#but scottish cases went down during the same time because they were forced to use english court systems

[fumblingmusings]

Scotland, despite having a quarter of the population of England, had three times the number of Witch Trials and four times the average within Europe in the 17th century is like. Ah. My dudes. Mayhaps chill?

Like Arthur getting over the worst hump of it following the end of the Commonwealth and a near military theocracratic regime only to turn one way and his brother immediately files 600 cases to Scottish Courts like oh geez but then he to turns around another way to find Alfred has gone off his rocker in Connecticut and Massachusetts and it's like just stop ✋️ for five seconds please.

[riacte]

Dogwarts / 3rd Life Cheat Sheet for MCC 15 Purple Pandas

Ren and Martyn were buddies in Season 1 of the 3rd Life SMP and they are an alliance known as the Renchanting duo/ Kingdom of Dogwarts. Now they’re finally teamed up, and the 3rd Life SMP members have a habit of referring to 3rd Life in MCC. The Ren-Martyn fandom also talks about Dogwarts a lot. If you have no idea what is a Dogwarts and why people love them, no fear! This post will try to explain it in simple terms.

3rd Life SMP is a SMP started by Grian. Season 1 has 14 members (roughly half are hermits, other half are friends of the hermits. You can find the full list in the description of Ren’s 3rd Life videos.) Everyone on the server has three lives— the first life symbolised by green names, second by yellow names, third by red names. If you lose all three lives, you permadie. Green names and yellow names are not allowed to be hostile unless they were attacked first, but the goal of red names is to kill everyone on the server. The three lives are also symbolised by three hearts, like this:

(Fun fact: Because of the green-yellow-red colours, the subtwt for 3rd Life is called traffictwt after traffic lights. The 3rd Life tumblr fandom is occasionally referred to as trafficblr.)

3rd Lifers record every week for three hours at the same time with proximity chat. The server has a small border to encourage interaction. They are eight sessions in total, and they’re all cut into YouTube episodes (no streams!), so it’s fairly bingeable.

So what’s the deal with Martyn and Ren?

Ren decided to set up an enchanting shop during the first session. Martyn was wandering around and having fun scaring people with creeper noises until he came to Ren’s enchanting shop. Martyn then used Ren’s enchanting service without paying (essentially a robbery), but Ren let Martyn go on the condition Martyn would act as a walking free advertisement. Martyn agreed, and they became business partners. Martyn actually coined the name Renchanting and its motto “Don’t be a Dog, be a God”. Ren named Martyn as his “marketing manager” (which sounds a little like Martynmanager).

True to his word, Martyn went around and spread the good news of Renchanting to everyone. Martyn brought business to Renchanting, and when Ren was being threatened by customers (who harassed Ren into lower his prices/ giving out enchantments for free), Martyn acted defensive of Ren and even said Ren was being “bullied”. Ren was being taken advantage of because he was too nice. (Martyn did do some stuff not related to Ren, but since this is a Dogwarts cheat sheet I won’t be mentioning that.)

Then came GoodTimesWithScar. The main “villain” to Renchanting, if you will.

Basically, Scar was playing the role of a cartoon villain. He scammed people out of their armour and possessions, and eventually found his way to Renchanting. At that point, Martyn and Ren were loyal to each other. Scar asked for Ren’s enchanting table. In return, when Scar turned red, he would not kill Ren and Martyn. Ren appeared to be torn, but due to Martyn depending on him and the business, he refused Scar’s offer (“you can’t take the enchanting out of Renchanting!”). Scar also acted condescending to Martyn (Martyn was seen as Ren’s “minion”). So Ren and Martyn were officially on Scar’s kill list, but Ren did not regret it.

At some point, Ren got tired of people walking into his store and stepping all over him, so he built high walls around the Renchanting building. Everyone (including Renchanting themselves) broke through the walls, and this was a running gag. Ren declared himself king by wearing the crown he got from MCC9 Blue Bats.

Note: Ren was kind, and it was the cruel world that forced Ren to be defensive. Other POVs paint them as the villain but Dogwarts enthusiasts will say that is not the case AT ALL.

Time passed. Scar turned red. He and his buddy Grian set up traps at Renchanting, and one blew up Ren and a bunch of other people. Ren, now a yellow name, was furious, but could not get his revenge because yellow names were not allowed to hurt other players. So naturally, Ren decided to become a red.

Ren renamed an axe to “RED WINTER IS COMING” and gave it to Martyn to chop his head off. (There’s some dramatic roleplay here, highly recommend a watch.) Martyn painfully did, and the message “Red Winter is Coming” was shown in the chat, which told everyone that Ren meant business. To test Martyn’s loyalty, Ren told Martyn he could kill him if he wanted to. Ren, freshly respawned and without armour, punched Martyn. Martyn, as a green name, could attack Ren due to Ren attacking first. However, Martyn did not kill Ren, and dramatically declared Ren was the one who showed him life, and thus he would return the favour.

So Ren was known as the Red King (with grey skin, bloodied MCC crown, and a Scottish/pirate accent). Martyn became known as the King’s Hand, and called Ren “my lord” “my liege”. Later, Martyn acquired an outfit with a cloak and a red hand on the back of the cloak, which is now used to symbolise Martyn.

They established the Kingdom of Dogwarts (after Hogwarts and the enchanting/magic gimmick) to find more allies (notable ones include Ethoslab and Skizzleman). Allies could stick a Red Banner in their base to show loyalty, members were called Red Knights / Red Army.

A Red Banner (the design is supposed to be blood dripping down):

Without spoiling too much, Ren and Martyn remained loyal to each other till the very end. They were very dramatic (even jokingly called homoerotic by some lmao) and had many hardcore quotes, and are highly beloved. They are the most dramatic and RP intensive group on the server. So people want Dogwarts, the king and his hand, together again.

A small sample of quotes that might be referenced:

I think going red next week is in my fate. It’s in my cards. There will be blood, for this. A king cannot be king without war. (Ren)

I won’t do it! You took me in when I was a lowly traveller, goin’ across the lands, searchin’ the four corners of this world. I learned that there was nothing in this world for me. Nothing but walls, corners, edges. And you know what? You showed me life. As much as I’ve taken it from you, you gave it back to me in bucket fulls. and I just- I’m with you. This is us now. This is us. (Martyn)

If we're going to survive the Red Winter, we gotta do it together, laddies. Hand in hand. Rotten hand in hand of the living. To the end! (Ren)

It’s just the world versus us. (Martyn)

(Note: Dogwarts refers to the group of people allied with Ren and Martyn, including Etho and Skizzleman. Renchanting duo refers to Ren and Martyn ONLY)

Other references:

Joel notably screamed “THE RED KING DIES TONIGHT, FELLAS!” with a crowd of wolves following him

Dogwarts killed Grian and Scar’s llama Pizza because Scar stole a Red Banner

Jimmy and Scott were flower husbands. Jimmy thought Renchanting was going to sacrifice Scott.

Everyone else in MCC (Grian, Scott, Jimmy, Joel) were enemies with Dogwarts

The 3rd Lifers reference 3rd Life a lot despite it being over. Martyn even fought for Dogwarts in MCC14 and MCCP but failed. Haha.

The fandom commonly refers to Purple15 as King (Ren), Queen (False), Ace (Illumina), and Joker/Hand (Martyn) after playing cards.

This is it, I am tired, this is probably too long but I feel I skipped a lot of details. If anyone has anything to add or correct, feel free to do so. Also, I’m pretty certain this won’t appear in the tags, so please reblog! Thank you, and Red Winter is Coming.

(I might add a reblog detailing False’s very much fanon involvement in Dogwarts, and why everyone was so hyped for Renchanting + False.)

[bluejayblueskies]

the before, the after, the in-between

Chapter Six: mixed reunions Words: 4.2k

Relationships: Jon & Daisy, Jon/Martin, Daisy & Basira Tags: Post-Canon, Scottish Safehouse, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Mute Jon, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies

Work Summary:

There was no knife, no blood, and Jon was not dead. And when he heard a strangled noise from beside him and looked over to see Martin standing in the doorway of the safehouse, flung open and letting in the frigid bite of near-winter and sunlight, there was sunlight, he felt such a dizzying, intense wave of relief that he could hardly breathe around it.

Then, he opened his mouth to say Martin’s name, and nothing came out, and all of the relief fell away in an instant.

.

Jon wakes up in the safehouse in October of 2018, alive and well but without the Eye and without his voice. In the days that follow, he finds himself confronted with a world that has reset itself in space and in time, a version of himself that is no longer the Archivist, and the fact that death during the end of the world had not been so permanent as it had seemed.

Chapter Summary:

Basira seems happy to see you, Jon writes.

Daisy exhales slowly. “Yeah. She does.”

Jon waits for her to elaborate. When she doesn’t, he sighs, taps his pen on the paper a few times, and writes, And is that a good thing or a bad thing?

Daisy stares at the page a long while. Just when Jon thinks she’s not going to answer him at all, she says, “It’s… good. Just odd. Feels… like she shouldn’t be.”

Read on Ao3 (link in source)

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven

Or read below:

(cw for mentions of gun and knife violence, mentions of death/murder, mentions of blood)

Stars are just beginning to fill the sky when there comes a knock at the door—two crisp taps, unhurried, but with a heavy insistence that has Martin standing from the couch quickly, mumbling, “I’ll get it,” and crossing the room while Daisy and Jon watch from where they’re still sat on the couch.

“Hel—oh, yes, come in,” Martin says as he opens the door and Basira immediately pushes past, her eyes scanning the room in front of her with a firm intensity. “Nice to see you too,” he mutters as Basira’s eyes find Daisy, and a wide-eyed expression crosses her face so quickly Jon can’t pin down what it’s meant to be.

“Daisy,” Basira says, and then she’s across the room and standing in front of Daisy, hand halfway outstretched towards her. “It’s… it’s really you?”

Daisy’s hand twitches where it’s clasped in Jon’s. He gives it a subtle, reassuring squeeze. “It’s really me,” she says quietly.

Basira’s eyes scan Daisy’s face, the outline of her body, as if searching for imperfections. After a moment, her eyes find Daisy’s again and she nods, as if confirming something for herself. “Right,” she says, retracting her hand and dropping it to her side. Next to him, Jon can feel Daisy tense slightly, though her face remains carefully calm. Basira takes in a deep breath, lets it out, then steps forward and wraps her arms around Daisy’s shoulders, bending down at an awkward angle to do so.

Daisy goes rigid for a moment before softening. Her hand slips out of Jon’s as she tentatively returns the hug, her hands ghosting across Basira’s shoulder blades and her fingers tracing the hem of Basira’s hijab. Basira exhales again sharply, gripping Daisy a little tighter as she does so, and says, “I thought you were gone.” Her voice is even, but there’s a layer of desperation underneath it that makes it sound choked at the edges. Jon suddenly feels very out of place, and he tries to subtly shift towards the other end of the couch to give them space.

“I was,” Daisy says, voice muffled by the fabric of Basira’s hijab. “But now I’m not.”

Basira laughs a bit unsteadily. “Right,” she says again. “I… I wondered if you were back. Didn’t want to think about it too hard, though. Just in case.”

Daisy is quiet for a moment. Then, so quietly Jon almost doesn’t hear, she says, “I’m sorry, Basira.”

Basira grips her tightly for a moment more, then pulls back so she can study Daisy’s face. “Don’t be. You didn’t force me to do anything. I made you a promise, and I kept it. That’s just how it was.” She exhales slowly. “Besides, none of that matters now. You’re back, and that’s a good thing. God knows there’s enough that’s wrong in the world right now.”

Daisy sits very still, a strange sort of tension keeping her rigid. “You’re… not angry?”

Basira frowns. “No. It was hard, but it wasn’t… it wasn’t you, Daisy. You were trying to be better, before, but you did what you had to, and so did I. It’s just how it was; no point in being upset about it.”

Daisy looks down at a point just beneath Basira’s eyes. “Yeah. No point,” she echoes. After a moment, she says, “You’ve been… okay, then?”

Basira’s lips purse. “I’ve been managing. Finding my own way. Dealing with…” She waves her hand in the air, an encompassing gesture, and Jon doesn’t miss the way her eyes flick over to him. He’s not particularly fond of it, though he fights back the scowl. “It’s been a mess.”

“You said it’s been bad,” Martin says, coming up behind the couch with four mugs of tea carefully balanced in his hands. He passes the first one to Jon with a thin-lipped smile, then to Daisy and Basira in turn. “What does that mean?”

Basira sighs and blows across the surface of her tea in an attempt to cool it. “Well, after you… reset the world? Which we’re going to have a long conversation about, by the way.” She looks pointedly at Jon, who looks pointedly back and takes a sip of his tea to hide his glower. He’s still a bit irritated about the whole… group decision situation. Maybe more than a bit. “I woke up in the Institute, still sitting at the same bloody desk I’d been working at when everything went to hell. I knew something was off straight away, because that feeling of being watched? It just wasn’t there. Didn’t matter how, didn’t matter why—it just wasn’t. So I assumed that the plan worked and the Fears were gone, but I didn’t know yet that we’d been thrown back in time or whatever. Got up and started looking around, trying to figure out where Georgie and Melanie went. Yeah, it was weird that everything looked the same, but I’d seen weirder.”

Basira takes a long sip of her tea. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon sees Daisy shift, setting her still-full mug on the side table and tapping her fingers on her thigh in a rhythmic pattern. He thinks, for a moment, about reaching out, but instead, he just curls his fingers tighter around his own mug. “The place was pretty empty,” Basira says finally. “Before the change, the blood and stuff was all cleaned up about a week after that last attack on the Institute, and then it was just me and a few others. Rosie, a couple of people from Artefact Storage. The people who’d survived and who weren’t smart enough to just… stay away. Rosie was still at her desk. She looked like she’d seen… well. She looked like she’d seen what the rest of us had seen. And…”

Basira exhales slowly, and for the first time, she looks… hesitant. Like she’s not sure she should continue. After a moment, Martin says, “And what, Basira?”

Basira looks down into her tea, her jaw set. “And him. Elias. Jonah. Whatever. Just… sitting behind his desk when I opened the door to his office. Like nothing had even fucking happened.”

A shock of something simultaneously icy cold and red-hot laces up Jon’s spine, and he nearly drops his mug. He looks at Basira with wide eyes, even as he thinks that it makes sense, of course it makes sense, everyone who died while the world was wrong came back, of course he would too, why would it be any different. He remembers the sensation of the knife tearing its way through Jonah’s throat, the heat of the blood as it had dripped down his hands and wrists, tries to juxtapose the image of Jonah lying dead on the Panopticon floor with the image of him sitting alive and well and breathing behind his desk once again, and feels sick. He doesn’t realize he’s been holding his breath until the exhalation rips its way harshly out of his throat like it’s been punched out of him. He barely feels Daisy’s hand as it wraps around his, barely feels it as she takes the mug of tea from him and settles it on the floor so it won’t spill. He registers the brush of another hand against his arm, and he hears Martin’s voice from beside him, saying with concern, “Jon? Breathe, love. It’s all right, just breathe.” Then, to Basira: “Christ. He’s alive?”

“Was alive,” Basira corrects, and just like that, all of the air crashes back into Jon’s lungs and he takes a deep, rattling breath, his eyes focusing on her face as it twists into something that might be called a smile if one were being generous with the definition. “I… I didn’t really think. Just pulled my gun and pointed it at him. No Eye, no contract. No reason not to kill him. I wasn’t planning to shoot him, not really, but then he started rambling about- about apotheosis and failure and second chances, trying to convince me that there was no need to be hasty, that we could work something out. Called me Detective again. Just the same slimy bullshit, but without all the bravado and without the collateral.” Basira sighs and looks up from her tea, glancing at Jon with something unreadable on her face. “Melanie was pissed that I didn’t let her stab him.”

Jon makes a choked noise that he thinks, after a moment, might be a laugh. It’s devoid of any amusement, though, and might be bordering on hysterical. Beside him, Martin says quietly, “Shit. Well, uh. That’s… that’s good, at least?”

Basira grimaces. “Sure. It’s great that the bastard’s dead—again, I guess, assuming that you did kill him before everything went back to normal—but things are still a disaster back in London. I’ve been trying to keep them from tearing down the whole Institute, though don’t ask me why I even care about the place after all this. People are angry.” Basira taps her fingers on her thigh in thought. “It’s… probably for the best that you guys ended up out here, actually. Things haven’t been good for the people in charge of domains. They got ahold of Simon Fairchild, and it… it wasn’t pretty. There’s been some chatter about leniency towards the less actively malicious former avatars—I think that came up after they found Callum, actually, which… yeah, that’s a whole thing—but…”

Basira shrugs. But people wouldn’t be so forgiving towards the person who ended the world, Jon thinks with a wry, twisting feeling in his stomach. He fiddles with the notebook where it sits on his lap, but he doesn’t open it. After a moment, Basira continues, “So that’s the state of things, basically. Even though everything’s technically fixed, there’s still a lot of damage, and Georgie, Melanie, and I have been handling it as best we can. Though I think Melanie’s of the opinion that we should just let the entire Institute burn. She’s probably right, but…” Basira shrugs. “It’s just a building full of scary stories now. Might be able to make some use out of it.”

“Right,” Martin says with a sigh. “That’s… a lot.”

“Yeah,” Basira says, sounding weary. “It’s… it’s nice to have a break. To just appreciate the fact that everything’s better now, you know?”

Better for us, Jon thinks bitterly, and he can feel the edges of his mouth twitching into a scowl that he forcibly represses. He doesn’t think pointing out that they’ve condemned an infinity of other worlds to suffering for their own peace of mind would be beneficial, given they’ve already driven that argument into the ground and then some. Besides, he thinks as he rubs his thumb over the spine of the notebook, that would require him to open the notebook and writing it down, and Basira doesn’t know about his voice yet. He’s too tired to hear whatever surface-level pity she might be able to conjure up for him.

“I’ve missed you, Daisy,” Basira says, an increased vigor in her voice as she turns to face Daisy. She looks like she wants to reach a hand out towards her, but she doesn’t. “It’s been… hard. Being alone with all of this. I’ve had Melanie and Georgie, but I… I could use my partner.”

Daisy stares at her for a long moment. When she speaks, her voice is slightly more hoarse than usual. “You want me to come back to London with you.”

Basira nods, a slight frown forming on her face. “Do you… not want to?”

Daisy is quiet for a long moment. Her eyes stare down at the floor, focusing on nothing at all. “I don’t know,” she says finally, the words tense and choked, like the honesty of them pains her. “I… I need to think.”

Basira watches her for a few seconds, something stiff and rigid on her face. “All right,” she says at length, a touch of surprise and resignation lacing her voice. “That’s fine. I can’t stay past tomorrow, though—I have to get back and deal with what’s going on back in London. If you don’t want to…” Basira’s mouth flattens into a line. “It’s fine. I’ll understand.”

“It’s not—” Daisy cuts off with a frustrated noise, almost a growl. “I just need to think.”

“All right,” Basira says again, more placating this time. “I… won’t rush you.”

It’s quiet in the room for a long moment. Finally, as if at a loss for anything else to say and falling back on instinct, Martin offers a tentative, “Would… anybody like something to eat? You’ve been traveling all day, Basira, I don’t know if you’re… er, hungry or not.”

Basira stares at Daisy a moment more. Then, she sighs and says, “Sure, why not.”

“Great!” Martin says, sounding relieved. “Let me just… I’ll see what we’ve got that’s quick.”

He stands, and Basira stands in tandem with him. “I’ll help,” she says. “I’ve got some… things I want to talk to you about. And then after we eat, we’re going to discuss…” She gestures in the general vicinity of Jon and Martin. “Everything.”

Jon curls in on himself slightly. Martin just sighs and says, “Come on, then.” They disappear into the kitchen, and then Jon is left with Daisy on the couch, the faint clatter of cupboards opening and dishes rattling settling into the background.

