – “

“Don’t worry,” he cooed wickedly, grinding against her. “You’re gonna get it – “

Then Kells gasped, grunted and cried out in frustration as his weight was flung from Katya’s body. She sobbed in relief and slid down the wall, looking over her shoulder to see what had happened. Her heart leapt into her throat. Overwhelming gratitude and shame coursed through her body. Silco was standing between her and Kells. Why was he here? How had he known to come? He’d thrown her attacker against a broken down mine cart, and Kells was trying to gasp air back into his lungs.

Silco glanced over his shoulder at Katya and growled, “Are you okay?”

His eyes were blazing beneath the light of his headlamp. The fierceness of his face enthralled and scared her all at once. She wanted to cry. Wanted to rage. Wanted to melt away and disappear. Before Katya could say anything, Kells staggered to his feet and lunged at Silco.

Silco barked in surprised as he was bowled back, grunted as he hit the hard ground. Kells straddled him and landed a couple messy punches to his face. One hit landed on the headlamp, and it shattered the glass and snuffed out the light. Kells yelped in pain as glass shards embedded themselves in his knuckles, as the hot filaments of the bulb burned his skin.

It was enough of a distraction that he didn’t sense Katya springing up. She grabbed the medical bag and hit him in the head with it. Kells grunted and Silco rolled them over. Now on top, he laid a few sharp jabs to Kells’ head. After his opponent stopped grappling for his face, Silco hopped to his feet and stomped on Kells’ groin twice. The man on the ground screamed and reflexively pulled in on himself, rolling onto his side in the fetal position.

Silco would’ve liked to take things farther, but as he turned to Katya – saw her hunkered on the mine floor in a trembling heap – he knew he had to put his own personal rage aside. For the moment, he just had to be grateful that he had bowed to the will of his infatuated heart and sought her out. He had to be thankful that his need to say ‘hello’ while she was near, had allowed him to interrupt her from suffering an abuse akin to his mother’s.

His focus was on her. Her need mattered more right now than his own to kill the piece of garbage a few feet away.

“Come on,” he said, reaching out for her. “I got you.”

Breath coming out in hyperventilating huffs, she took his hand and stood. She hurriedly fastened her trouser buttons as Silco picked up the medical bag. He began guiding her out of the small crevasse, his hand a grounding, protective presence on the small of her back.

Just as they were about to re-enter the main fissure, the sound of gravel shifting under boots and a low growl were all the warning they received before Kells launched at them, this time armed with a short length of mine cart track in one hand. As he swung at them, Silco shoved Katya to one side. She tripped to the ground as the metal track collided into Silco’s face with a sickening crack. He wailed and stumbled back. The outcry alerted the rest of the unit in the Fissure, and nearly everyone looked up from their tasks.

Silco couldn’t feel the pain, only the numbing vibrations that were rattling his skull. He sensed wetness pouring down the lower half of his face, and he knew it was blood. He could taste the metal of it on his tongue. The blind rage he had reined in at the sight of Kells assaulting Kat became untethered, and he rushed at the other man, lifting his weapon back, preparing for another swing.

Silco snarled as he ducked under the track – heard it whistle over his head – and grabbed Kells by the neck, punching him in the jaw. Kells dropped his weapon in surprise, but recovered quickly, charging forward, grabbing at Silco’s back and kneeing him in the stomach. Silco grunted and doubled over. His arms dropped from Kells’ neck to wrap around his waist, and tackled forward. Both men lost their footing and rolled across the floor. And onto one of the turbine’s blades.

Blood rushed in Silco’s ears as he rolled on top of Kells, grabbed him by the front of his shirt and slammed him multiple times into the metal. He heard nothing but the rage in his head. Saw nothing but the man – the monster – beneath his hands. Silco was unaware that the rest of the miners were shouting and yelling, some egging the young men on, others calling for them to stop. Katya screamed for him, and pushed her way through the riotous crowd until she stepped onto the turbine.

Only she permeated the rageful haze of Silco’s mind. He glanced over his shoulder at her, and failed to see Kells reach for a rock that was sitting a couple feet away. He smashed it against Silco’s temple, causing him to choke in pain. The force of the blow dislodged Silco from his position on Kells, and was knocked to the side. Kells rolled over and scrabbled towards Silco, the rock still clutched in his hand.

Silco’s head throbbed, and he didn’t see Kells advancing on him. Kells’ free hand gripped at Silco’s throat and he raised the rock above his head.

Kat yelled and ran for the pair. She threw herself into Kells’ body before he could strike down. In her fear, in her anger, she failed to notice how the turbine’s blade narrowed as it approached the giant shaft of the mechanism. She failed to realize her own strength and power as she bowled her attacker over. And off the turbine blade.

Katya managed to catch herself before she followed Kells over the edge. Between her breaths and the pounding of her heart in her ears, she heard Kells’ body break and shatter as he hit the blades beneath them. Then there was one final, stomach-turning CRUNCH as his body reached the pit floor hundreds of feet below. Then there was silence.

Notes: Woof. That was . . . a lot. At least Kells got his. Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know your thoughts with a comment, and please reblog! Y'all are the best!

Coming Up Next: Katya patches Silco up. Enyd is very distaught when her son comes home with a battered face. She becomes even more upset when she hears why, and decides to pay Katya a visit.

Taglist: @pinkrose1422 @dreamyonahill @sand-sea-and-fable @truthandadare @altered-delta

[marukrawler]

Maybe it's because Sellon didn't have a arc of her own. and despite her relatively good character development, she had few episodes that focused on her and had little involvement in the season compared to Alice or Fabia.Although it's a little unfair to compare one of the main characters and the antagonist of the first season.Fabia, despite her poorly developed character, also had a great influence and participation in the season.I think it's also influenced by the fact that Shun is considered a bit ooc in ms due to the poorly written plot and incorrect dubbing

yeah, i don't know about that, chief.

having a character arc of some kind or good character development isn't the be-all and end-all when it comes to shipping. people can ship two characters for a multitude of reasons that range from being pretty basic ("they look good together" or "they had (1) single interaction and now i'm hooked) to being because of whatever deep and intimate relationship those two characters might've had in canon. implying that shunfabia and shunalice are popular ships because fabia and alice have more screen time or because they have arcs or good character development is just false. shun doesn't play a significant role in the journeys of either alice or fabia and and vice versa so i fail to see why that has anything to do with why they're popular ships.

and as for you saying that sellon had little involvement in her own season compared to alice or fabia, that's also not true. sellon and mag mel practically had a hand in everything that happened in ms1. she was incredibly vital to the progression of the plot. you're right in that it's unfair to compare sellon's screen time to that of fabia and alice but you're also incorrect to state that sellon had little involvement in ms1 when she's one of the major players advancing the story.

you're also very mistaken to say that sellon had "relatively good character development."

sellon remains entirely unchanged throughout ms1. her story starts and ends with her being exactly the same person. now, is it a bad thing to have very little to no character development? not necessarily. giving every single character a personal arc or development of some kind is just not feasible. sometimes a character simply exists to embody a certain theme or highlight another character's traits, like a narrative foil.

in sellon's case, she exists as a foil to shun just like anubias is a foil to dan. sellon and shun have different principles, morals and values but on some level, they also share similarities. the reason why it's so easy for sellon to manipulate shun is because she understands him in a way no one else does.

sellon exists to highlight the worst parts of shun, the part that isolates himself, relies only on himself and pushes forward in reach of his goal to the point of obsession. we saw this when sellon encouraged shun into becoming the leader of the brawlers and almost destroyed himself trying to preserve the integrity of the original bakugan battles, and we see it yet again when shun destroys a potential escape route from interspace because of his relentless pursuit to unleash his anger upon sellon. that same unwavering dedication towards a goal at the cost of everything, even one's own life, is what sellon admires about shun and it's what makes them alike.

sellon fulfills her character role perfectly and the same can be said for fabia. she's a princess, a leader and acts as the beacon of hope and strength for her people. her characterization, as well as her dynamic with the brawlers and the gundalians, greatly showcases what a compassionate and kind person she is. there really isn't much need for fabia to change as a character because she's already amazing as is.

the dubbing of ms1 is the only that i'll lend some credibility to. not only does sellon always sound like she's scheming, shun also sounds like he's annoyed by her and generally wary of what she says, which is completely different to what happens in the japanese dub. i imagine this is precisely why fans didn't see a romantic connection between the two, which is sad but understandable. i suppose that's just another thing the dub ruined alongside fabia/mason lol.