Now that they’re alone, Jon reaches over and bumps his hand against Daisy’s, a silent question. When she turns her hand over, he takes it in his, threading their fingers together and squeezing firmly. With his other hand, he awkwardly flips the notebook open, ignoring Daisy’s sound of amusement as he clumsily takes his pen in hand and balances the notebook at the same time, and writes, Are you okay?

Daisy pauses for a few seconds before responding. “Yeah,” she says simply.

Jon waits for her to elaborate. When it becomes clear that she’s not going to, he writes, Basira seems happy to see you.

Daisy exhales slowly. “Yeah. She does.”

Again, Jon waits for her to elaborate. When she doesn’t, he sighs, taps his pen on the paper a few times, and writes, And is that a good thing or a bad thing?

Daisy stares at the page a long while. Just when Jon thinks she’s not going to answer him at all, she says, “It’s… good. Just odd. Feels… like she shouldn’t be.”

Jon raises an eyebrow and gives her hand another gentle squeeze. After a moment, Daisy continues, “Even after the coffin, there had been this… weight, between us. I knew she was glad I was back, but I could also tell she was disappointed. She tried to hide it but, heh, she’s always been easy to read for me. She wanted the person I was before, and I knew that, deep down, she was frustrated that I wasn’t that person anymore. I was never… angry with her about it. I understood. Basira’s practical, always likes to have the upper hand. And me choosing to ignore the Hunt… it wasn’t practical. Not for her. She was happy to see me, but she also wished it was a different me. It just… feels weird that it’s not the same now. I’m different, and Basira doesn’t like different. She doesn’t like change.”

There’s been a lot of change lately, Jon writes. Then, while Daisy’s reading his words, he continues, She went through a lot after you were gone. With everything that’s happened, the world the way it is, I

Jon pauses, and Daisy waits as he taps the pen on the paper, leaving little half-formed dots of ink where it makes contact. After a moment, he sighs and finishes, I think she’s just glad that you’re back. Whatever version of yourself that may be.

Daisy looks towards the kitchen. There’s the gentle murmur of voices, too quiet to make out any words above the sound of things sizzling in pots and pans. “Maybe. I… don’t know.” There’s a pause, and then she says, quieter, “Maybe she’s just glad that I’m not a monster anymore.”

When Jon goes to write, she squeezes the hand of his she’s still holding tighter, shaking her head. “Don’t. It’s… complicated.” She’s quiet for a long moment, looking away from Jon and focusing on the faint light streaming in from the kitchen. “The parts of me that she valued the most,” she says at length, “the ones that made me a good partner, that made me strong—they were all that was left by the time she found me after the change. They were all Hunt. And I knew when she looked at me, when she pointed her gun at me, that she saw me. Not the Hunt, not some… monster. Me. But I don’t… know if she believes that it was really me.”

Daisy grimaces, like she’s not happy with the words. Carefully, giving Daisy time to stop him if she wants, Jon writes, You don’t know if she accepts that all the worst parts of yourself are still yours.

Daisy is quiet for a moment. “Something like that,” she says finally. “She… she said it wasn’t me. That the person she hunted through the apocalypse wasn’t me. And I don’t know how I’m supposed to tell her that it was. That it is. It feels like…” Daisy blows out a breath. “Basira’s good at compartmentalizing. It makes her a good partner, a good… hunter. But if I go with her to London, and she just… puts everything that happened during the change behind us, I don’t think things are going to last.” Daisy huffs out a laugh. “She’s stubborn. I like that about her. Can also make things… difficult.”

Jon laughs through his nose and writes, Yeah, Martin’s like that too sometimes. He hesitates, then continues, So what do you want to do?

Daisy studies his face for a moment. “What do you want me to do?” At his look of surprise, she continues, “I can see it on your face. You have an opinion, so just… spit it out. Write it down. Whatever.”

Jon scowls. I do not, he begins to write, before his hand stills, leaving the sentence incomplete. He takes a deep breath, exhales, and scratches the words out with a bit more force than is strictly necessary. Next to them, he writes in thick, dark lines, I want you to stay. Then, quickly after: But you should go with Basira.

Daisy reads the words and hums. “Why?”

Because she’s your partner, Jon writes, irritation and a strange sort of sadness mixing in him and twisting his lips into a grimace, and because she needs

“I meant,” Daisy says, bumping her knee against Jon’s to cut him off, “why do you want me to stay?”

Jon blinks at her, surprised. He looks down at the paper, holds the pen tightly for a moment, and then writes in careful, neat letters, Because I like you. Does there have to be another reason?

Daisy hums and, after a moment, shakes her head. “No. I guess not.” She bumps her knee against Jon’s again, a bit firmer this time. “Thanks. But you’re wrong, you know. About Basira.” Daisy looks at the kitchen again, where the sizzling has stopped and there’s the faint clattering of dishes. “She doesn’t need me. She’d be fine without me. Always has been.” She sighs. “And so would you.”

Jon nods and squeezes her hand. I know, he writes.

Daisy sighs again, leans her head back against the couch. “I think,” she says after a moment, “that… I have to do what’s right for me. Not me and Basira, just… just me.”

Jon is about to ask what that entails when Martin’s voice floats over from the kitchen, telling them that the food’s ready. Daisy doesn’t say anything more as she stands, snorting softly as her maintained grip on Jon’s hand pulls him to his feet as well, and together, they head into the kitchen.

The first half of the meal is spent in relative quiet. Basira keeps shooting looks at Martin, who returns her gaze with something firm and unyielding. Jon shifts in his chair and nibbles on his cheese toastie, trying very hard not to grab his pen and start tapping it on the table just to fill the tense, awkward silence between them all. Finally, Basira finishes her sandwich, looks at Martin again, sighs, and says, “Martin filled me in on what happened.” Then, at Martin’s glare: “What? I’m not talking about it. I’m just… acknowledging it.”

“Good,” Martin says, pinching his toastie just a bit too firmly between his fingers. “Because there’s not much to talk about. Which is why we agreed not to talk about it.”

Irritation washes over Jon, and he tries to squash it down. He can’t help the way his knee starts bouncing under the table though, and he takes a sullen bite of his toastie. Not much to talk about. Sure. For a moment, he entertains the thought of dropping the sandwich unceremoniously, grabbing his notebook, and scribbling out, Thanks for asking for my input before telling Basira your version of events and saying that there’s nothing to talk about, but he pushes the thought away and takes another, bigger bite to distract himself. It’s fine. Martin’s… Martin’s right, it’s not the time.

(He’s still upset that he didn’t even get the slightest say in the matter. It’s fine.)

Rationally, Jon knows that Martin is just trying to avoid what would probably turn out to be a long, spiraling, extremely upsetting conversation-turned-argument. Irrationally, he wants to push the words we’ve condemned a thousand realities to hell; are you happy now? into Basira’s face and watch her try to defend herself. Was it worth it? he wants to ask. Was it fucking worth it, just so you can have your happy ending?

He doesn’t ask. He knows what her answer will be, and he doesn’t want to hear it right now.

It’s fine.

“So,” Basira says, not so much breaking through his thoughts as driving a battering ram through them, “the Fears are gone. For good. And they took your voice with them.”

“Basira,” Martin hisses.

“Just making sure I’ve got all of my bases covered,” Basira says defensively.

Jon glares at his plate. He sets his sandwich down, suddenly no longer hungry. He takes a deep breath, looks up at Basira, and nods. His fingers itch towards his notebook; he keeps them still.

“Hm.” Basira taps a single finger on the edge of her plate. “That… that makes sense, I guess. What with Annabelle’s whole… thing.”

Jon’s stomach squeezes. Throat tight, he nods again, looking away. His eyes land on Daisy, who’s sitting beside him and watching Basira with something unreadable on her face. Her toastie is sitting on her plate in front of her, completely untouched. Then, stiffly, as if preparing herself for a difficult truth, Daisy says, “I... know a little bit of BSL. Picked it up back when I was still a PC. It’s not much, but… it’s something.”

Basira looks at Daisy, her finger stilling on the side of her plate. When she speaks again, it’s quiet, and she doesn’t sound surprised. “You’re not coming with me, then.”

“Sorry,” Daisy says roughly. “Just… need a bit of time. Soon, I promise, just…”

“… just not now,” Basira finishes. “It’s… all right. I understand. Honestly, with things the way that they are out there right now, it… it might be for the best. Just until things settle down.”

“Yeah.” Daisy picks at the edge of her toastie. “You’ll… be safe, though?”

Basira takes a deep breath, and when she lets it out, her lips settle into a smile, thin and bordering on humorless but still warm in its own way. “Always am.”

Daisy laughs a little, just an exhalation of air through her nose. “Right.”

It becomes clear that none of them plan to eat more, so Martin and Jon clear the plates and stack them in the sink while Daisy and Basira sit at the table. Basira says some things to Daisy in hushed tones, and Daisy responds under her breath, and Jon takes wet dishes from Martin and wipes them down with a towel and stares out the window into the darkened sky and focuses on the sensation of cloth under his fingertips so he doesn’t lose himself in the inky black swirling thoughts that are threatening to drag him down.

“Hey,” Martin says quietly by his side, letting their fingers brush as he hands him another dish. “You all right?”

No is probably the honest answer. Jon is sure that Martin can see it on his face even as he nods and busies himself drying the plate in his hands. To his eternal gratitude, Martin doesn’t push, even as his mouth flattens and he continues scrubbing the dishes in the sink with careful, methodical motions. Jon is sure that, at some point, something will crack and Martin will push. Push until it all breaks and shatters and crumbles into a million tiny, sharp pieces. But for now, Jon dries dishes and scratches his thoughts into the back pages of his notebook where they’ve begun to pile up into messy tangles of words and emotions and focuses on the fact that, when Basira leaves in the morning, Daisy will still be here.

That, for now, he thinks, will have to be enough.

[blackswaneuroparedux]

The Irish Lion: The legend of Paddy Mayne and the SAS

The first crop of Special Air Service (SAS) soldiers were a motley crew of bar-room brawlers, public school hell-raisers, eccentrics and misfits but they all embodied the tenets of courage, honour and ingenuity.

Hatched in the desert and borne out of the necessity of World War Two, the SAS or known as ‘the regiment’ was started by the 6’5” ‘Phantom Major’ David Stirling nicknamed him The Giant Sloth for his chronic laziness and fondness for slipping out of camp for nights of carousing. He hated marching, military discipline and disdained authority. By all accounts a terrible soldier but he was brave and cunning.

The principle behind the SAS was simple: To use small bands of irregular elite soldiers who could operate by stealth behind enemy lines, destroying aircraft, supplies and hopefully also enemy morale as a by-product of causing vast mayhem. One perception of the unit at this stage is as a motley band of scruffy and rebellious commandoes striking out of the darkness at the Nazis. The latter part of that is true, the former needs qualifying – all the men were disciplined operators drawn from commando units. They sometimes grew out unkempt beards because they were in the desert and away from camp for long stretches. It, of course, helps glamourise things more that Stirling himself was captured and eventually transferred to the infamous Colditz Castle after multiple escape attempts.

In his absence, responsibility for the SAS passed to his second in command, the larger-than-life Irishman Robert Blair ‘Paddy’ Mayne.

Known to be a terrific soldier with tremendous battlefield intuition, Mayne was allegedly recommended to Stirling by his friend Eoin McGonigal. He was brave, unconventional and a force to be reckoned with – the perfect man for the nascent SAS. There was just one problem: He was languishing in prison for striking his superior officer Geoffrey Keyes (or perhaps it was for threatening him with a bayonet?). Curiosity sparked, Stirling went to meet Mayne in his jail cell.

An account of their initial meeting appears in Alan Hoe’s biography of the SAS founder.  At first, Mayne was reluctant to join Stirling’s unit, known at that point as ‘L Detachment’: “’I can’t see any prospects of real fighting in this scheme of yours’. There was undisguised scepticism on his face. “’There isn’t any. Except against the enemy’. It was the right reply because Mayne began to laugh. “’All right. If you can get me out of here I’ll come along’. He extended his huge hand. “’There’s one more thing’, Stirling said, ignoring the hand. ‘This is one commanding officer you never hit and I want your promise on that’. He reached out for the hand.

It wasn’t just the partnership that became legendary. On the heels of his stunning military successes, a number of stories about Mayne sprang up that added to the legend.

The son of William Mayne and Margaret Boyle Vance. Robert Blair "Paddy" Mayne was born on 11th January 1915. He was born into a wealthy Presbyterian family and the sixth of seven children, four boys and three girls. He grew up on the 41-acre grounds of the Mount Pleasant estate overlooking the town of Newtownards, County Down in Northern Ireland. Educated at Regent House School, he played cricket, rugby and golf, excelling in each while also demonstrating an aptitude as a marksman in the rifle club.

While at Queen’s in Belfast studying law to eventually qualify as a solicitor (lawyer), he took up boxing and within a matter of months won the Irish Universities Heavyweight title in August 1936. He made his Ireland rugby debut against Wales at Ravenhill in 1937 and the last of six appearances two years later, coincidentally against the same opposition in Belfast. His talent was recognised in selection for 1938 Lions tour to South Africa, where he made quite an impression on and off the pitch. Mayne could tolerate any physical challenge but was unable to cope with boredom and when of a mind to do something expected full compliance from acolytes, willing or reluctant. Breaking hotel furniture during drunken stupors were not uncommon.

His drunken off-pitch exploits couldn’t camouflage his innate ability as a gifted rugby player. Mayne lined out in 17 of the 20 provincial games and all three tests against the Springboks; having lost the first two he was singularly influential in securing a victory for the Lions in the third test.

The late Sean Diffley, rugby correspondent and author, wrote of the talented rugby second-row: “Mayne was a Viking, a throwback to the ancient days of towering warriors, gentle and charming when in repose, but fierce and dangerous when aroused, and a ‘hyphenated’ nuisance when he had a couple of jars. His fierce dark physical outbursts may well have been the stuff of legend, but they were not always fun to those immediately concerned, and they were a great cause of worry to his friends. There was the case of the Irish player for instance, who in 1939, was thrown out of the window of the Swansea hotel by Mayne during the post-match celebrations. Witnesses were thankful that it was a ground floor window and that the player came to no harm, but it was not simply high jinx either that caused the incident, but the result of Mayne brooding darkly on something that is now long forgotten.”

At the outbreak of the Second World War, Mayne received a commission in the 5th Anti-Aircraft Battery, in April 1940 joined the Royal Ulster Rifles and following Dunkirk volunteered for the 11 (Scottish) Commando.

He was mentioned in dispatches for the impressive manner in which he commanded his troop in the Litani River Raid in Lebanon and recruited by David Stirling for his newly formed SAS unit.

There are tales of Mayne shooting the floor around the feet of a bar owner who overcharged and was rude to him, and the 2004 documentary ‘SAS Warrior: The Life of Paddy Mayne’ reports that an intoxicated Mayne once unloaded his pistol into a drinking companion.

The murder is said to have been covered up.

But many of these stories are untrue, or at the very least they require contextual explanation.

Take for instance the story that Mayne was in prison and awaiting a court-martial for striking his commanding officer, Geoffrey Keyes, later posthumously awarded a Victoria Cross, but whom the Irishman considered an upper-class twit. That Mayne had no time for the privileged caste is part of Mayne’s myth making.

Many historians now dispute the veracity of the story. There is no record of Mayne’s arrest and David Stirling, as author Gavin Mortimer and other writers of the SAS Regiment have written, was prone to exaggerate to mischievously feed the legend. 

Indeed the story that Mayne was imprisoned for striking his superior officer, Geoffrey Keyes because he wasn’t selected for a raid to kidnap or kill Erwin Rommel makes no sense. The SAS were drawn from Nos 7, 8 and 11 Commandos, operating around the Mediterranean in 1941. (Commando were units containing around 500 well-trained troops). Keyes and Mayne were both in 11 Commando, which was decimated in a mission in Syria earlier that year. By the time it was reconstituted and the Rommel Raid conceived, Mayne had already left the unit. In any case, it’s just as well Mayne did not participate – the mission failed (because Rommel wasn’t there) and Keyes, along with many others, didn’t make it back.

Instead, Mayne, would meet Stirling in North Africa months before, and not in a prison cell either.

It was he who, in fact, recommended his friend Eoin McGonigal to Stirling, not the other way around.

Stirling was not looking for a modern-day incarnation of a Viking berserker. On the contrary, the founding philosophy of the SAS (then known as L-Detachment) indicates a need for extreme heroism but also extreme professionalism: “An undisciplined TOUGH is no good, however tough he may be. Most of ‘L’ Detachment’s work is night work and all of it demands courage, fitness and determination of the highest degree and also, and just as important, discipline, skill and intelligence and training.”

The odd thing is that life in the SAS during World War 2 was perfectly exciting enough. There simply wasn’t any need to make up tall tales. Mayne himself said as much in a letter: “(T)here is no use writing this stuff, people think you are shooting a line – the most fantastic things happen every time we go out.”

A perfect example of this occurred around the time Mayne wrote this. He and Stirling had decided to drive a truck with five comrades right up to an enemy encampment in the desert.

They had a German speaker with them and used him to bluff their way in. When the man was asked for the password, Mayne, who didn’t speak much German, related later what he understood the general direction of the conversation to have been:

“How the – do we know what the – password is, and don’t ask for our – identity cards either. They’re lost and we’ve been fighting for the past seventy hours against these – Tommies. Our car was destroyed and we were lucky to capture this British truck and get back at all. Some fool put us on the wrong road. We’ve been driving for the past two hours and then you so and sos, sitting here on your arses in Benghazi, in a nice safe job, stop us. So hurry up, get that – gate open.”

It wouldn’t be a nice safe job much longer. Mayne, who had a pistol resting on his lap, waited as one of the guards stepped closer to inspect them. Luckily the bluff worked because Mayne realised at the last minute he’d forgotten to cock it.

Once the gate was open, they proceeded to blast the hell out of the trucks and tents that they found within the camp, before also blowing up their own truck (by mistake) and hot-footing it out of there.

By this point, of course, they’d found their stride, but it had been a difficult learning curve. L-Detachment’s first mission called for dropping 60 men by parachute behind enemy lines. But wind conditions were awful and they were scattered hopelessly wide, isolated in the desert and miles from their targets. Most were either killed or captured (one of the dead was Mayne’s friend Eoin McGonigal). Fortunately, there was a solution right under David Stirling’s nose.

The Long Range Desert Group were themselves a kind of special operations unit conducting reconnaissance and the occasional raid of their own. A portion of their men and vehicles were next allocated to assist L-Detachment, and from that point forward Stirling’s force would be conveyed to their targets by their comrades in the LRDG. Gavin Mortimer’s book ‘Stirling’s Desert Triumph: The SAS Egyptian Airfield Raids 1942’ features an exchange between Mayne and one of his subordinates during a mission rehearsal in one of the 30cwt Chevrolet trucks they’d be using:

“’What direction are we driving in?’ (Mayne) suddenly said, turning to the front gunner. “The man stared at the stars, trying to figure out which star was which. At length he replied: “’North-east, I should say, sir’. “’Ha!’ exclaimed Mayne. ‘You wouldn’t get far if you had to walk back.’ “Changing gear, Mayne cast a sideways glance at his gunner and said quietly: ‘Mind you’re certain of your direction by tomorrow night’.”

At first, Stirling’s men were dropped off some distance from their targets and then approached on foot. The favoured method for destroying German planes in airfields – the main objective – was to attach and then detonate Lewes bombs. These had been created by one of their comrades, Lieutenant Jock Lewes.

But then a new method of operation was stumbled upon. During a raid on Bagoush airfield, in the Quattara Depression, Mayne had put bombs on 40 aircraft but only 22 of them went off. After examining some charges left over, he found that the primers had been inserted into their plastic sleeves too early – they’d been in there too long and had become damp.

From this problem came a series of solutions: They should just drive the LRDG vehicles right up to the target from now on to save time; they should, therefore, make sure the vehicles had machine guns mounted for protection; in fact, why not just drive the vehicles into the airfields and use the machine guns to destroy the planes instead?