[girlzlovinggirlzlovingme]

i saw another ask abt other ships you like ( auntie + niece ) and i wanted to know if there are any others? not necessarily incest ( like teacher + student for eg. bc of the age gap ) but just curious :3

Oh, baby! You're getting straight into my bread and butter with this one. But, listen, teacher x student is cool. It's a classic, tried, and true. But what about Manager X Employee?

Let me paint a picture for you.

Your eyes lay upon a big glowing neon sign, putting a display on for the fourteen cars in an otherwise massive parking lot. First day of the first job you'll ever have. You're scared completely down to the bone. You submitted an application online and did an over the phone interview, letting the manager of the store know you're a quiet shut in who's way too scared to be doing anything involving customer service. Walking through the doors, you get to stand next to a handful of people who are less than thrilled for a day of work. Same as you.

Until you lay eyes on the most off-limits thing in the entire store, your boss. Despite just wearing a simple button-up and some decent dress pants, she somehow looks completely enchanting. So much power, yet so much apathy for a dead end job, contained in a few short sentences she gives to the team before starting the day. It's completely mystifying. You're trying not to stare, but it's so hard not to. You expected your boss to be some basic run of the mill manager, but. . . You can't take your eyes off of her. . . The amount of time spent jacking off before actually being forced to get a job makes you think only in perverted phrases like how you "want to fuck that milf as hard as possible."

She, not ignoring your fuck-me-eyes, keeps taking precursoious glances at you. Almost like she knew exactly what you wanted.

The entire day is spent fantasizing about how incredible it'd feel to drag her into her office and completely ruin her. Showing her just how badly your body aches for someone of her caliber. This all leads to deciding to stock the dairy fridges and finding the cold isolation of the refrigerator the perfect space to just rub yourself little by little, till your stroking your cock through your pants and moaning like there's no tomorrow.

But a lone voice drags you back to reality. "First day, and you can't even manage to not act like a complete degenerate?" In a single moment, the entirety of your livelihood went up in flames. Your boss doesn't seem mad, though. . . Maybe you can try to win her over or get her swooning like it's some kind of porno. You brace yourself to turn around and tell her if it's such an issue, why doesn't she deal with it herself by using her mouth.

Though, a hand quickly finds itself wrapped around your torso. "Come on, it's natural. I promise you have nothing to be ashamed of." Another hand hastily sliding its way down your pants and over your panties. "Girls, your age are just growing up. There is nothing to be embarrassed of. It's okay, I know how much you were looking earlier." You're being groped, oh god, you're being groped. This isn't how it was suppose to happen you were suppose to get her on her knees begging for your cock. "I have a daughter your age, spends all her time in her room. But I think we both know what she gets up to in there. You're different, though, despite all the hormones going through you manage to put yourself together and come to work despite this thick throbbing cock of yours, girlie." The gaps between each word are filled with tight grips around your shaft, making you whimper, like a little girl.

"Since you're trying so hard despite your aching, throbbing issue, I'll help you with it. Just make sure to come to me whenever you need help." Swiftly getting turned around and your pants pulled down to your ankles, you realize you might just be getting your girl dick serviced after all. . . Just not the way you imagined. . .

[mariana-oconnor]

The Sussex Vampire pt 1

I know i haven't read this one. Because I remember its existence and that I never read it. Vampires aren't often my thing, but somehow I doubt this is going to stray into my alternate universe of supernatural explanations. I'm sure there will be a perfectly reasonable explanation for everything.

'Our client, Mr. Robert Ferguson, of Ferguson and Muirhead, tea brokers, of Mincing Lane, has made some inquiry from us in a communication of even date concerning vampires. As our firm specializes entirely upon the assessment of machinery the matter hardly comes within our purview...'