This all came together in the raid on Sidi Haneish airfield on July 26/27, 1942. Two columns of nine jeeps each burst out of the night and whipped around the rows of Luftwaffe planes, riddling them with bullets before high tailing it back out into the darkness. 30 aircraft were left in ruins.

But the history of the SAS and Paddy Mayne wasn’t all spectacular desert raids.

Following the capture of Stirling and the migration of the war to Sicily and Italy, the nature of the fighting changed.

So too did Paddy.

L-Detachment had been re-designated as 1 SAS Regiment on September 28, 1942, and now Mayne, promoted to Major himself, was its standard bearer in Stirling’s absence. Contrary to his reputation as a stereotypical action hero, Ross says that Mayne’s side as solicitor now emerged as he came to be, in Ross’ view, probably a better administrator than Stirling. To be sure, an authoritarian side also emerged, but this too seems indicative of his care and commitment to professionalism, training and mission prep. He seems to have cared very deeply about men killed under this command and worked extraordinarily hard to prevent their deaths.

The SAS’ next incarnation as ‘the Special Raiding Squadron’ (SRS) was certainly very successful, as it worked its way over defensive positions in Sicily and then up the western side of the Italian peninsula. These actions are noteworthy for two things: Difficult objectives achieved and relatively low casualty rates, a testament to Mayne’s careful stewardship.

Augmented by the American landing in the east at Salerno on September 9, 1943, one of these actions took place at the Biferno river, behind which the Germans were making a stand. The SRS, along with Nos 3 and 40 Commandos were dispatched to Termoli to outflank them. No 3 Commando would establish a beachhead allowing No 40 Commando to capture the town and its harbour whilst the SRS continued on to take bridges. The subsequent fighting would be the stuff of Hollywood Second World War movies, featuring trucks set ablaze and Germans spilling out in alarm, along with encounters with hardened German paratroopers and skirmishes around farm buildings.

Despite the stiff and professional resistance, the Special Raiding Squadron lost only one killed, three wounded and 23 as MIAs. In return they inflicted casualties of 23 killed, 17 wounded and 39 captured, as well as taking ground north of the Biferno.

Next up was France. Here the SRS would be upgraded to 1 SAS proper, a battalion-sized force of about 1,000 men, as it served in the Special Air Service Brigade alongside 2 SAS (led by Bill Stirling, David’s brother) and two French parachute battalions and an independent Belgian parachute company (about 200 men). Just as Mediterranean operations had required the SAS to work under different circumstances and terrain, so too would a return to parachuting and work behind enemy lines in France test the unit. Gone (were the days) when teams of four men with water bottles and a handful of dates, lightly armed – a few grenades in their pouches and Lewes bombs in a haversack – set out to stalk an enemy airfield. They would need more equipment - not only more of what they’d had before, but more equipment than those used to logistical planning for the airborne troops seemed to realise.

Resupply by the RAF was thought about, as were jeeps – better for getting men around but harder to conceal. Men on foot might prove more stealthy in the new rubber-soled boots, but these left distinctive footprints that could be tracked and, in any case, problems had shown up in training (the uppers were known to separate from the soles). Training patterns also needed adjusting. Early on Mayne had fought to prevent the SAS from being turned back into a regular Commando unit.

Now he was fighting amalgamation with the PARAs. Maroon caps were issued and his men instructed to wear them instead of their sand-coloured berets– Mayne told his men to hid the SAS berets in their packs until they could don them later out of sight of officials. On a more practical level too the SAS was butting up against what, by that point, had become conventional methods of training paratroopers. The latter had to learn to land in large groups during the daytime in open country, ready and able to engage in battle immediately. SAS parachutists needed to land in small teams, quietly and at night.

Mayne himself was involved in some of the war’s latter action. Most memorably on 10th April 1945, the push towards Berlin was underway. Near the village of Borgerwald, an SAS unit was ambushed and their commanding officer killed. Mayne took over the Jeep, manning the guns and some say he single-handedly rescued every wounded man by lifting them one by one from a ditch and into his jeep before destroying the enemy gunners in a nearby farmhouse. For this daring feat, he was recommended for the Victoria Cross. The citation was signed off by Field Marshal Montgomery himself but the award would elude Colonel Paddy. He received a 3rd bar on his Distinguished Service Order (DSO) and his name would be remembered as the stuff of legends.

Paddy Mayne’s service with the SAS would end as it began, with his commander Major-General Bob Laycock – who had been the one to recommend him to David Stirling – writing to congratulate him on his DSO:

“My Dear Paddy, “I feel that I must drop you a line just to tell you how very deeply I appreciate the great honour of being able to address, as my friend, an officer who has succeeded in accomplishing the practically unprecedented task of collecting no less than four DSOs. (I am informed that there is another such superman in the Royal Air Force). You deserve all the more, and in my opinion, the appropriate authorities do not really know their job. If they did they would have given you a VC as well. Please do not dream of answering this letter, which brings with it my sincerest admiration a deep sense of honour in having, at one time, been associated with you. Yours ever, Bob Laycock.”

Looking back at his legacy, many have wondered why he didn’t get the Victoria Cross. George VI publicly expressed surprise that Mayne had not been awarded a Victoria Cross. Some say it was because hot-headed Mayne, who’d become Lieutenant Colonel by the end of the war, had punched the second in command in his battalion during one heated exchange. Others say it was down to a technicality - because the raid in question was multiple acts of bravery, not a single act. The official SAS historian Ben Macintyre suggests that Blair Mayne was denied the Victoria Cross either because of his brawling, his anti-Establishment streak or his alleged homosexuality (rumours rather than factually proven it must be stressed). Blair Mayne mistakenly thought Churchill had personally blocked him because of his history of brawling against military superiors and drunken behaviour that perhaps offended Churchill’s purist views of being an officer. The truth seems to be that Churchill was said to have been saddened and shocked by the omission.

In 2005, 50 years after Mayne’s death, an Early Day Motion in the House of Commons supported by 100 MPs, proposed that, “the Government mark these anniversaries by instructing the appropriate authorities to act without delay to reinstate the Victoria Cross given for exceptional personal courage and leadership of the highest order and to acknowledge that Mayne’s actions on that day saved the lives of many men and greatly helped the allied advance on Berlin.” It was defeated.

Perhaps there was no conspiracy though. Some historians of the SAS Regiment have laid out a common-sense case for precisely why one would expect Mayne not to have won the VC: Because doing so required independent witness testimonies of a recipient’s brave deeds from high-ranking officers. Special forces work, by its very nature, made reaching this bar highly unlikely. Heroism would have been commonplace, but, for the most part, it was clandestine and often independent of senior officers.

Mike Sadler, now close to 100 years old, is the last surviving member of the original SAS. His feats of bravery during the war read like a movie script. He was decorated with the French Légion d’honneur at 98 Years old in 2018 . Mike Sadler joined the Long Range Desert Group in 1941 and was based in the North African desert.  Lieutenant David Stirling brought the SAS (Special Air Service) into service, and Mike Sadler was transferred to the new unit when they began launching raids in Libya. He became their top navigator as he had a unique talent for being able to navigate vast expanses of desert, without the aid of maps, to guide the raiding parties to their targets. He also served under Paddy Mayne from 1941 until the end of the war.

I have had the privilege to have met Mike on one or two occasions through both my older brother and father with whom they share a common friendship through military veteran circles (but belonging to different eras). Over a few lunches and dinners over the years, I was hooked on his anecdotes and was full admiration for his exploits.

Most memorably Mike recounted the time that while sitting in a restaurant in Paris surrounded by seven or eight soldiers Paddy Mayne took out a grenade, pulled the pin and placed it on the table. Several dived for cover but Sadler reckoned that Mayne wasn’t about to kill himself. He was right; Paddy had previously removed the detonator.

This atypical story added to the Olympian myth of Paddy Mayne. And yet the grenade incident in the busy café wasn’t the random act of recklessness it sounds like. There was method in the madness. Mayne was making an important point. Whilst responsible for French troops who were part of the Special Air Service Brigade in 1944, he’d been horrified by reports of improper handling of grenades. The French troops simply hadn’t been as familiar with infantry training as they should have been. So Mayne used the incident in the café to show it was possible to completely control a grenade if one knew what they were doing.

Sadler explained that like him all the men who served with Mayne had a huge respect and admiration, drawing from his comforting presence on missions. But for all that Paddy Mayne had no close friends, other than Eoin McGonigal, who helped persuade him to join the SAS and who was killed in the Benghazi raid, the very first SAS operation in 1941.

The sad truth is that Paddy Mayne cut a solitary figure, often to be found reading the darker poetry of AE Housman. Mayne was socially awkward with no idea how to talk to women even though they were attracted to this very big, athletic Irishman. He revered his mother and put women on a pedestal, refusing to tolerate swearing in their presence. He was shy until drink initially loosened his inhibitions but then transported him to far darker places. But for all that he wasn’t reckless with the lives of his men. He weighed up situations, was intuitively brilliant in terms of the guerrilla tactics he employed when orchestrating his night-time raids in customised jeeps deep behind enemy lines initially in Egypt and Libya.

Lieutenant-Colonel Robert Blair ‘Paddy’ Mayne was a fighting legend, and a pitiless killer in war. Even his comrades thought him cold-blooded and overly ruthless. Stirling thought Mayne had gone too far on occasions in killing the enemy. And yet Mayne typified the SAS recruitment policy, whose finds were the “sweepings of prisons and public schools���. In countless missions behind enemy lines, Major Paddy Mayne destroyed more aircraft than any fighter pilot on either side during the course of the war between Britain and Germany. He was to go on and become one of the most decorated British soldiers during the war.

Ben Macintyre, author of ‘Rogue Heroes: an authorised history of the SAS’ wrote: “It is not a story of unalloyed British bulldog heroism. These people were tough as tungsten but they were also human and frail and huge mistakes were made.”

Such men of war are not made for peace time.

Mayne sought further adventure in an Antarctic expedition but had to return home prematurely with a debilitating back condition, the origins of which came from his war service.

He took up a position as secretary to the Law Society of Northern Ireland until, returning from a night’s socialising on December 14th, 1955, he clipped an unlit parked lorry, and crashed into a telegraph pole on the Scrabo road, a few hundred metres from his house. Paddy Mayne died at 40 years old. He is buried in Movilla Abbey graveyard.

Hundreds attended Mayne’s funeral. His life was and continues to be commemorated in books, film. A statue in his native Newtownards stands in his honour. The town’s western bypass is also named after him.

A remarkable and complex character, he crammed a great deal into a life largely spent in the service of others, some of whom would have regarded him as a hero, although he, himself, would not.

King George VI asked Paddy Mayne how it was that he had not received the Victoria Cross, and he answered in a manner that sums up this courageous and remarkable man:

“I served to my best my Lord, my King and my Queen, and none can take that honour away from me.”

[otheroutlandertales]

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8

Witches - Part 9

by @whiskynottea

They rode hard until their bodies shook with exhaustion. And then, they rode even harder. 

Dishevelled and with eyes glinting with fear and courage, they saw Fort William looming over the highland landscape. They arrived at noon, the rare Scottish sun hiding behind fair clouds in the sky, a day before Alex’s execution. 

A clock was ticking inside Claire’s head. A bomb ready to explode. On which side was yet to be found. 

With trembling limbs, they dismounted and camped in the woods, concealed from the soldiers’ wandering eyes. None of them spoke of plans and hopes. They kept their voices inside their throats, afraid they would tremble or break if they attempted to make light of their situation. 

Jamie walked away with measured steps to tend to the horses. Claire couldn’t help but notice the way his hands turned into fists. Jenny followed her brother and reached for her saddlebag, unpacking the oatcakes and cheese they had carried from Lallybroch. Ceana made to move to help, but she stopped with a firm shake of Jenny’s head. When Jamie returned, he found the girls sitting in an open circle, the food laid on a cloth in the middle of it. He closed the circle, sitting between Claire and his sister, and reached for an oatcake without a word. Jenny and Claire mimicked him, but Ceana didn’t reach for her food. Jamie finished his oatcake before Claire even started pretending she was eating hers. A nudge and a stern glance from Jenny at her side made her realize that she needed to make an effort. 

“Ye’ll need yer strength, a nighean,” Jenny murmured in her ear as she leaned into Claire. “Ceana, eat,” she ordered sternly as if the lass was a wee girl, startling the youngest of the company. “We dinna need empty stomachs on top of everything else tonight.”

Claire saw Ceana reaching for some cheese as she broke her own oatcake into two. Half of it now, half in a few hours, before they would enter the fort. Jenny had been right, she was going to need it. She reached down, deep inside her, experimentally. She felt warmth, and a blue light springing from her center. 

Good.

Next, she patted her right pocket for what seemed to be the hundredth time. She had read once, when she lived in the future, that this was the standard move all grooms did while waiting for their wives-to-be to walk down the aisle to them. They needed to be sure they had the ring. It wasn’t a sweet or romantic gesture in Claire’s case, but the nerves were just the same. She needed to know that both her vials were there, safe in thick cloths secured with cords, next to the syringe in her pocket. 

The sun glinted against Jamie’s dagger as it lay on the grass out of its sheath. His steel pistol was inauspicious in its holder, but just as lethal. 

They had their weapons. They had their plan. And they had six more hours before they would execute it, which seemed like an eternity to Claire.

She closed her eyes and prayed for good luck, prayed for a miracle. She prayed she would be enough, and her magic shimmered underneath her fingertips. 

During the following hours, they only spoke about their mission. They went through every little detail, again and again. When the night fell, they were ready.

It was in those last few minutes, when the sun had moved to grace other lands, that Claire wished the light would not disappear yet. But the Earth kept spinning, paying no heed to her wishes. She closed her eyes to ready herself. When she opened them again, darkness surrounded her in the moonless night. She saw the Fraser siblings nodding to each other, then at her and Ceana. A minute later, she would hardly be able to make out their frames against the trees. She nodded back and heard them move, following the trail towards the fort.

Claire could listen to her heart beating, could feel her steps crashing the grass and wildflowers into the ground. This might have been the loudest march of her life if she didn’t know that her soft leather boots were almost silent. When she turned to check with Jenny to her left, she glanced at what she assumed was her friend’s white teeth. Jenny was smiling at her. 

Sometimes Claire thought the Frasers had too much courage for their own good.

They all reached the east wall of the fort and with their backs scratching against the harsh stones, took the path parallel to the river. They had agreed beforehand that even though Jenny’s seduction skills had been of great value the first time she and Claire had entered the fort, they wouldn’t risk putting them to use again, especially now that the sentry may remember what they looked like. 

It wasn’t like three women vanished into thin air from the inner courtyard every day. 

This time all Claire could see was Jamie’s broad shoulders as he moved at the top of their small force. When he knocked down two sentries in a matter of minutes, Claire started wondering how exactly the Fraser siblings gained their disarming skills and what Jamie meant when he said that he was attending university in France. She doubted that fighting was a class he had taken right after literature or philosophy. Without lingering on that trail of thought, Claire moved next to Jamie and administered the mild soporific drug she kept in her left pocket before the sentries would faint. She needed them to have their senses, so they could swallow. The drug wouldn’t harm them, but it would secure Claire, Jenny and Ceana the time they needed inside the fort. It wouldn’t do for their plan to fail because a sentry had raised the alarm. 

“How long will it last?” Jamie asked, and Claire was unable to abstain from shooting him a furious glance, sure she had already explained everything when they were in the woods. 

“Three to four hours,” she nearly growled. “I’ve already told you this.”

Jamie, to his merit, at least had the presence of mind to look at the ground, blushing lightly. 

“Come on,” Jenny urged them both in a hushed tone. 

Jamie looked at them soberly for a moment. “Be careful,” he whispered, his eyes darting from his sister to Claire. 

“Aye, we will,” Jenny reassured him, while Claire just gave him what she hoped to be a reassuring smile.

Men weren’t used to waiting for their women to come back to them. Not at this time, at least. This had once been the woman’s job, to sit patiently at the side, biding her time when her man went out in the world to live the adventure, to fight his battles, to conquer the unknown. Penelope had set a bad example, but Claire knew this was bound to change. 

The perks of being a time-traveller. She smiled. 

“I’ll wait for ye by the exit,” Jamie said, swallowing with effort. “If ye’re late or I hear any stramash, I’m going in,” he announced in a fearless tone a moment later, placing a hand on his dagger and the other on his pistol. 

Some things would be hard to change.

“Sure,” Jenny nonchalantly agreed with him and made to leave. “Oh! And Jamie?” she turned around before her brother left them to go to his post. “Have fun, eh?”

Claire couldn’t keep from chuckling. Women as fierce and assertive as Jenny Fraser could turn the world upside-down. Jamie narrowed his eyes at Jenny, murmuring something that sounded ominous. His gaze met Claire’s for one last time, lingering before he disappeared into the night.

“Right,” Jenny mumbled, solemn once more. “Ready?”

Ceana pushed her lips together until they nearly vanished from her face. Claire swallowed hard, trying to find her voice. “As ready as we’ll ever be,” she admitted at last. “Let’s get Alex out of here.”

With one last nod, Jenny turned and headed towards Alex’s cell. They knew where it was, at least. Ceana knew exactly where Randall was keeping him.

Claire moved on her tiptoes, her heart in her mouth and her senses on the edge, scouring her surroundings for any sound that was out of place. She found the fort relatively quiet and was glad Brian’s information proved to be correct. 

Thank god for Highlanders and their cattle raiding. Many soldiers had left the fort to search for the offenders. 

The three girls stayed in the shadows, clothed in black, their silhouettes barely visible in the dark. 

They looked like Erinyes, brought out of the Greek mythology, ready to punish the immoral, the oath-breakers, the murderers. Though they were thirsty for justice, that wasn’t their focus tonight. 

Tonight, they will free an innocent.

They reached the cells in less than two minutes and without disruptions. A single guard was strolling from Alex’s cell at the end of the narrow corridor to the bottom of the stairs, then to the adjacent hallway that held even more closed doors with heavy lockets on them. The way out, Claire thought, based on the map of the fort Brian had acquired. She gestured that way at Jenny. 

The didn’t expect a guard to be stationed there. When Ceana had visited Alex before, the corridor was empty. Jamie insisted they be prepared in case of unexpected soldiers, though. They knew how to divert the man’s attention for as long as Claire and Ceana would need to reach Alex’s cell. They just wished they didn’t have to. 

Jenny squeezed Claire’s hand. She waited until the soldier turned his back to them, walking towards Alex’s cell. Then, she daintily walked towards the opposite direction, until she was lost from Claire’s sight at the turn at the end of the hallway. Claire held her breath and waited, hidden in the darkness of the stairs. 

The guard fumbled with his gun holder as he walked past her, following Jenny’s silent route. He reached the end of the hallway and stopped, leaning against the wall. 

Claire hardly held her gasp. Had he heard anything? Would he go looking for Jenny? 

It wasn’t more than a minute later that he started pacing towards Claire’s direction again. 

Nothing, then. He just took a bloody break, ideal to mess with Claire’s nerves.

When he passed by the staircase again, Claire took a tentative step down. Then another. A few more steps and she met Jenny’s pale face and wide eyes. Jenny signaled three with her hand and disappeared again to the left. 

Third door to the left, Claire repeated in her head. She ascended the few steps again and took Ceana’s hand in hers. The girl’s fingers were even colder than Claire’s and Claire pulled her close to her, hugging her tightly. 

They waited until they saw the soldier again, his face as red as his uniform under the light of the torch at the bottom of the stairs. The next moment he was walking in the opposite direction of Alex’s cell. 

Claire descended the stairs feeling Ceana close behind her and waited in the shadows. A moment later, she heard a loud banging from the end of the hallway. 

Jenny’s decoy.

The soldier murmured something under his breath but, thankfully, his gait didn’t change. Instead of running towards the sound as Claire thought he would, he trudged along the hallway. It seemed that some of the prisoners made sure to remind him that he was not alone. 

Claire smiled and thanked her luck for the extra time they had been granted. 

She walked fast to Alex’s cell, already holding the lockpick Jamie gave her and going through Jamie’s and Jenny’s instructions in her mind. She knew Ceana’s eyes were on the sentry, in case he turned back and didn’t follow the sound that now had stopped.

When the door didn’t submit to Claire’s picking skills, her heart stumbled in her chest. 

“Just don’t panic,” Jamie had said.

Easy to say that, when you’re sitting at Lallybroch’s large kitchen table with a cup of tea in front of you and your family around, teaching people how to pick locks.

Claire took a breath and tried teasing the lock open again. The third time proved to be a charm. 

Just like magic, she thought, as she and Ceana entered the cell. 

They got in and closed the door behind them, anticipating and wishing against any alarming sound from the guard’s direction. When nothing came through the iron door, Claire silently thanked Jenny and turned around, taking in the moist, dark cell. 

A shiver ran along her spine and Claire felt her throat getting dry. Ceana gasped. 

A torch was burning in its holster next to the door, but there was no warmth in the narrow room. A single cot lay across from them, with a tattered blanket and a buck next to it. 

Ceana ran to the figure lying under the blanket, stopping at arm’s length.

“Alex?” she whimpered, reaching a hand towards him. 

The figure turned, and his pale face searched for the girl. Greasy dark hair fell on his hollowed cheeks, and Claire couldn’t see more before Ceana fell on him, holding him to her, hiding him from Claire’s eyes with her body. 

They were both sobbing. 

Claire wished they had time, wished she could let them live this moment and cry their hearts out for finding each other again but she knew she couldn’t do that. 

The clock was still ticking inside her head, just as it did that morning.

Her stride was determined, even though her touch was gentle on Ceana’s back when she reached the couple. 

“Later,” she whispered. “You’ll have all the time in the world later. Now we need to be fast and quiet.”

Ceana nodded and tried to extricate herself from her loved one’s arms but Alex held her tight, not letting her go. Claire listened to his rough voice as he mumbled in Ceana’s hair that he loved her and that she shouldn’t have come, that she wasn’t safe. 

Ceana just shook her head and pulled away from him.

“This is Claire,” she announced, gesturing at the woman standing next to her. “And we will get ye out of here.”

Alex’s eyes widened in trepidation, and Ceana took his face in her palms and kissed his forehead. “I trust her wi’ my life, and wi’ yer life too. Just do as she says.”

Alex kept silent for a moment before his eyes found Claire’s. She tried to smile at him and hoped the dim light hid the trembling corners of her mouth. 

“Wha’ do I need to do?” he asked as he raised himself on his cot. “I canna--” he said, trying to sit up, but his arms failed him. 

Claire took a breath while Ceana lowered Alex on the bed again and sat by him, holding his hand between hers. Together, they explained the plan. Claire had thought that were was no colour on the lad’s face when they first entered the room, but by the time they finished narrating the events that would happen that night, Alex looked positively dead. 

It suits our purpose just fine, Claire’s sarcasm surfaced for a moment before the weight of her actions sank her deeper into the dread of the night. 

Within the next hour, she would either save him or kill him. 

Claire closed her eyes and reached for the light within her. With slow, tender moves she healed Alex’s wounds, leaving the superficial scratches and bruises, the proof that nothing had changed from the last time Randall had seen him. When his breathing came easier and he could stand on his feet, she walked under the torch and pulled out the vial with the curare. A minute later it was in the syringe, ready flow in Alex’s veins and arteries to paralyze him. 

Ceana had already started making the noose out of Alex’s blanket when Claire approached the pair again. Ceana had been right, the lad didn’t cower at the sight of the needle. Claire fervently wished it could be easier on him, something more humane and less of a torture. 

How much suffering, does being loved, takes? How much pain does freedom cost? 

Not waiting for an answer, Claire administered the poison. Again, and again. Alex started feeling dizzy. The muscles of his jaw, neck, and head relaxed first, making Ceana gasp. Claire bit her lip hard and waited for the next signs. Before he became heavy they moved him towards the tiny window of his cell. After a few failed attempts, Ceana managed to secure the end of the blanket on the steel bars covering the window. Alex’s breaths came fast and short, and he desperately clutched at his neck. It broke Claire’s heart to see him like this, to know that she’d leave him like this. 

“I know you can’t swallow,” she said, searching for his eyes. “You’re choking because of the saliva that accumulates in your throat. That is to be expected. Soon, you won’t be able to move. But you will be conscious, and you will feel it all. You will feel the pain, and I’m sorry.” She reached for his hands, taking them into hers, trying to ignore the sounds of life leaving his body through his throat. “I’m so very sorry, Alex.”

Claire looked at Ceana, who had hugged Alex’s arm as if she would never let go. “We have to leave,” Claire announced. “Now. The captain will come at any moment.”

Ceana started crying, then cupped Alex’s face and lifted it up so he could look at her. “I love ye, mo chridhe. I love ye so much.” His head dropped down again the moment her hands left it. 

Claire’s one hand reached for his throat, the other laid above his trachea. Her magic ran through her, and she wished the air to pass through his open mouth, down to his lungs. Alex, used to getting morsels of air up to this point, took a ragged breath. And another. 

“This will help for a while.” 

Claire held him as Ceana secured the noose around his neck and then when the girl went to check if the guard was in the corridor again. 

“Nothing,” she whispered. 

“Jenny and Jamie dealt with him.” The assumption gave courage to Claire. They were alone now, but her friends were out there, waiting for Claire and Ceana to come back to them, willing to do anything for them.

“Come help me,” Claire asked, feeling the weight of the man becoming more as time passed.

Ceana held him with difficulty and Claire placed two palms on his tights. Blue light emerged, dipping into the muscle for a few moments. 

“I hope this will be enough. It will help you stand. When you hear Randall outside,” Claire paused for a moment, not sure which words were suited best for the situation. 

“Let go,” Ceana provided and Claire silently thanked the girl. “They will throw you outside, thinking that ye’re dead,” she said, holding his head once more. “We will be there.”

“We will be there,” Claire echoed her and gave her a few more breaths, the blue light of her hands erie on the skin of his neck. moved towards the door. She didn’t want to look back, but she did, and she felt her heart breaking at the sight of him.

At the sight of what she had done.

Just help me save him. Bring him to me on time, let me be enough. 

They turned at the end of the silent corridor and reached the third door at the left, as Jenny had instructed. It wasn’t locked, and the crisp air of the night welcomed them, caressing their faces. Next came the stench. 

Claire reached for her throat and listened to Ceana gag. 

“Not verra pleasing, is it?” Jenny’s voice reached them and Claire looked down at her friend. “I’m afraid ye have to jump.” Jenny shrugged.

So Claire jumped into that sea of dead bodies. Ceana followed, and Claire knew the girl’s grimace wasn’t very different from hers.

“Try staying here for a while,” Jamie suggested.

“Ye do get used to it,” Jenny challenged. 

“I’ll ask our friend here, once he comes to.” Claire could almost see Jamie’s lopsided smile. 

“Don’t we need to… return him?” she asked, looking at the unconscious soldier beside Jamie. 

“Nah,” Jamie argued. “Randall can punish him all he wants for not being on this post after we take Alex.”

Claire nodded, raising a clothed arm to protect her nose from the offensive smell, and waited. None of them spoke again, standing among the corpses, waiting for the one they wished they had saved. 

Claire clenched the vial with the antidote in her hand. She would give it to Alex the moment they had him. She would give everything to save him. She reached for her magic, determined to drain her core if need to. Alex needed to live. She needed to save him.

Ceana shivered and Jenny tucked her under her arm. Claire felt the minutes drag by, each of them longer, each of them the one in which Alex’s diaphragm was paralyzed. She counted her breaths, so free and unhindered, and thought of his labored and counted ones. Each of them bringing him closer to the end. 

Guilt settled in Claire’s heart, because she knew that this was the end she had chosen for him. Full of pain and despair. She felt like vomiting when the commotion from inside reached her ears. She pushed her thoughts and feelings back and started counting the seconds. Then the minutes. 

One minute. Two. 

What was taking them so long?

Three minutes.

She waited between Jenny and Jamie, their backs pushed against the stone wall to avoid detection. Claire could feel her own heart beating louder and louder against her ribs. Ceana’s face was hidden in the crook of Jenny’s neck. Jamie faced upwards, towards the closed door, as if saying, any moment now. We’ll have him back at any moment now.

Claire couldn’t think anymore. An endless chant took hold of her mind, urging them to give Alex back to her. 

Come on, come on, come on. 

Finally, the voices got louder. The door opened, and a body was thrown above the rest of soulless limbs in front of them. The soldiers were talking, but Claire’s attention was on the man. On Alex. 

The moment the door closed again, Jamie brought Alex to her. Laid on top of the corpses, Alex took another injection, one that he couldn’t feel this time. But now the syringe was full with the antidote. 

He still didn’t move. Claire inhaled deeply, taking in the smell of death around her and breathed it in Alex’s mouth. 

Exchanging death for life. 

Her hands reached for his throat and trachea as she did so, the blue light strong and iridescent at the midst of the darkness. Jamie and Jenny moved to cover her with their bodies, with dread and awe in their eyes. 

Magic always did that to people. But what Claire really needed was a miracle. 

She felt their silent support through their hands on her shoulders. Claire repeated the unconventional artificial respiration until her own lungs hurt. She kept going until the blue light emanating from her fingers flickered and fell. She tried bringing him back to life until she felt there was no life in her anymore. 

When Alex’s chest finally moved, she fell into the darkness. 

--

Claire woke up feeling two warm hands holding hers. 

Jenny.

Her friend, her companion, her fellow witch. Her sister.

She opened her eyes, taking in the dimly lit room. The curtains were closed, and the embers in the fireplace gave the walls a warm red glow. 

“Don’t --” she started saying, but her voice broke. Speaking was painful, and she wondered how many days she’d lain unconscious. 

“Claire?” Jenny’s voice, hushed but excited, was soon followed by her hand on Claire’s forehead. A murmured, “Thank God,” and Jenny’s small smile made the corners of Claire’s lips turn up in response.

She cleared her throat. Twice. “Don’t you have any work to do, instead of sitting on my bedside like I’m dying?” she rasped. 

“Ye were dying,” Jenny chastised. “We thought we were losing ye. What were ye thinking, Claire? What ye did at Fort William was totally irresponsible.” She sighed and brushed Claire’s curls from her face. “And selfless, and brave.” 

A sudden panic slipped into Claire’s eyes as the realization hit her. She made to sit up, but Jenny’s forearm restrained her. “Is he alive? Where is he? How is he doing? I need to see him!” Her breaths came quick but she ignored them. 

“Alex is fine, lass. His recovery is fast.” Jenny nodded, to emphasize her words. “Since ye depleted all yer magic to save him,” she added in a murmur. “How do ye feel?”

“Tired. How many days was I out?”

“Three days, Claire. And ye were grey and hardly breathing when we brought ye home. And when I tried to see ye in the future…” Jenny trailed off, suddenly finding the duvet more interesting than Claire’s eyes.

“I’m fine, Jenny. I’m here.” Claire squeezed her friend’s hand and Jenny looked at her again. 

“Ye shouldna sacrifice yerself to save another. Yer life counts just as much.” 

Claire smiled, knowing that Jenny said what she had to say, but didn’t quite follow her own advice. 

“I’ll go bring ye some broth and tell the others ye’re awake a leannan,” Jenny announced, standing up. “I wasna the only one at yer bedside, Claire,” she added as an afterthought.

I looked at her for a long moment, thinking that Ceana probably hadn’t left Alex’s side since they rescued him. 

“Jamie,” Jenny confirmed quietly and moved to the door. “He didna leave ye alone either.”

When the door closed, tears started rolling down Claire’s cheekbones, dampening her pillow. 

[timeless-hollywood-classics]

Leonidas Frank "Lon" Chaney (April 1, 1883 – August 26, 1930) was an American stage and film actor, make-up artist, director and screenwriter. He is regarded as one of the most versatile and powerful actors of cinema, renowned for his characterizations of tortured, often grotesque and afflicted characters, and his groundbreaking artistry with makeup. Chaney was known for his starring roles in such silent horror films as The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1923) and The Phantom of the Opera (1925). His ability to transform himself using makeup techniques he developed earned him the nickname "The Man of a Thousand Faces".

Leonidas Frank Chaney was born in Colorado Springs, Colorado, to Frank H. Chaney (1852–1927) and Emma Alice Kennedy. His father was of English and French ancestry, and his mother was of Scottish, English, and Irish descent. Chaney's maternal grandfather, Jonathan Ralston Kennedy, founded the "Colorado School for the Education of Mutes" (now, Colorado School for the Deaf and Blind) in 1874, and Chaney's parents met there.[2] His great-grandfather was congressman John Chaney.

Both of Chaney's parents were deaf and, as a child of deaf adults, Chaney became skilled in pantomime. He entered a stage career in 1902, and began traveling with popular Vaudeville and theater acts. In 1905, Chaney, then 22, met and married 16-year-old singer Cleva Creighton (Frances Cleveland Creighton) and in 1906, their only child, a son, Creighton Tull Chaney (later known as Lon Chaney Jr.) was born. The Chaneys continued touring, settling in California in 1910.

Marital troubles developed and on April 30, 1913, Cleva went to the Majestic Theater in downtown Los Angeles, where Lon was managing the "Kolb and Dill" show, and attempted suicide by swallowing mercuric chloride. The suicide attempt failed but it ruined her singing career as a result; the ensuing scandal and divorce forced Chaney out of the theater and into film.

The time spent there is not clearly known, but between the years 1912 and 1917, Chaney worked under contract for Universal Studios doing bit or character parts. His skill with makeup gained him many parts in the highly competitive casting atmosphere. During this time, Chaney befriended the husband-wife director team of Joe De Grasse and Ida May Park, who gave him substantial roles in their pictures, and further encouraged him to play macabre characters.

Chaney married one of his former colleagues in the Kolb and Dill company, a chorus girl named Hazel Hastings. Little is known of Hazel, except that her marriage to Chaney was solid. Upon marrying, the new couple gained custody of Chaney's 10-year-old son Creighton, who had resided in various homes and boarding schools since Chaney's divorce from Cleva in 1913.

By 1917 Chaney was a prominent actor in the studio, but his salary did not reflect this status. When Chaney asked for a raise, studio executive William Sistrom replied, "You'll never be worth more than one hundred dollars a week." After leaving the studio, Chaney struggled for the first year as a character actor. It was not until he played a substantial role in William S. Hart's picture Riddle Gawne (1918) that Chaney's talents as a character actor were truly recognized by the industry.

Universal presented Chaney, Dorothy Phillips, and William Stowell as a team in The Piper's Price (1917). In succeeding films, the men alternated playing lover, villain, or other man to the beautiful Phillips. They would occasionally be joined by Claire DuBrey nearly making the trio a quartet of recurring actors from film to film. So successful were the films starring this group that Universal produced fourteen films from 1917 to 1919 with Chaney, Stowell, and Phillips. The films were usually directed by Joe De Grasse or his wife Ida May Park, both friends of Chaney's at Universal. When Chaney was away branching out on films such as Riddle Gawne and The Kaiser, the Beast of Berlin (both 1918), Stowell and Phillips would continue on as a duo until Chaney's return. Stowell and Phillips made The Heart of Humanity (also 1918), bringing in Erich von Stroheim for a part as the villain that could easily have been played by Chaney. Paid in Advance (1919) was the group's last film together, for the chiseled featured Stowell was sent to Africa by Universal to scout locations for a movie. En route from one city to another, Stowell was in the caboose when it was hit by the locomotive from another train; he was killed instantly. The majority of these films are lost but a few, including Triumph and Paid in Advance survive in private collections or unrestored in European or Russian archives.

Chaney had a breakthrough performance as "The Frog" in George Loane Tucker's The Miracle Man (1919). The film displayed not only Chaney's acting ability, but also his talent as a master of makeup. Critical praise and a gross of over $2 million put Chaney on the map as America's foremost character actor.

Chaney exhibited great adaptability with makeup in more conventional crime and adventure films, such as The Penalty (1920), in which he played a gangster with both legs amputated. Chaney appeared in 10 films directed by Tod Browning, often portraying disguised and/or mutilated characters, including carnival knife-thrower Alonzo the Armless in The Unknown (1927) opposite Joan Crawford. Around the same time, Chaney also co-starred with Conrad Nagel, Marceline Day, Henry B. Walthall and Polly Moran in the Tod Browning horror film London After Midnight (1927), one of the most sought after lost films. His final film role was a sound remake of his silent classic The Unholy Three (1930), his only "talkie" and the only film in which Chaney utilized his powerful and versatile voice. Chaney signed a sworn statement declaring that five of the key voices in the film (the ventriloquist, the old woman, a parrot, the dummy and the girl) were his own.

Makeup in the early days of cinema was almost non-existent with the exception of beards and moustaches to denote villains. Most of what the Hollywood studios knew about film stemmed from their experience with theater make-up, but this did not always transfer well to the big screen, especially as the film quality increased over time. It is also worth noting that make-up departments were not yet in place during Chaney's time. Prior to the mid-20s, actors were expected to do their own make-up.[9] In absence of specialized make-up artist professions, Chaney's make-up artistry skills gave him a competitive advantage over other actors. He was the complete package. Casting crews knew that they could place him in virtually any part and he would thrive. In some films his skill allowed him to play dual roles. An extreme case of this was the film Outside the Law (1920), where he played a character that shot and killed another character, whom he also was playing.

As Quasimodo, the bell ringer of Notre Dame Cathedral, and Erik, the "phantom" of the Paris Opera House, Chaney created two of the most grotesquely deformed characters in film history. However, the portrayals sought to elicit a degree of sympathy and pathos among viewers not overwhelmingly terrified or repulsed by the monstrous disfigurements of these victims of fate.

In a 1925 autobiographical article for Movie magazine, Chaney wrote: "I wanted to remind people that the lowest types of humanity may have within them the capacity for supreme self-sacrifice. The dwarfed, misshapen beggar of the streets may have the noblest ideals. Most of my roles since The Hunchback, such as The Phantom of the Opera, He Who Gets Slapped, The Unholy Three, etc., have carried the theme of self-sacrifice or renunciation. These are the stories which I wish to do." Chaney referred to his expertise in both make-up and contorting his body to portray his subjects as "extraordinary characterization." Chaney's talents extended beyond the horror genre and stage makeup. He was also a highly skilled dancer, singer and comedian.

Ray Bradbury once said of Chaney, "He was someone who acted out our psyches. He somehow got into the shadows inside our bodies; he was able to nail down some of our secret fears and put them on-screen. The history of Lon Chaney is the history of unrequited loves. He brings that part of you out into the open, because you fear that you are not loved, you fear that you never will be loved, you fear there is some part of you that's grotesque, that the world will turn away from."

Chaney and his second wife Hazel led a discreet private life distant from the Hollywood social scene. Chaney did minimal promotional work for his films and for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, purposefully fostering a mysterious image, and he reportedly intentionally avoided the social scene in Hollywood.

In the final five years of his film career (1925–1930), Chaney worked exclusively under contract to Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, giving some of his most memorable performances. His portrayal of a tough-as-nails marine drill instructor in Tell It to the Marines (1926), one of his favorite films, earned him the affection of the Marine Corps, who made him their first honorary member from the motion picture industry. He also earned the respect and admiration of numerous aspiring actors, to whom he offered mentoring assistance, and between takes on film sets he was always willing to share his professional observations with the cast and crew. During the filming of The Unknown (1927), Joan Crawford stated that she learned more about acting from watching Chaney work than from anyone else in her career. "It was then," she said, "I became aware for the first time of the difference between standing in front of a camera, and acting."