Imagine working for an engineering company and someone writes to you asking for help with vampires. What would you even do with that? Honestly, it's kind of nice that they're even forwarding the request on rather than just binning it. I would have just written an email back saying 'Sorry, but I think you sent this to the wrong address. Good luck with your vampire problem.'

The fact they're sending it to Holmes because they've worked with him before though and someone at the office was like 'you remember that weird guy who came in and solved our mystery? the one who crawled around on the floor and pushing things off tables? I bet he could deal with a vampire.'

Or Holmes was really rude to one of them and this is their revenge.

“Matilda Briggs was not the name of a young woman, Watson,” said Holmes in a reminiscent voice. “It was a ship which is associated with the giant rat of Sumatra, a story for which the world is not yet prepared."

I may not have read this story before, but the Giant Rat of Sumatra's fame exceeds this paltry statement. He's my favourite 'sir not appearing in these stories' of the Holmes canon.

"But what do we know about vampires?"

Or at least that seems to be Tumblr's hot take on the matter.

(How many pop culture vampire gifs can I fit into this story? That's what I intend to find out)

“Rubbish, Watson, rubbish! What have we to do with walking corpses who can only be held in their grave by stakes driven through their hearts? It's pure lunacy.”

“But surely,” said I, “the vampire was not necessarily a dead man? A living person might have the habit. I have read, for example, of the old sucking the blood of the young in order to retain their youth.”

They're treating this so seriously.

"The world is big enough for us. No ghosts need apply."

"By the way, he claims acquaintance with you.” “With me!”

Watson! How could you forget your old friend Bob Ferguson? How? Tutut.

'The gentleman had been married twice and he had one son by the first wife. [...] Twice the wife was caught in the act of assaulting this poor lad in the most unprovoked way. Once she struck him with a stick and left a great weal on his arm.'

I mean, you don't get clearer evil stepmother vibes than that. In general, not good.

'As she ran into the room she saw her employer, the lady, leaning over the baby and apparently biting his neck. There was a small wound in the neck from which a stream of blood had escaped.'

That does sound fairly vampiric.

'...the lady implored her not to do so and actually gave her five pounds as a price for her silence.'

This is the equivalent of over £500, so... I can sort of see that working. But also you think the woman is biting her infant child - definitely tell someone. Always tell someone if you think someone is trying to eat a baby. Seems pretty obvious. Take the money as well, sure, but definitely tell someone.

'He knew his wife to be a loving wife, and, save for the assaults upon her stepson, a loving mother.'

That's a pretty big exception. You know that right? She's a loving mother except for how she abuses her stepchild. But other than the physical violence, she's great. Super maternal. Contender for mother of the year.

Seriously?

“Of course I remembered him,” said I as I laid down the letter. “Big Bob Ferguson, the finest three-quarter Richmond ever had."

Hey, he actually is a Bob! Ha!

"Take a wire down, like a good fellow."

Condescending much, Holmes?

There is surely nothing in life more painful than to meet the wreck of a fine athlete whom one has known in his prime. His great frame had fallen in, his flaxen hair was scanty, and his shoulders were bowed. I fear that I roused corresponding emotions in him.

Yikes, Watson forced to confront his own mortality. But again a really unflattering description of someone you seem to like. Did Watson ever keep any friends other than Holmes, because he's really rude about them sometimes.

"But you can imagine how difficult it is when you are speaking of the one woman whom you are bound to protect and help."

I mean, sir, as far as you know she is literally abusing your children. I feel like you're okay not protecting and helping her get away with that.

“No, she struck him savagely. It is the more terrible as he is a poor little inoffensive cripple.”

O-kay, so... right. Yep. Mmhm. Glad to see the ableism alive and well in the Victorian times.

Well, post-WWI times when this was published, but Victorian times in the story.

“I gather that you did not know your wife well at the time of your marriage?” “I had only known her a few weeks.”

I'm starting to understand your problem a bit better, my dude.