During the filming of Thunder in the winter of 1929, Chaney developed pneumonia. In late 1929 he was diagnosed with bronchial lung cancer. This was exacerbated when artificial snow, made out of cornflakes, lodged in his throat during filming and quickly created a serious infection. Despite aggressive treatment, his condition gradually worsened, and seven weeks after the release of the remake of The Unholy Three, he died of a throat hemorrhage on Tuesday, August 26, 1930, in Los Angeles, California. His funeral was held on August 28 in Glendale, California. Honorary pallbearers included Paul Bern, Hunt Stromberg, Irving Thalberg, Louis B. Mayer, Lionel Barrymore, Wallace Beery, Tod Browning, Lew Cody, and Ramon Novarro. The U.S. Marine Corps provided a chaplain and Honor Guard for his funeral. While his funeral was being conducted, all film studios and every office at MGM observed two minutes of silence in his honor.

Chaney was interred at Forest Lawn Memorial Park Cemetery in Glendale, next to the crypt of his father. His wife Hazel was interred there upon her death in 1933. For unknown reasons, Chaney's crypt has remained unmarked.

In 1957, Chaney was the subject of a biopic titled Man of a Thousand Faces, in which he was portrayed by James Cagney. The film is a largely fictionalized account, as Chaney was notoriously private and hated the Hollywood lifestyle. He never revealed personal details about himself or his family, once stating, "Between pictures, there is no Lon Chaney."

Chaney's son Creighton, who later changed his name to Lon Chaney Jr., became a film actor after his father's death. Chaney Jr. is best remembered for roles in horror films, such as the title character in The Wolf Man (1941). In October 1997, both Chaneys appeared on commemorative US postage stamps as the Phantom of the Opera and the Wolf Man, with the set completed by Bela Lugosi as Dracula and Boris Karloff as Frankenstein's monster and the Mummy.

Chaney is also the subject of the 2000 documentary feature, Lon Chaney: A Thousand Faces. The film was produced by silent film historian Kevin Brownlow and narrated by Kenneth Branagh.

[silent-era-of-cinema]

Leonidas Frank "Lon" Chaney (April 1, 1883 – August 26, 1930) was an American stage and film actor, make-up artist, director and screenwriter. He is regarded as one of the most versatile and powerful actors of cinema, renowned for his characterizations of tortured, often grotesque and afflicted characters, and his groundbreaking artistry with makeup. Chaney was known for his starring roles in such silent horror films as The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1923) and The Phantom of the Opera (1925). His ability to transform himself using makeup techniques he developed earned him the nickname "The Man of a Thousand Faces".

Leonidas Frank Chaney was born in Colorado Springs, Colorado, to Frank H. Chaney (1852–1927) and Emma Alice Kennedy. His father was of English and French ancestry, and his mother was of Scottish, English, and Irish descent. Chaney's maternal grandfather, Jonathan Ralston Kennedy, founded the "Colorado School for the Education of Mutes" (now, Colorado School for the Deaf and Blind) in 1874, and Chaney's parents met there.[2] His great-grandfather was congressman John Chaney.

Both of Chaney's parents were deaf and, as a child of deaf adults, Chaney became skilled in pantomime. He entered a stage career in 1902, and began traveling with popular Vaudeville and theater acts. In 1905, Chaney, then 22, met and married 16-year-old singer Cleva Creighton (Frances Cleveland Creighton) and in 1906, their only child, a son, Creighton Tull Chaney (later known as Lon Chaney Jr.) was born. The Chaneys continued touring, settling in California in 1910.

Marital troubles developed and on April 30, 1913, Cleva went to the Majestic Theater in downtown Los Angeles, where Lon was managing the "Kolb and Dill" show, and attempted suicide by swallowing mercuric chloride. The suicide attempt failed but it ruined her singing career as a result; the ensuing scandal and divorce forced Chaney out of the theater and into film.

The time spent there is not clearly known, but between the years 1912 and 1917, Chaney worked under contract for Universal Studios doing bit or character parts. His skill with makeup gained him many parts in the highly competitive casting atmosphere. During this time, Chaney befriended the husband-wife director team of Joe De Grasse and Ida May Park, who gave him substantial roles in their pictures, and further encouraged him to play macabre characters.

Chaney married one of his former colleagues in the Kolb and Dill company, a chorus girl named Hazel Hastings. Little is known of Hazel, except that her marriage to Chaney was solid. Upon marrying, the new couple gained custody of Chaney's 10-year-old son Creighton, who had resided in various homes and boarding schools since Chaney's divorce from Cleva in 1913.

By 1917 Chaney was a prominent actor in the studio, but his salary did not reflect this status. When Chaney asked for a raise, studio executive William Sistrom replied, "You'll never be worth more than one hundred dollars a week." After leaving the studio, Chaney struggled for the first year as a character actor. It was not until he played a substantial role in William S. Hart's picture Riddle Gawne (1918) that Chaney's talents as a character actor were truly recognized by the industry.

Universal presented Chaney, Dorothy Phillips, and William Stowell as a team in The Piper's Price (1917). In succeeding films, the men alternated playing lover, villain, or other man to the beautiful Phillips. They would occasionally be joined by Claire DuBrey nearly making the trio a quartet of recurring actors from film to film. So successful were the films starring this group that Universal produced fourteen films from 1917 to 1919 with Chaney, Stowell, and Phillips. The films were usually directed by Joe De Grasse or his wife Ida May Park, both friends of Chaney's at Universal. When Chaney was away branching out on films such as Riddle Gawne and The Kaiser, the Beast of Berlin (both 1918), Stowell and Phillips would continue on as a duo until Chaney's return. Stowell and Phillips made The Heart of Humanity (also 1918), bringing in Erich von Stroheim for a part as the villain that could easily have been played by Chaney. Paid in Advance (1919) was the group's last film together, for the chiseled featured Stowell was sent to Africa by Universal to scout locations for a movie. En route from one city to another, Stowell was in the caboose when it was hit by the locomotive from another train; he was killed instantly. The majority of these films are lost but a few, including Triumph and Paid in Advance survive in private collections or unrestored in European or Russian archives.

Chaney had a breakthrough performance as "The Frog" in George Loane Tucker's The Miracle Man (1919). The film displayed not only Chaney's acting ability, but also his talent as a master of makeup. Critical praise and a gross of over $2 million put Chaney on the map as America's foremost character actor.

Chaney exhibited great adaptability with makeup in more conventional crime and adventure films, such as The Penalty (1920), in which he played a gangster with both legs amputated. Chaney appeared in 10 films directed by Tod Browning, often portraying disguised and/or mutilated characters, including carnival knife-thrower Alonzo the Armless in The Unknown (1927) opposite Joan Crawford. Around the same time, Chaney also co-starred with Conrad Nagel, Marceline Day, Henry B. Walthall and Polly Moran in the Tod Browning horror film London After Midnight (1927), one of the most sought after lost films. His final film role was a sound remake of his silent classic The Unholy Three (1930), his only "talkie" and the only film in which Chaney utilized his powerful and versatile voice. Chaney signed a sworn statement declaring that five of the key voices in the film (the ventriloquist, the old woman, a parrot, the dummy and the girl) were his own.

Makeup in the early days of cinema was almost non-existent with the exception of beards and moustaches to denote villains. Most of what the Hollywood studios knew about film stemmed from their experience with theater make-up, but this did not always transfer well to the big screen, especially as the film quality increased over time. It is also worth noting that make-up departments were not yet in place during Chaney's time. Prior to the mid-20s, actors were expected to do their own make-up.[9] In absence of specialized make-up artist professions, Chaney's make-up artistry skills gave him a competitive advantage over other actors. He was the complete package. Casting crews knew that they could place him in virtually any part and he would thrive. In some films his skill allowed him to play dual roles. An extreme case of this was the film Outside the Law (1920), where he played a character that shot and killed another character, whom he also was playing.

As Quasimodo, the bell ringer of Notre Dame Cathedral, and Erik, the "phantom" of the Paris Opera House, Chaney created two of the most grotesquely deformed characters in film history. However, the portrayals sought to elicit a degree of sympathy and pathos among viewers not overwhelmingly terrified or repulsed by the monstrous disfigurements of these victims of fate.

In a 1925 autobiographical article for Movie magazine, Chaney wrote: "I wanted to remind people that the lowest types of humanity may have within them the capacity for supreme self-sacrifice. The dwarfed, misshapen beggar of the streets may have the noblest ideals. Most of my roles since The Hunchback, such as The Phantom of the Opera, He Who Gets Slapped, The Unholy Three, etc., have carried the theme of self-sacrifice or renunciation. These are the stories which I wish to do." Chaney referred to his expertise in both make-up and contorting his body to portray his subjects as "extraordinary characterization." Chaney's talents extended beyond the horror genre and stage makeup. He was also a highly skilled dancer, singer and comedian.

Ray Bradbury once said of Chaney, "He was someone who acted out our psyches. He somehow got into the shadows inside our bodies; he was able to nail down some of our secret fears and put them on-screen. The history of Lon Chaney is the history of unrequited loves. He brings that part of you out into the open, because you fear that you are not loved, you fear that you never will be loved, you fear there is some part of you that's grotesque, that the world will turn away from."

Chaney and his second wife Hazel led a discreet private life distant from the Hollywood social scene. Chaney did minimal promotional work for his films and for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, purposefully fostering a mysterious image, and he reportedly intentionally avoided the social scene in Hollywood.

In the final five years of his film career (1925–1930), Chaney worked exclusively under contract to Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, giving some of his most memorable performances. His portrayal of a tough-as-nails marine drill instructor in Tell It to the Marines (1926), one of his favorite films, earned him the affection of the Marine Corps, who made him their first honorary member from the motion picture industry. He also earned the respect and admiration of numerous aspiring actors, to whom he offered mentoring assistance, and between takes on film sets he was always willing to share his professional observations with the cast and crew. During the filming of The Unknown (1927), Joan Crawford stated that she learned more about acting from watching Chaney work than from anyone else in her career. "It was then," she said, "I became aware for the first time of the difference between standing in front of a camera, and acting."

During the filming of Thunder in the winter of 1929, Chaney developed pneumonia. In late 1929 he was diagnosed with bronchial lung cancer. This was exacerbated when artificial snow, made out of cornflakes, lodged in his throat during filming and quickly created a serious infection. Despite aggressive treatment, his condition gradually worsened, and seven weeks after the release of the remake of The Unholy Three, he died of a throat hemorrhage on Tuesday, August 26, 1930, in Los Angeles, California. His funeral was held on August 28 in Glendale, California. Honorary pallbearers included Paul Bern, Hunt Stromberg, Irving Thalberg, Louis B. Mayer, Lionel Barrymore, Wallace Beery, Tod Browning, Lew Cody, and Ramon Novarro. The U.S. Marine Corps provided a chaplain and Honor Guard for his funeral. While his funeral was being conducted, all film studios and every office at MGM observed two minutes of silence in his honor.

Chaney was interred at Forest Lawn Memorial Park Cemetery in Glendale, next to the crypt of his father. His wife Hazel was interred there upon her death in 1933. For unknown reasons, Chaney's crypt has remained unmarked.

In 1957, Chaney was the subject of a biopic titled Man of a Thousand Faces, in which he was portrayed by James Cagney. The film is a largely fictionalized account, as Chaney was notoriously private and hated the Hollywood lifestyle. He never revealed personal details about himself or his family, once stating, "Between pictures, there is no Lon Chaney."

Chaney's son Creighton, who later changed his name to Lon Chaney Jr., became a film actor after his father's death. Chaney Jr. is best remembered for roles in horror films, such as the title character in The Wolf Man (1941). In October 1997, both Chaneys appeared on commemorative US postage stamps as the Phantom of the Opera and the Wolf Man, with the set completed by Bela Lugosi as Dracula and Boris Karloff as Frankenstein's monster and the Mummy.

Chaney is also the subject of the 2000 documentary feature, Lon Chaney: A Thousand Faces. The film was produced by silent film historian Kevin Brownlow and narrated by Kenneth Branagh.

[mattzerella-sticks]

#ShipWars by mattzerella-sticks (ao3)

Zatanna Zatara expected date night with Kara would be uneventful. Chat about their days, enjoy some delicious treats at Sweet Justice, and soak up as much love as she could from her girlfriend like Kara does with the sun. However all these expectations explode into glitter when they run into Oliver Queen and his boyfriend, Carter. The boys chose Sweet Justice as their destination for date night, too.

Can Zatanna and Oliver work through a simple ceasefire, or will their competitive natures overtake their dates?

Zatanna hooked her arm comfortably in the crook of Kara’s elbow, leaning into her as the chill winds of early winter breezed past. She felt a shiver roll through her all while her girlfriend chuckled.

“Y’know,” Kara said, “you’d be less cold if you wore an actual jacket.”

Scoffing, Zatanna cuddled further into Kara’s warmth. “Please,” she said, “it might not be functional but it’s the height of fashion! I should know, I’m great friends with the designer.” Zatanna ran a hand down her jacket, the purple fabric shimmering under the street lamps. “Besides,” she continued, “you love it when I use you as my personal heater.”

“I like it when you’re close to me,” Kara rolled her eyes, “don’t confuse the two.”

“You’re the one who absorbs sunlight like a solar panel, not me.”

Zatanna carried on, then, filling Kara in on her day. They’ve been too busy to meet up until now for their date. Schedules packed despite the tempting laziness a Saturday offered. Kara stuck helping her cousin as his bodyguard. Not to aid him in crises, instead relegated to distracting Hal Jordan long enough for Clark to make his escape.

“Why doesn’t he just tell Hal he’s not interested?” Zatanna asked when Kara finished explaining how Hal tried convincing Kara to put in a good word for him with tickets to Homecoming.

Kara smirked. “Because he loves the attention, even though he won’t admit it. If Hal cooled it a bit with the hero worship I think Clark would take him seriously… if he can survive Star Sapphire, that is.” They laughed, imagining Carol and her violet ring chasing Clark around the city.

Zatanna’s day wasn’t as irritating as Kara’s, thankfully. Except with her dad not trapped in meetings or rehearsal meant double the stress. John Zatara used his free day to push Zatanna past her magical limits that nearly broke her wand in the process. “If I didn’t notice the clock I wouldn’t have had time to get ready for tonight,” she sighed, “I’d be with him practicing palindromes until morning!”

“Palindromes?”

“Sentences that mean the same thing forwards and backwards,” Zatanna said, “he thinks that the better I am with them the quicker I can think on my feet in case something unexpected happens in an act. Or… in our case, fighting evil. Thankfully he understands how important my social life is…” She grinned, pecking Kara’s cheek. “He says hi, by the way, and expects me home by ten.”

Kara pulled Zatanna closer. “Well, there goes my plans to take you to the Lazarus Pit for a special midnight concert.”

“I know for a fact they’re closed tonight for renovations after someone moshed too hard in their pits.” Sheepishly rubbing her neck, Kara fought against the blush climbing across her face. Zatanna pressed another kiss to Kara’s cheek, smiling against the skin there.

“Not my fault the Black Canaries are awesome ,” she said, glancing down at Zatanna with an arched brow, “Why were you even checking in the first place?”

“Because I’m not taking any chances like last time.”

It was one of their first dates. They were fighting against robots from a recently ungrounded Lena Luthor, and Kara bet she could beat more of them. Winner chose where they went out on Friday. Zatanna wanted to win and finally show Kara how fantastic a spa could be. Except Kara won by snatching the controller from Lena’s hands and pressing the self-destruct button. She was played , and forced to attend a deafening performance from a Scottish screamer. While watching Kara in her element was delightful, Zatanna’s hearing suffered and she missed a handful of cues for her and her father’s act the following day. Now she checked the club’s social pages on date nights to ensure Kara wouldn’t try dragging her to another show.

“Fine,” Kara sighed, “I guess we’ll have to stick with Sweet Justice, then. Is that okay with you?”

“Sounds perfect .” The pink and yellow neon beckoned them closer, Zatanna vibrating with excitement. “Hot cocoa and chocolate chip cookies is exactly what I was craving.” She reached out for the handle and wrapped her hand around the cold brass. Before she can pull, however, another hand covered hers.

“Why, Zatanna Zatara ... fancy running into you here, isn’t it?”

Another tremor wracked her body, the cause this time being the boy across from her in the brown leather jacket and ridiculous green ascot. A burning anger erupted in her stomach that spread to her head, flames caught on the grey matter when their eyes met.

She glared, “ Oliver . What are you doing here?”

“For the same reason as everyone else, I suppose,” he said, an imitation of a smile plastered on his face, “to enjoy some delightful treats safe from the frigid weather with my gorgeous boyfriend.” Oliver gestured to the other boy with him, Carter standing behind with a friendly gleam in his hard gaze. His hands were tucked deep in the pockets of his golden jacket and dark hair hidden under a similarly colored hat.

“What a coincidence,” Zatanna mirrored Oliver’s expression, “I had the same idea. Me and my stupendously beautiful girlfriend, Kara , thought that Sweet Justice would be a great place to be alone together .”

“I think the cold might be getting to you, dear,” Oliver huffed, “there were a lot of contradictions in that statement...”

Her smile fell in the same instant his did. They stood with their hands on the handle, neither willing to budge an inch in a sign of defeat.

Kara perked up beside Zatanna. “Hey Carter, how’s it hangin’?”

Carter shrugged, smirking. “Doin’ okay. Shoulder hurts though, think I landed on it wrong during flight training.”

“That sucks. Think you’ll be fine in case of an emergency?”

“Probably feel better in the morning, nothing serious-”

“And what’s not helping his shoulder injury,” Oliver cut in, dragging Carter closer to him, “is standing outside in the cold! He needs the warm comforts of baked goods!”

Zatanna grimaced, squinting at him. “Really? I heard of icing an injury but I don’t think they meant with frosting,” she said through clenched teeth, “Better Carter go home and rest, you two can come by any other night.”

“But it’s so perfect tonight,” Oliver insisted, squeezing her hand tighter, “as long as he doesn’t overexert himself he’ll be fine. Which is why I was going to feed him bites of his favorite cake to aid in his recovery!” He stepped closer, voice rising. Zatanna matched his bluff, making sure there was barely an inch of space between them. Then she racked her brain for a quick spell she could fire off to send Oliver crying home to his mansion.

“Woah, there,” Kara squeezed between them, prying them apart, “let’s cool it you two, I’d rather not get into a fight - which, coming from me, is saying a lot.”

Zatanna turned to face her girlfriend’s soft, pleading stare and found the burn churning within her slowly doused. She deflated for a moment only to straighten and addressed Oliver. “It’s a large space,” she said, “we can share.”

Oliver mulled it over. A tug at his wrist and a stern frown from Carter broke his resolve. “Agreed. We’ll sit at opposite ends if we have to.”

“Good.” She opened the door finally, gesturing to them. “Please, I insist you enter first. Age before beauty, as they say.”

“You’re lucky I’m going to let that slide,” he hissed, following Carter into Sweet Justice. Zatanna attempted to gloat, only for the smug expression to fall when Kara ushered her inside. They didn’t get far, though, Zatanna slamming into Oliver’s back.

“Hey,” she said, “why’d you stop?”

“There seems to be a… problem,” Oliver said, jerking a thumb behind him. Zatanna peeked behind him and understood what he meant.

Sweet Justice overflowed with customers, teens like them hanging out and enjoying the treats the store offered. She jumped from table to table, searching for an empty one. Even the bar had a person on every stool. There was a booth near the back, unfortunately Zatanna found it the only unoccupied part of the shop.

“Or actually,” Oliver continued, smirking, “a problem for you . Since Carter and I were here first - really, thank you for letting us in ahead of you - that booth rightfully belongs to… us .”

Zatanna growled, rounding on Oliver. “Oh no! Technically Kara and I were here first! My hand touched the door handle!”

Oliver tutted and crossed his arms over his chest, reminding Zatanna of every tutor she had growing up on tour with her father. It only served to stoke the fires of her anger more, resurging after the initial snuff. “That argument wouldn’t hold up in court much less here.”

“Oh yeah?” she said, “I’m willing to take this to court if you are!”

“I wouldn’t bother - my family’s lawyers could easily settle this with your family’s lawyers without ever needing a judge to get involved. Only to save your legal team the public embarrassment...”

“As if! Our lawyers were able to litigate against the Luthors when they stiffed us after a birthday party. Compared to the team we faced then, your retainer is like your facial hair - small and pathetic.”

Oliver gasped, petting his chin. “How dare you insult my goatee! It’s not pathetic, it’s stylish .”

Zatanna flipped her hair, smirking. “Please… you clearly don’t know anything about style. Otherwise you’d lose the ascot.”

He shrieked again, one hand moving from his goatee to his beloved ascot. “I will not allow you to ruin our date night,” Oliver said, stomping his foot, “Carter and I are going to order our desserts, and then we are going to sit in that booth. You and your girlfriend can do whatever you want as long as it’s not within this establishment.”

“Is that so?” she asked, tapping her foot rhythmically on the linoleum. Zatanna glanced over at the counter, an idea coming to mind. Grinning, she took a step away from Oliver. “Well… not if we get there first!”

She dashed towards the counter while ignoring the undignified huff behind her. Zatanna leapt into an open space and startled an already distracted Barry, cell phone perched between his ear and shoulder. “Two hot cocoas - extra whipped cream, extra cinnamon - and a half-dozen double chocolate chip cookies please!”

Oliver barged in after her, shoulder pressed hard against hers. “Two slices of cake - one red velvet, the other devil’s food - with generous helpings of whipped cream please, and tea with lemon! Please!”

“I ordered first Barry,” Zatanna growled, shoving at Oliver’s face, “serve me!”

“The bond of brotherhood, Barry,” he reminded the other boy, “deliver my order before hers !”

Barry’s eyes spun darting back and forth between them. As their voices grew and their behavior became more raucous, Zatanna felt a sense of shame building in the back of her mind. The whole building seemed to stare at them making fools of each other. She ignored all of this, though, and shoved her boot in Oliver’s stomach. However Zatanna couldn’t do the same for the force tugging her by her jacket cowl.

Kara held her tightly, a bored expression painted across her face. Carter did the same with Oliver, the smaller boy still kicking in his arms.

“Barry!” Oliver carried on, “if you bring us ours first I’ll tip you as handsomely as my boyfriend!”

“No!” Zatanna said, “I’m a better tipper!”

Barry’s face fell, darkening. He slammed his hands on the counter, “ Enough !” She and Oliver lost their voices - too stunned by the irritation laced within their normally cheerful friend. In the silence a tinny voice warbled. Sighing, Barry directed his attention to his phone. “No, Hal, not you. I’m a little busy can we - can we just pause for a sec? ...Okay.” Glancing between the couples he asked, “Why are you two acting like this… this time ?”

Zatanna answered. “Oliver was trying to steal our booth -”

“Your booth?” he gasped, “That booth rightfully belonged to Carter and I !”

“You’re fighting over a booth ?” Barry scoffed, pouting, “It’s a booth . Booths can fit four people… share .”

“Share?” Both Zatanna and Oliver cried, and then glared for the unexpected echo.

“It’s either that or no one gets the booth,” Barry told them, “I’m already busy enough as it is so answer quickly.” Then, to his phone, “Hal… this is the fourth time you’ve called me about Big Blue. You’re as obsessed with him as much as Carol is with you. ...No, I won’t take that back!”

Kara let go of Zatanna, frowning. “I’m not in the mood to find another spot for our date,” she told her, “so are you and Oliver gonna play nice or what?”

Zatanna huffed, crossing her arms. Unfortunately her girlfriend didn’t let up, and the guilt burned like her heat vision. Sighing, Zatanna faced an equally chewed out Oliver. “I guess we can share for tonight…”

“I agree,” he said, puffing his chest forward “a double date it shall be!”

She groaned, dragging her hand down her face. While spending an evening with an insufferable jerk like Oliver wasn’t exactly how she pictured tonight, it was better than if they were thrown from the establishment and Kara flew home in a bad mood. Zatanna could swallow her pride for an hour or two, no matter how large it may be.

“Barry,” Zatanna said, calmer now, “do you remember our orders?” He nodded, serving ice cream to a small child with their parent. “Good, we’ll be at the booth, then.”

They walked over and each couple slid into one of the vinyl booth cushions. Kara spread her legs comfortably, laying one arm against the back of the booth in invitation. Zatanna curled against her happily.

Oliver yawned, drawing her attention away from Kara. He relaxed into Carter, nuzzling against his chest. Peeking one eye open, Oliver raised a brow at Zatanna as a non-verbal raise. She squinted, tamping down the urge to meet his challenge.

While she wanted to give Kara an enjoyable night the habit of overshadowing Oliver bubbled within like a horribly shaken can of soda.

It was awful when they were competing to prove who was the most talented performer and only became worse when they entered into relationships. Now it wasn’t satisfying in confirming their talent but also showing off their significant others so everyone knew who had snagged the best catch.

Thinking back Zatanna would say this contest began in the library during a free period. She and Kara were studying for an exam they would have later on in the day, Zatanna quizzing her girlfriend on different chemicals and their attributes. After spouting off all she knew about Krypton - along with some extra tidbits - Zatanna threw her notebook in the air and kissed her cheek. “You’re going to do so well on this quiz Kara!” she whispered, “and when you get an A I can parade you around school so everyone knows how much of a genius you are!”

If they were anywhere else Zatanna might not have heard the scoff. But due to the reigning quiet in the library it stood out easily. Her smile fell and she whipped around to see who made the offensive sound.

Oliver tipped his chair as far as it could go, resting his feet on the table next to them. Carter sat to his right focused on his book.

“You have something to say, Oliver?” she asked.

“Why yes I do,” Oliver said, “I find it funny is all... that you would try and celebrate  your girlfriend for that when everyone already knows how smart my boyfriend is.” Carter glanced up from his book with a blush. “On the Honor Roll, exemplary tutor, President of the Archaeology club and the Oliver Queen fan club-”

“I’d say that last one would count as a mark against his intelligence,” Zatanna smirked, “and his taste .”

He nearly upended from his seat. Righting himself, Oliver glared at Zatanna and she matched his fury.

“My boyfriend is the best!”

“No,” Zatanna huffed, “my girlfriend is! She’s like the sun, so radiant, brings joy wherever she shines, and hot - she makes everything better!”

“Well Carter’s better than the sun! He is like - like - like the moon ! Mysterious, magnificent, and beautiful !”

“Ha! We all know the moon’s just a sad reflection of the sun! ”

Oliver gasped, slamming his hands on the table. “You take that back! Carter is the best person in the entire world!”

“No!” Zatanna argued, voice rising to Oliver’s level, “Kara’s the best person in this galaxy !”

“Carter’s had past lives better than the one Kara lives now!”

“Sorry to trash his past lives, but she only needs to do well in the one !”

A heavy book slammed, disrupting them. The librarian scowled their way, tapping her sharp nails on the cover of the dropped book. Without speaking she pointed towards the door. All four of them shuffled out of the library, Zatanna and Oliver still simmering and their feud far from over.

They went above and beyond in further installments of their competition. Once when Oliver bought Carter a book, Zatanna gifted Kara a guitar and it ended with both of them getting their credit cards revoked for a month after an incredible shopping spree. And another memorable moment was during lunch one afternoon when Zatanna posted a cute picture of her and Kara that accrued over one hundred likes. Only Oliver posted one of him and Carter that garnered more than theirs. Unacceptable . This led to her and Oliver taking different pictures with their partners in a variety of places and, ultimately, being sent to detention for sneaking into the principal’s office because at one in the afternoon the light from the window was perfect.

Every time they fell into one of their stubborn, competitive streaks both she and Oliver rode a short high and suffered in the long run.

But then Barry dropped off their orders. He placed the plates and mugs on their table all the while chatting with Hal. “If you’re only going to cry if I tell you Superman doesn’t think you’re handsome than how can you trust my answer is really genuine? No, no - don’t!” Barry sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Frowning, he looked at the group. “If you need anything else just wave, I’ll spot you.” Walking away they heard him mutter, “I was talking to customers… Because it’s my job and I’m at work , Hal!”

Oliver reached for his fork. Instead of spearing a bite from the devil’s food cake in front of him, he took from the red velvet and guided it towards Carter’s mouth. “You sit tight Carter,” he told him, “I’ll take care of this for you.”

Between bites, while Carter’s eyes were closed, Oliver glanced over at her and winked. Zatanna crushed one of the cookies in her hand. Letting the crumbs fall, she grabbed another and held it out to Kara. “Darling, you have to try these cookies. They are fantastic! ”

Kara, cheeks stuffed already with a cookie of her own, tried pushing Zatanna’s offering away. “It’s okay,” she said, crumbs spraying, “I’ve got my own -”

“There!” Zatanna stuffed it into her mouth, grinning at Oliver, “All the hard work you’ve done today, you deserve as many cookies as you can get!” She used her hand to help her chew, then, relishing the sound of it until Kara swallowed.

Oliver nearly bent the fork with his shaking grip. Setting it down, he used his free hand to wave. Barry sped over.

“I think we’ll be needing more desserts,” he said, not breaking eye contact with Zatanna, “can you prepare a sundae?”

“Kara and I could use a couple of milkshakes as well,” Zatanna added, lips curling maliciously from cheek to cheek.

“Three dozen macarons.”

“Cake with fresh strawberries on it.”

“We’ll take the whole of the red velvet off your hands, Barry.”

“I think I saw some brownies, can we get two trays of them?”

“And some rice pudding!” Oliver slammed his fist on the table, “Because my boyfriend deserves it!”

“Kara deserves chocolate-covered cherries!”

Barry gaped at the order, head bobbing between them. “Uh,” he started, “are you sure -”

“Give it to us!” both Zatanna and Oliver yelled, startling the other boy into action. He zipped over to the counter and into the kitchen, gathering what they asked. In the meantime they helped Carter and Kara finish the treats already given to them.

“Don’t you - gnnk - think that - brrsh,” Kara choked out, “we should slow down and savor - nggh - this ?”

Zatanna paused, staring at Kara with a golden fire burning in her purple eyes. “We can savor the fact that you’re about to be treated to a buffet of delectable delicacies by your loving and appreciative girlfriend!”

Kara groaned, “But all I wanted was - gah!” She shoved another cookie in Kara’s mouth and poured the hot chocolate down there to melt it.

Barry dropped more plates off, clearing the table when Zatanna and Oliver finished stuffing the contents into their partners’ mouths. They didn’t wait for Barry’s grip to loosen on the dessert before taking it and force-feeding their respective dates. Oliver dumped a tray of macarons down Carter’s mouth and Zatanna held Kara’s face to the straw of her milkshake and wouldn’t let up until it was gone.

When Barry dropped a single donut on the table, Zatanna and Oliver went for it at the same time. Their hands brushed and instantly recoiled.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Zatanna asked, “That’s Kara’s donut!”

“I think you mean Carter’s ,” he growled, “and if you know what’s good for you you’ll let us have it.”

“Know what’s good?” she scoffed, smirking, “Talking big for a man without his bow . And his weapon .”

Oliver squinted, his teeth bared. “You’d be surprised how resourceful I can be when something as important as my boyfriend’s happiness is on the line.”

“I would say the entire dictionary backwards if it meant Kara would never have to frown again!”

“Uh… guys?”

“ What ?” They turned manically towards their intruder, Barry yelping and hiding behind a chocolate-smeared plate. Shaking, he holds out a small, black leather booklet.

Zatanna arched a brow at him, “What’s this supposed to be?”

“Your-your check …”

“Check?” Oliver asked, “But we haven’t finished ordering!”

“Finished?” Barry gasped, emerging from his ineffective shield. He shifted from fear to irritation with lightning speed, gesturing towards his barren workstation. “You two ordered everything we had left ! There’s no more food to order!”

“There… isn’t?”

Zatanna’s vision zoomed out from the tunnel it was trapped and finally noticed her girlfriend. Kara collapsed against the window, raspberry filling at the corner of her lips. One hand was curled protectively around her protruding stomach while the other hovered by her mouth in case she needed to vomit. Carter didn’t fare any better. He laid face down on the table and moaned every few seconds.

She looked to Oliver, heat steadily creeping up her neck. His face burned with shared embarrassment as they realized the consequences of their actions.

Barry’s cell phone rang, interrupting the awkward tension. He checked it and rolled his eyes. “Come find me when you decide who’s paying,” he said, hitting the answer button, “Hal… if this is about Superman again I swear on every science textbook I own…” Barry dropped the check on the table and walked away.

Neither Zatanna nor Oliver wanted to speak first. However, knowing how bad it would look if their silence stretched any farther, Zatanna decided to go first. “This might have gotten… a little out of hand.”

“For once,” Oliver said, “I agree. Maybe we don’t have to compete over who has the better relationship.”

“Yeah,” she nodded, “Because, if we think about it, I have the best girlfriend -”

“And I have the best boyfriend,” he finished for her, smiling naturally for the first time tonight. Her cheeks ached with the natural stretch of her own grin. “Excellent thinking Zatanna! And to celebrate and cement this declaration, allow me to foot the bill.”

“Oh no, no, no,” Zatanna said, laying her hand over Oliver’s, “ I’ll cover this one.”

Oliver’s expression shrunk and became something more familiar to Zatanna. “But I was the one who started this whole feeding frenzy to begin with.”

Zatanna didn’t budge. “I think this began when I dashed to the counter, if memory serves me right.”

A beat of silence drifted between them like a dusty tumbleweed. “I’m paying for this Zatanna, it’d be barely a blip on my parent’s bills.”

“My father’s bought artwork that cost ten times what this check says.”

Peace shattered as quickly as they forged it, Oliver and Zatanna played tug-o-war with the check. They argued well into the night while their dates groaned from the sidelines, too worn from eating to intervene. Zatanna would apologize to Kara later, learn her lesson tomorrow - tonight she fought Oliver with all her might to slip her credit card into the booklet.

[fuzed-hostage]

RainbowSix l Siege

Doc and Montagne have been planning a date night for weeks and just can’t catch a break! After numerous attempts, they settle on cuddling but get carried away.

Rated: E [ Some Doc alone time, They finally get to ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) !! , definitely nsfw ] Parings: Montagne/Doc, Bandit/Jäger [ Mention ]

     It felt like every time there was a break in the madness that was Rainbow, something would suddenly, inexplicably, unfortunately happen right as Gustave was about to send a text to Gilles. He’d be seated in his office, reclining in the not-so-comfortable chair with nothing to do but kill time. Whatever appointments had been made that day were over and done with, it’s nearing sundown, and he’s waiting for the clock to strike ten so his shift could end.

     Fingers would tap the same message each time [>>Want to go out for dinner in an hour?<<] and then BOOM the door would burst open. If not that, he’d get a phone call, or the computer screen alerted him of an incoming message. Mozzie ate shit riding his bike with Mute on the back, Fuze and Jäger had a mishap in the workshop, Bandit tased Tachanka ( it did nothing to him ) and Kapkan stapled the German to the wall in retaliation, etc.

     On Montagne’s end, it was no different outside of the subject matters regarding whatever emergencies he was called to handle. Given his easy going nature, ability to break up fights, and calmly knock some sense into people’s heads, it was no wonder he got picked before anyone else. Lion started another fight with the SAS, Maestro and Valkyrie are bickering about who’s camera gadget is cooler, Ela called Echo a lazy fuck and now she’s being tormented by Yokai; the list goes on.

     Whenever they did get to meet up, it was on the clock and quite often during a stupid incident they both had to handle. In the case of Mozzie and Mute, the Brit didn’t lean into a turn like he should have and their crash nearly took off Thermite’s shins. Poor Mute took the brunt of the impact, whereas the Aussie had jumped back up on his feet to curse at a pissed off FBI agent threatening to torch his ride. It almost came to blows until the GIGN tag-team showed up.

     Knowing Mozzie, he bailed off of the bike prematurely out of habit and left his buddy to become one with the earth. That’ll teach them both to either never ride together again or to slow down a little and work out the details more. Well... maybe. Since when has the pint sized daredevil ever slowed down before in his entire life? Survey says: Never.

~~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~~~~

     Planning in advanced wasn’t very helpful either, what with how unpredictable the two love birds’ schedules were. Montagne would have a day off while Doc was knee deep in overtime. They also were’t ever deployed together and that just made the medic mad. He could remain professional throughout an operation while Gilles was there! Up until the larger man was hurt and then he’d probably lose his mind that is. 

     Back then he was a lot more level headed when it was just the GIGN operating within France. With Rainbow, there were ten times more shit to factor in on top of the obvious risks that the job explicitly entailed. More CTU’s, more men and women, a lot more ground to cover, an expansive array of new surprises. Tension sometimes ran high within the mixed teams, not everybody knew how to leave their baggage back at base, and it all felt like a glorified armed daycare.

     Which part of a mission would he rather be in? Right up in the action, stressed out about Gilles, and potentially becoming a liability by slipping into tunnel vision quicker or clawing at his hair, glued to the radio, and picking at his lip until it bled? He’d hurt less people back at base but the anxiety was significantly magnified and his colleagues were beginning to notice.

     Out on the field is where he believed he could make the most difference in life and death situations but Rainbow needed him back home terribly as well. Training accidents that could become permanent damage was mended by his expert hands, sickness ( be it from terrorist chemicals or natural means ) was eased by his knowledge. Montagne, as much as he wanted his love by his side, preferred that the good doctor wasn’t assigned to his squad if it was more productive.

     It used to not be that way though. One or the other would insist on coming along during the time they were dancing around each other not knowing how to interpret the signals being given. Rumors spread like wildfire about how obvious their love was and that someone should shove them in a closet so they could work out the sexual tension. There were even attempts to get them alone at a bar after arriving with a group so that liquid courage would spill the beans in the form of Je t’aime Gustave and Je t’aime aussi Gilles but to no avail.

     Montagne could hold his liquor and wine brought forth all of Doc’s pent up exhaustion, leading to an early bed time. Having the medic drink something else was like pulling teeth as his response was always “I’d like to remain in control of my mind and body, merci.” while the taller Frenchman chuckled. Sometimes, however, he’d try a sip of whatever Gilles had accepted. It was fifty-fifty on whether or not he’d like it but zero chance of him ordering it again. Doc was a hard nut to crack but it all paid off in the end.

~~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~~~~ 

     “I am getting really tired of all this madness. It’s like we’re cursed!” Gustave ranted, throwing his hands up and knocking a stapler off of his desk. He looked down at the damn thing like it had offended him by toppling over when it should have just remained put. “It is rather perplexing. Has there been a full moon recently?” Came Gilles’ calm voice as he picked up the stapler to place it back where it belonged. All his lover did was roll his chocolate brown eyes and sigh. Everyday felt like it had a full moon attached to it, bringing forth the age old curse emergency services workers dreaded. Tack that along with the Q-word and you’d have a recipe for disaster.

     “I heard there was a nice Japanese place in town. Why don’t we-” Sadly, the shield operator was cut off by the ding of his phone. He looked down at the pocket it was contained in with a sigh that starkly contrasted the fury building up inside of Gustave’s red face. With the shake of his head, Montagne placed a quick kiss to his lovers lips and departed, not knowing that his partner was secretly daydreaming about strangling whomever pried them apart.

     This trivial text happened to be IQ snitching about Caveira’s apparent stalking of Glaz. The sniper was well known for spotting the shit that nobody thought twice about. Shifts in daily routines, objects moved out of their usual place, mood swings, and, of course, his uncanny ability to pick up on when he’s being followed. So far he’s caught Taina six times and she’s pissed about it, refusing to give up even though she knows it’s childish. This will take hours of conversation, some translation, and bringing Timur in to resolve the conflict.