“None save that she hated him. Again and again she said so.”

That's... extreme.

Beating child bad, but what if child evil? Clearly there's going to be a twist here, because there's no way this is going to turn out to be an actual vampire. What if twist is that the fifteen year old is the villain all along?

Don't know how that would relate to the baby-blood drinking.

“That's what puzzled the vet. A sort of paralysis. Spinal meningitis, he thought. But it is passing. He'll be all right soon—won't you, Carlo?”

Oh no. There's a woman from Peru, a selection of South American artefacts available. I feel like there might be some sort of mysterious tropical poison involved and the kid tried it on the dog, then went after the baby and the wife has been sucking the poison out of the wound. It would certainly cover all the facts. And there was a long phase where people really did like 'tropical poison blow darts' in British fiction.

“For God's sake, what do you think, Mr. Holmes? It may be a mere intellectual puzzle to you, but it is life and death to me! My wife a would-be murderer—my child in constant danger! Don't play with me, Mr. Holmes. It is too terribly serious.”

Honestly, Mr Ferguson should definitely have done something about his wife abusing his children before this (even if she isn't, that's what he thinks she's doing), but I respect him for this outburst. And Holmes does actually respond to it with some empathy.

Yep. current theory is that the fifteen year old is actually a jealous, spoilt kid and he's trying to get rid of stepmother and half-sibling in a way that will implicate her because it's South American poison. And poor old Bob is just a bit of a himbo, who doesn't believe anyone capable of such things.

[wordsandrobots]

If there's one thing I crave more of from IBO, it's Bauduin sibling interactions. I've watched that scene with them McGillis in S1E11 more times than I can count.

I do like that we've gotten a few more pieces of the Bauduin family situation from the side-stories. Almiria's assessment of marriage as a man and woman living together in the same house, eating together, going out together, and arguing once a month suggests certain very specific things about Lord and Lady Bauduin's relationship, perhaps making sense of why Gaelio and Almiria's mother is nowhere to be seen come the start of the series. Although, saying that, *none* of the Seven Star kids' mothers appear to be a presence in their lives. When Carta and Iok lose their fathers (effectively and actually), they're placed with guardians rather than being raised by their other parent. Which is probably yet another aspect of the predominance of bloodlines in Gjallarhorn's social mores. When only one parent truly 'counts', intimacy is going to be the first casualty.

I think a lot about how that applies to the Bauduin kids. Because they clearly know each other well enough to be properly annoying, and their father shows genuine concern for them, so I don't imagine their home-life was particularly cold or remote. At the same time, I wonder how much contact Gaelio and Almiria have actually had. The implication is that he's at a boarding school in his teens and then on to military academy. It's possible he only ever saw Almiria during holidays and while on leave. If we're being generous, we might use that to explain why he stresses her babyishness so much -- he's literally missed seeing her grow up. Although, even if that is true, Gaelio is 1) a jerk and 2) kind of weird about the status Almiria throws herself into living up to.

Don't get me wrong, he really needed that 'learning to be a better person by exposure to normal people' arc. Yet we see he has contempt for the corrupt, the underhanded and, significantly, for the specific people in his social circle. "The guests are even more vulgar than usual," indeed! I'd imagine childhood spent in proximity to those in Iok's mould would not give you a good impression of your peers. Coupling that to the whole 'running for the hills when people propose to him', it's feasible Gaelio finds Almiria ridiculous for affecting manners he himself resents. He's standing there, isolated by his status as Gallus' heir, with McGillis and Carta as his only actual friends, and Carta going like that as she gets older, and here's his baby sister acting all prim, too naive to understand she's being used as a pawn. It's small wonder he turns to mocking sarcasm.

For her part, Almiria is caught between the reality of being a child and the expectations placed upon her by the adults in her life. As much as Gaelio mocks her, she *can't* be a baby, or else the whole political structure of their lives falls apart. Being ridiculed for being a little girl is exceptionally cruel in the context of having her husband picked out for her when she was five. Like, what do you want from her, you bastards? Because what you got was a kid who idolised the idea of being grown up as a kind of freedom, while being unable to conceptualise it beyond the social structures that caused her to be in this situation to begin with. Gah, sorry, I know it's off the point, but I am constantly struck by how Almiria in some ways has it worse than the kids who are actually homeless. At least they have some measure of personal autonomy.