     Meanwhile, Doc has treated a nasty gash Seamus acquired while teaching Aria how to cook traditional Scottish dishes. They both share a love for food and wanted to surprise their fellows with what they’ve learned from one another. Good friends, those two. She’s even given Sledge some dating advice when he accidentally let slip that there’s another guy he’s interested in. While it was nice to hear that this injury was just an accident and not some rage fueled wound, Gustave wished it never happened. For one, he doesn’t like seeing his colleagues hurt and two, he needs this alone time with Gilles.

~~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~~~~

     It’s been nearly a month since he’s shared a bed with Montagne and everyone’s starting to notice how grumpy Gustave is getting. Hell, he can’t even sit with the guy in a friendly setting let alone a romantic one! Quick kisses and light touches ( such as the brushing of their hands together or a shoulder squeeze ) are all he gets and that’s unacceptable. Gilles is on a mission this time in Russia with Buck, Fuze, Jackal, and Gridlock. He’d also planned a coming over the night he got deployed for takeout and a makeout sesh that’s obviously not going to happen now.

     The upset on Gustave’s face at how badly the universe is treating them is almost palpable upon the doctor’s tensed up form. He’s had six cups of strong coffee, going on seven, and it’s barely even ten o’clock. Breakfast is quiet in the cafeteria at Hereford Base until he hears Bandit announcing his arrival. “Man, you look like you really need to get laid, Gus.” For a guy that doesn’t shrink away from Kapkan’s frightening gaze, the look Doc gives him makes the hair upon the back of Dominic’s neck stand straight up.

     He mumbles some sort of excuse to get away, steps back quickly, and departs while everyone tries to avoid eye contact when Gustave glowers at them all from his table. The rest of his day is spent talking only when it is necessary and retreating to his room immediately upon its conclusion. The staff posted for night watch better figure out how to operate without him unless the patient is literally going to die if he’s not there. He’s got faith in them only because he wants one uninterrupted night to shave off some neglect.

    Rook and Twitch went out with Blitz and IQ for an evening of casual drinking so he’s got the GIGN quarters all to himself. It’d be nice if his lover was here, but a dildo with similar length and girth will do. Gustave is wearing one of Gilles’ shirts that had been worn for half a day and wasn’t quite dirty yet. It smelled of his cologne and was a size too big to fit him, but that didn’t matter. He’s taken up residence in his lover’s room, they often do this when one was away, it was comforting and arousing all the same depending on what the intention was for this consensual invasion.

     Even though he didn’t need to keep the noise level down for a while, Gustave had already decided on forcing himself to be as quiet as he could. Preparation was done a bit quickly, fingers pushing in and scissoring right away with a groan of need tumbling from his lips. He’s touch starved to all hell and knows he’ll regret that come morning when the ache kicks in. Squatting with his feet planted flush with the floor ( thank the slav squad for helping his balance with that ) one hand holds the dildo steady while he sinks down onto it.

     It hurts going in and Doc doesn’t feel inclined to wait for proper adjustment until his cheeks meet the floorboards. “Fuck... Why did Six have to choose you again?” Montagne was an amazing operator, highly skilled, very sexy.. Get on with it Gustave. He can already see that perfectly sculpted body as if it were beneath him, holding a strong grip on both hips. It takes him longer than usual to come; soft thumping against the floor combined with muffled moans and uttered encouragements slurring into curses until a choked sound signals the end.

     He’ll sit there for a moment, still anchored onto the dildo with a shameful mess in front of him, and sighs when he finally catches his breath. It’s not the same but it is satisfying. After he cleans up and tucks himself into Montagne’s bed, the rest of his team has returned and gone their separate ways to conduct nightly rituals to get ready for sleep. He’ll greet them in the morning with a smile and a tired yawn.

~~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~~~~

     It’ll be a week before Gilles returns and during that time frame, Doc decided to ask Dominic ( of all people ) for advice. The German already knew he was dating his colleague, it was obvious as fuck, but felt inclined to help a friend in need. He kinda owed it to Gus after the crude comment in the cafeteria a few days ago. Out of all the wild things Bandit suggested, a vibrator worked the best as it was simple / discrete and pleasuring himself in the shower made cleanup so much easier. It all came down to timing those sessions right so that he wouldn’t have to be so worried about the noise.

     He spaces out masturbating with getting additional work done in preparation to have a clean slate in the foreseeable future. Bandit offers to give him a quickie here and there, but he refuses. Discussing it with his partner must come first even though they’ve talked a little bit about it before. Someone they trust would be a better alternative than trying to go at it alone. Montagne trusts Dom while Doc thinks he’s rather annoying but trusts him as well. If he didn’t, he’d not of spoken up about his sexual frustrations.

     Brunsmeier can and will take secrets like those to his grave along with other personal shit. They’ve often spent nights sitting together on the roof of the base venting about past trauma, talking about hardships, and laughing when one of them remembers something stupid that’s funny now that it was over. Bandit’s a good man, you just need to see through the jokes and rough exterior. If he’s pranking you more than others, he likes you.

     Inquiring a second time felt too awkward, so Gustave decided to wait out the last handful of days. He’ll be the first one up to the helicopter so that absolutely nothing can get in the way of their date night inquiry. Since they obviously couldn’t go anywhere, having a glass of wine or whatever Gilles felt like drinking in their quarters was a decent alternative. He’s ordered takeout and goddamn it this private time is going to happen!

     The deployed squad shuffles off the helicopter one by one, taking their gear with them. Thankfully nobody looks seriously injured so there goes that speed bump. Montagne is the last to have his boots touch the ground, he’d been talking with Jäger and thanking him for a smooth flight. He didn’t have to but it was a nice thing to do. Now, about that date... “Gilles. You and me, tonight, my room. I’ve got food and great wine.” Doc received a quick nod for confirmation and they carry on with renewed energy to finish the day. He can’t help but catch a sly grin and a thumbs up from Bandit when he passes by in search of his engineer.

     Dominic will probably ask questions come morning and, for once, Doc won’t mind. The man did help him without judgement or ridicule. He also kind of wondered how much experience Bandit’s had with how in depth he went with his explanations sometimes and the terminology. It was both embarrassing and intriguing to listen to if you ignored the gestures the German made with his hands. Gustave’s selection of the vibrator earlier was the absolute most vanilla shit apparently.

~~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~~~~ 

     Night falls and Gustave passes on custody of Rainbow’s health to the poor souls taking his place for the graveyard shift. He’s definitely not going to answer any calls now. Critical emergencies will have to wait too because getting untangled and yanking on boxers or pants won’t hide an erection. That would be the worst case scenario: Doc rushing to the medical wing with a bouncing hard on re-trapped within one or two layers of clothing trying to concentrate on saving a life when he knows everyone can see the obvious bulge will be a night he’ll never live down.

     It makes him shudder just thinking about it or is that Gilles behind him unintentionally breathing against his neck? They’re on his bed, naked save for their underwear, with a glass of red wine in their hands. The cheap takeout has been consumed a while ago and did a fair job at filling their bellies. Gustave has made himself comfortable, basking in the feeling of skin on skin contact and the gentle rise and fall of his lover’s chest. If their evening remained this way, he wouldn’t be all that upset. He is content listening to what happened during the mission through his love’s point of view. It went off without a hitch, Rainbow had caught the White Mask’s with their pants down.

     Speaking of that, Gustave decides he’s going to wiggle a bit and pretend he’s adjusting so his back won’t hurt and the weight distribution doesn’t make any limbs go numb. He gets a heavy sigh in return, a kiss to his neck, and that makes his cheeks flush a light pink hue. “I was so lonely while you were gone.” He mock pouts, tilting his head up to watch Montagne chuckle. Tending to all of the base’s boo boos and ouchies doesn’t count for having company and he knows that.

     “Were you now? I’m sorry to hear that.” It’s sincere, yes, but the underlying mischief in Gilles’ voice doesn’t go unnoticed. His wine glass has been set down and Gustave’s  is taken so that it too won’t get in the way. The hitch in the medic’s breath tells him all he needs to know the moment fingers dip beneath the thin layer of cloth that dares to say it’s held some kind of modesty. “Let me make up for it, oui?” He doesn’t even need to hear an actual verbal confirmation with how eager the younger man is by getting up and demanding for them to switch positions.

      It isn’t always this quick. Most nights they take their time, indulge in tantalizing touches, teasing one another for what felt like hours, making it all last as long as they can. Tonight won’t be that tame, Gilles won’t deny either of them what they’ve both wanted and could not have. Months, it’s been literal months since the were able to make love and not settle for a quick blow job or hasty wanking in Doc’s private office. They better use what time they have before it’s gone, claimed by a persistent curse neither know how to dispel.

     Montagne is on his feet and pulling his lover flush against his body, kissing him deeply each time he feels his lover’s lips part for more. Oxygen becomes a luxury for a short while, something they need but cannot have without separation. It’s not fair, really, but breathing is obviously necessary and the show must go on. He hopes Twitch has decided to take up space in the workshop next to the usual one or two operators that sometimes call it home. Rook slept like a rock and nothing short of a smoke alarm or gun fire will wake him up.

     A quick squeeze to Gustave’s ass makes him frown in disappointment when nothing else follows it up. It doesn’t last long, however, once he realizes it’s a silent demand for him to lie down on the bed while Gilles finds a bottle of lube in one of the dresser drawers. So he does as he’s asked, lounging not-so-patiently with a fist curled around his cock, pumping it slowly simply for the stimulation it provides. He really wasn’t kidding when he said he was lonely. If absence makes the heart grow fonder, it makes the dick get hungrier. Bandit said that and Gustave laughed so hard he started to wheeze.

     The pad of Gilles’ thumb pressed against his lover’s puckered hole as he descended upon him. Careful ministrations intended to loosen it up so that a finger can breach the taut muscle. A curious thought crosses the mountain’s mind when it gives more readily than it should, accepting the initial digit without much protest. He’s beginning to think his lover’s impatience must have escalated while being left alone for so long. “You spoke with Dominic didn’t you?” He chuckled, receiving an honest nod that quickly turned into a spine arching moan as a second finger was pushed in.

     “I’ll have to thank him later.” That could mean a number of things considering how close they’ve let the German get into their relationship. Marius didn’t seem to mind seeing as how there have been no objections yet. The pilot was well aware that his partner has been giving the two Frenchmen advice but that’s the fullest extent of their interactions. Now’s not the time to get lost in thought though, Gustave’s legs are being hiked up and over the larger man’s shoulders. While he’s not all that flexible, it isn’t uncomfortable yet. They’ll start to ache halfway through and burn the next day, a cost he’s willing to pay in full.

     “Come on, mon amour. Haven’t I waited long enough?” Doc whined, pouting when an eyebrow was raised in response. How needy, but who’s he to deny such a wonderful man what he wants? A pillow is tugged over and shoved beneath Gustave’s lower back to give it cushion and raise his hips more. It’s the little things like this Gus loves, how conscious of his lover’s comfort Gilles is. Again there isn’t nearly enough preparation ( and that worries Montagne ) but Gustave insists on progressing right this instant.

     “This may hurt a little...” The older man warns, receiving no indication that his partner cares. He’s a doctor, he understands, and frankly has had enough of the delay. Gilles slicks up his cock with a healthy amount of lube, guiding it to where it needs to go before pushing in slowly. A bitten hiss is forced through Doc’s teeth, his primary focus now shifting to relax himself around the steadily growing girth burying itself deep within him. It’s a mixture of pain, an uncomfortable stretch, and rising pleasure at feeling the familiar warmth.

     At hilt deep, he’s given time to adjust that Montagne will not allow to be skipped. They aren’t as young as they wish they were, too much carelessness will ruin the experience. And so they wait, exploratory hands detailed the muscles of Gustave’s chest and stroking his sides while he gets lost in the gentle touches. Gilles knows exactly how to make his treasured love feel like a king, whether he’s nestled atop his lap or pinned beneath him. On queue, which this time is a squeeze to the taller man’s thigh, Touré slides back.

     His first series of thrusts are slow and careful, drawing out a pleased hum from Gustave’s throat. They have a well practiced rhythm, it starts at a crawl and picks up to a steady beat both can last their longest on. By no means is it ride or die, in fact, someone like Bandit might find it boring. The position Doc is in allows Gilles to drive in deep at the expense of a now growing ache in his legs. They bounce atop the taller man’s shoulders, his cock left unattended on his stomach. He won’t touch it, not yet, it’s too soon.

     Adjusting his angle draws out a moan from the doctor, one somewhat louder than he intended it to be. Using a little more force produces the same results and Gilles knows he’s found just the right spot to drive Gustave wild. The sound of skin hitting skin, husky breaths, and Doc’s voice is a filthy symphony in an otherwise quiet part of the base all the while he’s being encouraged to let go and praised for how good he feels, looks, and sounds.

     “Pleasure yourself, mon Ange, let me hear your enjoyment.” Gilles says so sweetly, letting go of his lover’s hip to guide a hand to the neglected shaft spilling precum on glistening sweat soaked skin. Fingers curl around it and pump in time with the heavy thrusts pounding his consciousness into oblivion. “There you go, that’s it.” Now Gustave’s mouth is hanging open, eyes glossed over and fixated on the older man’s beautiful hues.

     The burn in his knees is only getting worse but Doc doesn’t feel it anymore. Warmth is pooling in his gut and he can’t string together coherent sentences, repeating Montagne’s name instead along with a few expletives coming out in mixed French-English jumbles. He’s always been the noisier of the two no matter how hard he tried to keep it down. At some point he loses that restraint and drowns out the growls and grunts from his faithful shield. It’s when he becomes silent that Gilles knows he’s reaching his climax.

     With teeth gritted and red flushing his cheeks, Touré chases his own orgasm in the form of less coordinated and more forceful thrusts that have Gustave’s eyes rolling into the back of his head. He hears his name shouted into the heavens and can feel the contractions of Doc’s body as he cums, painting his chest with each spurt. Riding upon that high, Gilles keeps going until he buries himself deep, presses their chests together, and groans into his lover’s ear.

     Having nothing to hold them up, Doc’s legs drop as far as the broad body in between them will allow. They both need a minute to relearn how to breathe correctly and see straight. “God I needed that..” Gustave pants, earning a breathless chuckle from his partner who has raised himself back up on shaking arms. He pulls out with the same care as he had initially going in, giving them both a good look at the mess that had been made.

     Rather than attempt standing, Montagne rolls over onto his back and smiles when he feels Doc turn to snuggle against his side. They’ll worry about showering and changing the bed sheets tomorrow. Neither of them have the strength to bother this time.

     “Je t’aime, mon Ange.” Gilles hums. “Je t’aime aussi, mon Trésor.” Gustave yawns, placing a kiss on his lover’s cheek.

[haberdashing]

You know that post about how Hogwarts being mandatory for pureblood wizards/witches during Deathly Hallows means that the school would have a ton of older homeschoolers attending for the first time and also a bunch of them would be Weasleys?

And how said post more or less says “this is a great excuse to make a bunch of Weasley OCs”?

...well, I made a bunch of Weasley OCs. Details under the cut because long post is long.

Fair warning: it’s been a while since I’ve read Harry Potter, so it’s possible some of these details may not 100% fit with canon.

The Weasley family branch I’ve invented is tentatively related through their father being Arthur Weasley’s younger brother (though I might change the details of their Weasley connection, idk). They live near the English/Scottish border and until Deathly Hallows time were all homeschooled because between getting to King’s Cross and getting all the school supplies Hogwarts says each student has to bring, going would mean spending rather a lot of money that they didn’t generally have to spare.

There are probably a few siblings who are old enough that the Hogwarts mandate doesn’t apply to them, but I haven’t figured out anything about them yet, so I’ll focus on the ones who do end up going to Hogwarts, at least for one year: Lance, Morgan, Gwen, Penelope, and Callie.

Lance’s full name is Lancelot, and he doesn’t really care whether you call him by his full name or just by Lance. He’s strong, determined, and very much a rule-follower except when the rules are blatantly wrong, which of course is the case rather often in Deathly Hallows Hogwarts. He’s a Quidditch whiz, usually gravitating towards the position of Keeper. He’s not terribly fond of formal studying, and having it forced upon him doesn’t help, but he makes it work. He’s very much protective of his younger siblings, and during his time at Hogwarts he extends that protection to any and all Weasley relatives, though Ginny makes it clear quickly enough that it’s not necessary to treat her the same way. He’s the kind of person who might have made a good Prefect, under different circumstances.

Morgan’s name isn’t short for anything, and they didn’t pick it solely because of the Arthurian legend connection, but, well, that connection certainly didn’t hurt either. They’re on the scrawny side, making them looking even younger than they actually are. They’re a smart one, but they’re more likely to apply that intellect on experiments of their own invention than on, you know, homework. They’re fascinated with the rules of magic, and especially with what happens when magic goes awry. They’re independent, introverted, and wildly inventive. There’s no one area of magic that they prefer, because they like to dabble in all of them, mixing and matching as their latest big idea requires. Morgan probably would get along with Fred and George, or at least would be open to collaborating with them, if only as an excuse to justify some of their wilder experiment ideas.

Gwen and Penelope are twins--fraternal twins, specifically. Gwen’s the older of the two by a whopping nine minutes, and likes to lord that (and her extra inch and a half of height) over Penelope. Every once in a while the two of them like to claim that they’re identical twins and watch the befuddled expressions of those trying to reconcile that claim with how they don’t look much alike, especially by Weasley standards.

Gwen’s full name is Gwendolyn. She doesn’t much care if you call her Gwendolyn or just Gwen, but she does insist that if you use a nickname for her it be Gwen rather than Lyn, because as it happens her mother’s name is Lynn and she’d rather not go by her mother’s name, thanks. She’s a shy one, good at blending in and being a wallflower but not so good at actually, well, standing out from the crowd, though part of her wants that, wants to be the center of attention rather than being perpetually in the background. She’s very adaptable, though, and good at judging the scene in front of her and acting accordingly, and she’s got a great memory to boot. She's fond of potion-making, of how nice and predictable it is when you follow the rules.

Penelope, on the other hand, is significantly more outgoing than her twin sister. The only people allowed to call her Penny are her siblings, and even then she usually rolls her eyes. She’s a social butterfly, good at making friends of all shapes and sizes, and she’s got a huge heart. She’s almost as good at Quidditch as her brother, though she’s more of a Chaser or Seeker. She’s also got a green thumb, excelling at taking care of plants both magical and mundane.

Callie is the youngest of the family. Her full name is Calypso, but she hates it with a passion. She’s outspoken with a wicked temper and isn’t afraid of backing up insults with a few choice hexes. She’s a rebellious soul, and while she’s the baby of the family, she hates being babied, hates being reminded of her youth. In a different age, she would have loved taking Defense Against the Dark Arts. As it is, she’s not terribly interested in any of her classes, and it shows in her grades, which are lackluster at best.

Morgan, Penelope, and Callie look exactly as you’d expect a Weasley to look, with bright red hair and skin covered in freckles. Lance’s hair is closer to strawberry blonde than outright red, but he’s still clearly a Weasley at a glance. Gwen, on the other hand, takes after her blonde, freckle-less mother, with hair more blonde than red and the freckles on her pale skin being few and far between.

When the Hogwarts mandate comes, Lance is sixteen, Morgan is fourteen, Gwen and Penelope are thirteen, and Callie is eleven. They all end up as Gryffindors, but the Sorting Hat takes longer to decide on that for some of them than others. (Lance and Callie get proclaimed Gryffindors with the hat barely touching their head; Gwen is briefly considered for Slytherin, but turns it down immediately; Morgan gets considered more seriously for Ravenclaw, and Penelope for Hufflepuff, but in the end, Gryffindor still wins out.)

The whole family would be seen as “blood traitors”--living in a sparsely-populated area where there are only so many people around to connect with, this branch of the Weasley family has gotten close to neighbors both magical and Muggle, and are thus well aware that Muggles and Muggleborns are people no worse than pureblooded wizards like themselves, and that not having magic doesn’t mean a person can’t be valuable or skilled in other ways. How each member of the family acts to further their views and assist the resistance, however, varies from individual to individual.