Anyway, jerk or no, I still think Gaelio cares for his sister and was sincerely afraid for her following what McGillis said at Edmonton, albeit in a 'I am her big brother so I should be protecting her' sort of way rather than necessarily protecting Almiria the person. I played into that hard when I approached writing their relationship post-canon: with how they were raised and the gaps between them it caused, I feel it's reasonable to assume they each have an idea of the other that causes them certain emotions, without necessarily knowing one another. They are both good at loving shadows, after all, and even if it is genuinely love, I think it would take some very hard conversations to make them close.

(For plot reasons, I weighted that towards Gaelio seeing what he expects/wants while Almiria gains a better understanding of what's going on between his ears, but it's still rather superficial on both sides. Gaelio tries. He really does. Almiria . . . well. Ahem. I did Things with Almiria as a character.)

In terms of scenes we could have gotten but didn't, I'd personally want to see a Bauduin family meal. Gallus, Mrs Gallus, Gaelio and Almiria, all round a table together. Probably a very big one that made it impossible to have comfortable conversations, with fancy food and servants fading into the walls. It'd be the dinner from hell, one way or another, but I'd love to get a glimpse at the full dynamic.

[starfall-spirit]

Read on Ao3

Summary: Hoping to score a dinner date, Sawyer approaches Jesinia after weeks of practicing sign language with his squadmates.

AN: Obviously we haven’t been given any details on handshape, orientation, or NMMs in Navarrian Sign Language, so for the purposes of the fic the signing error Sawyer makes is realistic to ASL. I don’t know any sign languages for other countries, so if this mistake is totally unrealistic in BSL, FSL, etc, I’m unfamiliar with the language.

In this work I mention Sawyer has a name sign. For readers who don't know much about ASL, a name sign is a sign created by a Deaf individual and given to a friend, coworker, aquaintance, etc. and a shorthand to avoid fingerspelling someone's full name. It is usually based around a trait in one's physical appearance or personality and can only be given by a member of the Deaf community. To make things simple, I designed Sawyer's name sign around the flicking movement for the word metal (signet), replacing the X handshape with an S handshape to tie in his first initial.

Anywhoville, enjoy!

He was just asking her out to dinner, nothing more. And if she said no... He would probably never show his face among the Aretian scribes again.

"Don't you think that's a bit dramatic, Sawyer?"  Sliseag grumbled. "The girl is passive, her companions more so. A failed romantic pursuit would not be the end of your welcome, I'm certain."

"I would not call a woman willing to commit treason on the vague word of a friend passive, Sliseag," he snipped back.

"Then this exile from scribe territory would be a self-inflicted act of cowardice? That is not a trait I chose you for, boy."

He rolled his eyes at the exaggerated remark. Exile was a rather heavy term for his potential predicament, but he wasn't about to argue semantics with a dragon. "This must be the arrogant shit Violet grumbles about when it comes to Tairn."

Hearing a scuffing sound against the stone floor, he threw his shield in place, cutting off his dragon's next quip as Jesinia stepped into view. "Good afternoon, Sawyer," she greeted him, utilizing the sign name she'd given him a few weeks after meeting. It was blunt, as most of the language was prone to be, playing off of the sign for metal thanks to his signet, though the X handshape was replaced by an S to link in his name. Her hand lingered below her chin, fingers slowly uncurling from the loose fist the sign created. Her brow furrowed slightly as she looked over his shoulder, likely noting he was unaccompanied for once. Ridoc of all people had been the one to point out that for all Sawyer's visits here and his interest in learning to sign, he'd yet to drop by without a wingman. "Are you stopping in for Violet? I sent her a missive about a translation aid I stumbled upon." 

"No. Not today. Though I'm happy to take something back, if need be. I wanted to talk to you about something outside of rider business. If you have a moment."

Brushing her dark hair back, she dipped her chin in a short nod, gesturing for him to join her at the nearest table. "Is everything alright. You seem a bit nervous."

"Nervous? No. It's just that my signing is..." He paused, trying to recall the sign for rudimentary—a word that didn't necessarily exist in NSL. "...basic," he finished, his dominant hand circling a few inches below his left. "One of my squadmates is normally here to help." Jesinia cocked her head slightly, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. "So, I'm a little nervous. Not only about signing something wrong. Let me be more direct. I was hoping to take you to dinner."

Her eyes flared wide at that, and not just due to surprise at the request. Something went wrong in his request. "To eat," he tried to repair the miscommunication, whatever it had been.

Understanding seemed to dawn and it was clear she was trying to hide her amusement. "Dinner?" she asked, first fingerspelling, then double-tapping a D hand against her mouth, palm turned inward. He nodded in confirmation. Pausing a moment, she kept the D shape, bouncing it from her chin to the back of her jaw. "That sign is dorm."

He winced. "Now I look like an ass."

"You look like a man trying to learn a new means of communication. I have great appreciation for that effort. Learning languages beyond childhood can be difficult." She smiled again. "And I would love to go to dinner with you, Sawyer."

He grinned right back. "Are you free tonight?"

~~~~~

End Note: If I have any d/Deaf, hard of hearing, or CODA readers who think I could better structure this fic regarding signing elements and word choice, please know that you are more than welcome to reach out. I always appreciate polite feedback on my work and want to do everything I can to encourage representation in my writing. I am not fluent, so I know this might not be perfect. All I ask is that comments remain respectful in their correction.

[djservo]

now, let's see some questions............

1. do the bros find each other attractive?

2. how is their compatibility?

3. some thoughts about their relationship? (looks at you with a serious face from behind the glasses – we need an emoji for that 🤓 this one is not serious enough)

I'll indulge you bc i respect your audacity but I'd like to know which gutter you crawled out of (affectionately💞)

according to their sim profiles (& their preferences, which were developed based on who they have already or will eventually get with story-wise) Yes .. but NOTE that it's Just attractive rather than Very or Extremely, so sit ur butt back down 🫵

2. nothing about compatibility based on the WW mod (no puzzle pieces or anything like that) but OK full transparency umm they did recently start autonomously flirting with each other I BLAME DIEGO OK !!! u know how when 2 sims are flirty + a 3rd joins the convo That sim gets flirty too... Ya. they kept flirting even after diego left it was Madness I had to cancel so many interactions for straight DAYS until I gave up n just cheated their romance value to 0 kjgldjg so now they have a scorned lil red line in the romance bar sorry boys </3 take from that what u will

3. as for my own Personal interpretation 😮‍💨✊ (that's me clearing my throat) look I tried really hard not to turn this into an astrology thing but every thought directs me back to their charts! I'd argue it even fits their EA lore to a T bc For Starters aries & libra are sister signs right like technical polar opposites, but its those clashing extremes of their personalities that balance each other out so well ⚖️

and tbh a lot of aspects in their charts kinda point to extremes - both with a pleasure-seeking fire venus (sergio - leo, joaquin - aries) which demands attention and makes every desire feel especially heavy 🥩 then they have these stubborn moons (sergio - taurus, joaquin - scorpio) that need a strong sense of security to feel at ease & if we wanna be silly, we can relate this to the part of their EA description that talks about climbing ranks/making money/furnishing their house -- shared motifs of financial stability and the necessary comfort of home yada yada (what is this, an AP english class??) but litrally... little in common but the finer things in life 4 real...

ALL THAT BEING SAID / TLDR: I think when they have their shit together their relationship is a really fun + rewarding balancing act that gets tighter with time and inadvertently makes the other a better version of themself but when it's bad it's Bad and though I think they were a little rocky/frigid/unsure of what to make of the other upon first meeting, it hasn't necessarily gotten Bad™ yet to the point of an explosive fight that various aspects of their chart show they're certainly capable of having, all low blows and personal attacks from accumulated knowledge about each other throughout the years. hopefully it stays that way 🙂👍