Lance spends the first month or two following the rules, even when it hurts him to do so, even when he knows that they’re wrong, because he has a long-term plan in mind, and said plan requires being a rule-follower at all times. Once his reputation as a good and obedient student was firmly established, he would occasionally use that reputation to try and keep those fighting the resistance more directly out of trouble. (”You said Brian was out in the halls past curfew last night, up to no good? Well, that can’t be right, because he was with me in the Gryffindor common room all night--we were cramming for that big Charms test we have coming up, I can probably dig up the notes we went through together if you want...”) It doesn’t always work, but it works often enough to be worthwhile.

Morgan’s experiments become mostly directed towards practical matters that they could then share to help others fight the good fight. Some are straightforward enough, spells that harm others in new and exciting ways that might be enough to throw off an opponent, but Morgan’s pet project is working on a spell to change hair colors. Given that red hair, Weasleys, Gryffindors, and blood traitors have become largely synonymous in the eyes of the current Hogwarts administration, being able to change one’s hair color at a moment’s notice has more practical applications than one might initially assume. The hard part, is turns out, isn’t making a spell to change hair colors, but making a spell to change hair colors without some horrible side effects kicking in along the way. After a few months and several trips to the nurse, however, they figure it out and spread the information to everyone they think they can trust.

Gwen uses her largely non-Weasley appearance, her talents for adapting to strange situations and blending into the background, and the spare Slytherin robe that’s been tucked away inside the Gryffindor common room all year with nobody able or willing to explain how it got there, to occasionally go undercover and see what information she can pick up when people aren’t quite as guarded as they normally would be towards a Gryffindor Weasley. While she uses several fake names for these missions, one she uses a few times is her mother’s maiden name of Hendry; the Hendry family is largely Hufflepuff, when they attend Hogwarts at all, but there are enough exceptions to that rule that a Hendry Slytherin isn’t entirely implausible.

Penelope does a few minor things to directly resist Hogwarts’ administrations, like tearing down posters that are barely-disguised Death Eater propaganda pieces, but perhaps more important is her role in comforting and reassuring other students who are worried about what lies ahead. She tells every distraught student that things aren’t as bad as they seem, that everything’s going to be okay, even when Penelope herself is very much unsure of the validity of those statements.

Callie speaks her mind, getting into loud arguments about the rights of Muggles and Muggleborns whenever she’s given the opportunity to do so, and some of those arguments turn into outright fights, exchanges of words turning into exchanges of spells. She also doesn’t even bother to pretend to follow rules that she disagrees with, even when it’s clear that she’ll be caught if she breaks them. Callie spends a lot of time in detention as a result, but she doesn’t mind; in fact, it’s something she prides herself on.

During the Battle of Hogwarts, Lance, Callie, or both lose their lives. If it’s Lance, it’s because he gets in the way of a spell launched at a younger Weasley, whether that be one of his siblings or a more distant relative, willing to protect them even at the cost of his own life. If it’s Callie, she dies as she lived, fighting with all her might for what she believes is right, doing her best to prove that she’s more than just a weak little kid, and willing to face whatever consequences await her for doing so.

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: Questions and Kisses

Well, I’ve jumped on the sutherelle bandwagon! I think my interpretation is slightly different to other people’s but hey, it’s not like we’ve got any canon to work from and variety is the spice of life, right?

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Summary: Sutherelle. Principal Private Secretary Belle helps prepare a nerve-wracked new Prime Minister for his first PMQ session, and they reflect on their long-standing relationship and where it might be going.

Rated: G

=====

Questions and Kisses

The first thing that Belle French heard as she walked towards the cabinet meeting room of Number 10 Downing Street was the sound of her boss losing his breakfast in the bathroom.

She paused outside the door and knocked politely.

“Sir, are you all right?”

She was answered by a low Scottish growl telling her to go forth and multiply in no uncertain terms, and Belle just smiled.

“You know I’m not going anywhere, sir.”

The growling stopped in favour of more retching, and Belle leaned against the wall. She felt like she was going to be here for a while, but they were on a tight schedule today and needed to get a move on.

An undersecretary walked past, looked at Belle, then the locked door, and then back to Belle with a worried expression.

“Is he all right?”

Belle nodded. “I’ll get him sorted out in time, don’t worry.”

She had been sorting out Robert Sutherland ever since she had arrived at the Houses of Parliament for her first day as a private secretary, more years ago now than she cared to remember. The irascible backbencher for Glasgow North had already seen off at least three secretaries, but Belle had stood her ground and within two weeks, they were firm friends and Sutherland had begged her to stay with him for the rest of his political career.

And Belle had done so. She had been by his side as he had risen through the ranks of the ministries, finally becoming party leader and now, after a fraught general election that had come down to the wire, Prime Minister.

She was Principal Private Secretary to the Prime Minister, one of the highest ranking positions in the civil service, and she was currently trying to get the man to come out of a bathroom.

She knocked again.

“Sir, you can’t stay in there all day, much as you would like to.”

“I can if I want.”

“No, you can’t, sir.”

There was no response, and Belle sighed. She was used to Sutherland’s anxiety and the associated nausea and petulance. No one who saw him in action in the Commons would ever believe that ten minutes prior he’d been a nervous wreck receiving a pep talk from his secretary, but Belle was well-known throughout parliament as the very essence of discretion and it was joked that she kept more government secrets than MI5.

“Sir. Sir. Mr Sutherland.” She smacked the door. “Bob! If you don’t get your arse out here now, then so help me…”

The undersecretary squeaked and ran away lest the Prime Minister suddenly appear and vent his anger.

The door opened and Sutherland peered around it.

“You never call me Bob.”

“I do when I want to get you out of small spaces. Come on, let’s get you freshened up and off to make your fortune on London’s golden streets, Dick Whittington.”

“I’m Prime Minister, not Lord Mayor.”

“Well, if you want me to stop purposefully using incorrect analogies then you might want to get out here and get ready for work.”

Sutherland glared at her and disappeared back inside the bathroom. Belle heard the toilet flush and the sink gurgling, and a moment later he came out. She looked him up and down.

“Have to say it, sir, you’re not looking great right now.”

“Thanks, I’m sure you look gorgeous after you’ve spent half an hour with your head in a toilet.”

“You look like you’ve been at a rave all night.”

“I have been. The rave in my head telling me that everything’s going to go horribly wrong.”

Belle could empathise. She’d always stayed in the background, content to be part of the invisible civil service machine that kept parliament running smoothly. She’d never been the public figurehead of all those interconnected cogs like Sutherland had to be.

“Come on, sir,” she said gently. “You need to look calm, professional and completely unruffled today of all days. I’m not letting you walk into that chamber looking like you do now. Did you shave this morning?”

Sutherland shook his head and held up a quivering hand. “I thought that scruffy would look better than missing an ear.”

Belle corralled him towards the stairs up to the Prime Minister’s private apartment, despite his protests that they had to leave in ten minutes. They weren’t very strong protests, probably because Belle knew that he didn’t particularly want to leave the safety of Downing Street to brave the House of Commons, but he had to keep up appearances.

She pushed him into the bathroom.

“Shirt off.”

“Are you propositioning me, Miss French?”

“Of course, sir, it has absolutely nothing to do with me not wanting to get shaving foam on your shirt.” She had already located all the various tools she required, and she was wondering if she really ought to know so much about her boss’s private life. On reflection though, he didn’t really have all that many others who knew him as well as she did. He had no family to speak of. He’d had a wife who’d left him on the same day he’d been appointed shadow Defence Secretary, and Belle hadn’t seen her since.

It had been Belle who’d listened to all his speeches as he practised them in front of the mirror in his office. It had been Belle who’d kept refilling his coffee when he’d been working on a draft bill that had to pass or else he’d be a laughing stock within his own party. It had been Belle who’d gone up to his Glasgow constituency with him and argued with his campaign manager until she was blue in the face, defending his corner and always getting her way like the force of nature Sutherland had always described her as.

It had been Belle who’d stayed up all night with him during the general election, watching the results roll in and watching the seats gradually change colour in their favour until the majority was there, slim but undeniable.

It had been Belle he’d hugged in joy at their victory, and Belle who’d hoped that he’d never let go of her.

She knew that it was a cliché, bosses falling for their secretaries and vice versa, especially when it came to politicians. She knew that if anything were to happen between them, then the press would have a field day speculating if a torrid affair with Belle was the reason for Sutherland’s divorce seven years ago.

She knew all that, and yet she still couldn’t help wanting it. For all he was her boss, he’d also become her closest friend and confidante; their relationship went both ways. The level of trust between them was such that she was now shaving his face in readiness for the first Prime Minister’s Questions session of the new government.

“I can’t do this,” Sutherland muttered as Belle finished up and he wiped off the cream.

“What can’t you do, sir?”

“PMQ’s.”

“You’ve done hundreds of PMQ’s sessions in your time, Mr Sutherland. I seem to remember one spectacular occasion whilst you were still a backbencher that got you a standing ovation from half the house. Including from the opposite party. The speaker nearly had a heart attack.”

“I know that! I’ve never done PMQ’s when I’ve been the PM before! It’s very different when you’re the one being bombarded with questions instead of the one doing the bombarding.”

“We’ve already drafted all your answers; you’re going to be fine.”

“I know that!”

“Also, I hate to be the one to state the obvious, but you were the one who wanted to be Prime Minister.”

“I know that!” Sutherland sighed, attempting to retie his tie for the fourth time before giving up and letting Belle do it. “Will you be there?”

“No, sir, I’ll be in your office dealing with your fan mail.”

“I don’t have any fan mail.”

“In that case, I’ll be in your office dealing with your hate mail.”

Sutherland scowled at her, and Belle gave him a benign smile as her phone chirruped.

“Car’s outside. Time to knock ‘em dead.”

X

As soon as he stepped into the chamber and took his place behind the despatch box, Sutherland’s nausea subsided. This was his home, after all. He’d been a politician for over twenty-five years, and the Houses of Parliament were more familiar to him than his own house in Scotland.

As the questions got underway, he relaxed further. Being on the other side of the chamber wasn’t so different after all. He glanced up at the gallery and almost had to double take when he saw Belle sitting there, grinning down at him. Of course she was there. She’d always been there when he needed her. When they had started out in the Commons, they were both practically alone in the quagmire of British politics; was it any wonder that they’d become such close friends and allies over the course of their careers?

Something pulled painfully in his heart. Belle had so much potential within the civil service, and he’d selfishly kept her with him instead of letting her spread her wings and move up into the upper echelons of top government departments. She could have been running the show by now. As it was, she was just running him. By dint of being his private secretary and answering directly to the Prime Minister, she ranked extremely highly in the service, but he couldn’t help thinking that she could have moved higher if he had let her go, rather than tying her career to his so closely.

She’d never expressed any desire to move on from him; she’d always seemed happy enough to stay by his side, but then again, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever actually asked her outright about her career plans.

By the time the session was over, his colleagues were congratulating him on a very successful first PMQ’s, Sutherland was beginning to wonder why he’d been worried in the first place, which was generally always his reaction after some important event that Belle had found him throwing up before. He was smiling as he made his way back to the Prime Minister’s office to find Belle waiting for him.

“I don’t know how you always manage to get to my office before I do, even if you’ve been at the other end of the building,” he said. “I’m beginning to think that the civil service has secret passages through the walls.”

“No, we’ve just mastered the art of teleportation,” Belle replied blithely. She smiled, hoping off her desk where she’d been perched and coming over to hug him.

“I told you it would be all right.”

“I know you did.” He didn’t want to let go. He felt safe in Belle’s arms. He always had done. Belle didn’t seem to be making any move to pull away, and he looked at her.

Her lips were so plump and kissable, her lipstick worn away where she’d been biting her lip, as nervous as he was in her own way, but far better at hiding it until after the fact. Her eyes were so very blue, and searching his face for something, anything, to tell her what she ought to do next.

Sutherland took the initiative, pressing his lips against hers and pulling her in close.

Belle melted against him, her hands coming up to run through his hair. Kissing her just felt so right, and he wondered why they hadn’t done it before. At least he didn’t feel as much guilt about keeping her with him now. She evidently wanted to be here just as much as he wanted her to be here.

She broke away, licking her lips, her eyes bright.

“That was…” Sutherland began. “Well, that was… Wow.”

“I quite agree, sir.”

“We’re kissing, please don’t call me sir.”

“As you wish.” Her smile was cheeky. “But you’ve always been sir to me. It’s ceased to have any connotations of authority and now it’s just a term of endearment. Sir.”

Sutherland kissed her again in an attempt to shut her up, but she pulled away, a giggle threatening to break free with every word that she spoke.

“Don’t forget that you’ve got the introductory meeting with the green belt protection committee at DEFRA at three. And then there’s…”

She tailed off under another kiss.

“Just let me enjoy this moment, Belle,” Sutherland pleaded. “I’ve been wanting to do that for God only knows how long.”

“I’ve been wanting you to do that for just as long. Maybe longer.” She gave a contented sigh, resting her head against his shoulder. “What happens now?”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

The thought of it didn’t worry him as much as he thought it perhaps ought to have done. Considering the amount of things he could panic about when left alone with just his own thoughts for company, he wasn’t panicking about this at all. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that this was Belle, and no matter what happened, Belle had always been there for him and had always told him that everything was going to be all right. Whenever Belle was around, Sutherland knew that everything would work out in the end, and even if it didn’t work out, then she would be there to help him pick up the pieces.

There were a lot of things that could go horribly wrong, and he had always been one to look for the clouds behind the silver linings. In his experience, it was best to prepare for the worst and that way, everything else that happened would be a nice surprise. Belle had often expressed incredulity at how someone as pessimistic and highly strung as he was had managed to become a major public figure whom, the polls kept saying, the voters actually trusted to bring them into a brighter future.

He’d always joked that he saved up his optimism for putting on show to the public so Belle only ever saw his more misanthropic side. She constantly saw him at his worst. Hell, just this morning she’d had to practically drag him out of the bathroom. Yet she was still here, still wanted to be here, content in his embrace. Part of him kept thinking that maybe this was all a very well-choreographed dream and he’d wake up back in Downing Street in a minute.

“I’d ask you out to dinner but I don’t think that it would be all that romantic an occasion,” he said.

Belle laughed. “Yes, what with secret service bodyguards and journalists looking for a scoop, I don’t think that it would be very intimate, and I’ve been working here long enough to know that the food in the House is absolutely atrocious. Dinner would be lovely, though.”

They both knew what she was suggesting, and it made sense. After all, Belle spent so much time in Downing Street that it was a second home to her; Sutherland had only been moved in for less than a month and Belle was already keeping a change of clothes in her office for when they’d been working so late she didn’t want to go home. The Downing Street Chief of Staff hadn’t been entirely in jest when he’d suggested setting up a camp-bed for her under the cabinet meeting table.

“There’s no vote tonight, so we should be able to get back fairly swiftly,” Sutherland agreed. “And if the worst comes to the worst, we can order in. I’m sure that it would make someone’s day, delivering to Downing Street. I could make someone famous as the person who delivered the Prime Minister’s pizza.”

Belle snorted, her shoulders shaking as she tried to muffle her laughter. Finally she composed herself and looked up at him.

“At any rate, we need to celebrate today’s success,” she said. “One session down, and hopefully several more to go.”

“Will you be there for them?”

Belle smiled, and went up on her tiptoes to kiss him again, firmly and deliberately.

“Of course I will.”

Even if their fledgling relationship didn’t go the distance, Sutherland knew that he could rely on Belle to have his back whatever the world of politics might throw at him.

There was a timid knock on the office door, and it briefly occurred to him that he had work to do and he probably ought to stop kissing Belle and get on with running the country, but he wanted to enjoy the moment for just a little while longer.

“Erm, Prime Minister… Oh.”

The door closed again as soon as it had opened, and Sutherland wondered if he’d succeeded in scarring an intern for life on their first day on the job, before deciding that it was a risk he was willing to take.

The country could wait a little while longer.

[quoteablebooks]

Genre: Romance, Fantasy, Historical Fiction

Rating: 3 out of 5 stars

Synopsis:

The year is 1945. Claire Randall, a former combat nurse, is just back from the war and reunited with her husband on a second honeymoon when she walks through a standing stone in one of the ancient circles that dot the British Isles. Suddenly she is a Sassenach—an “outlander”—in a Scotland torn by war and raiding border clans in the year of Our Lord...1743. Hurled back in time by forces she cannot understand, Claire is catapulted into the intrigues of lairds and spies that may threaten her life, and shatter her heart. For here James Fraser, a gallant young Scots warrior, shows her a love so absolute that Claire becomes a woman torn between fidelity and desire—and between two vastly different men in two irreconcilable lives.

*Opinions*

I did something a little different this time and wrote the review while I was reading since it was such a long novel. That has lead it to be a rather long review. 

I have had this book for almost a year at this point, but at almost 900 pages it was rather intimidating, especially with my inability to find time to read recently. However, I finally decided to take the bull by the horns and dive in. I was so pleased to see that most of the chapters are broken up into smaller segments, making it easier to move quickly through the book and not being locked into needing forty-five minutes to get through a chapter. I’m one of those people that really hates stopping in the middle of a chapter without a clear break in the action. There is also a good pace to the novel so that it's not that hard to convince yourself to go one more chapter break or make it to the end of the chapter. That being said, the overall plot of the story moves rather slowly, which would account for the novel's 850 pages. Still, after all the hype, I went in cautiously, not wanting to get my hopes up and be disappointed as I have been in the past. 

We started in the “present” of 1945 and even though we aren’t in 1945 long, Frank Randall finds the page time to be rather condescending and annoying. I do believe that is the point, his dismissal of his wife while he hunts down the family connection with Jonathan “Black Jack” Randall, to highlight the difference with Jamie, but it still bothered me. Now, I get it, I have family members who are very into genealogy, but to complete ignore your wife who you barely saw for six years to look at old records is ridiculous. Also, Frank’s view of adoption instantly made me sour toward him, but it’s a viewpoint that a number of people still hold. Not to mention how he reacted to Claire swearing. Now my viewpoint might be colored because I know that Jaime is the main romantic interest due to the television show, but still. Just saying you love someone doesn’t mean much when you’re a giant ass, Frank. To be honest, I don’t know why Claire tried so hard to get back to him. Getting back to indoor plumbing I understood, but not to get back to Frank. That coupled with his ancestor being the primary villain in the novel and I didn’t really give a damn about Frank. 

Something that I liked in regards to Jaime, which I hadn’t expected, was that he was younger than Claire. There was something so endearing about Jamie becoming flustered when Claire even suggested they sleep in the same room with absolutely not romantic intentions toward one another. Jaime has a lot of sweetness in him and while he has mysteries, he isn’t overly brooding, which is slightly overdone these days. Still, there are moments when he wants to be Claire's “master” that make him unlikable. Claire tells him no multiple times and they end up having sex anyway. While I am going to address this when it’s with males who aren’t Jaime, it is still nonconsensual sex (also known as rape) even if it’s a man that you are married to. You can argue that it’s the time and that makes it acceptable, seen a marital duty or whatever, but it doesn’t make Jaime likable. However, that doesn’t make me completely hate Jaime, due to his youth and inexperience, it just makes him a complex character. I just wish romance, as a genre, could stop pushing the no actually means a coy yes story line. It’s not sexy on the page or in real life. It’s rape. 

As with everything that is set in historical times, rape is spoken about, implied, and threatened on a number of occasions. It even happens to a male character, though I don’t want to spoil who. I understand, it is the truth of that point in time, but I personally feel that more of discussion needs to be had about it if you chose to focus on that part of history on so many occasions. I mean, Gabaldon has time travel in this novel, she could have toned down the amount non-consensual touching, kissing, undressing, groping, almost rape and actual rape in the case of Jaime taking Claire after she told him no on a couple occasions. Every male that runs into Claire either threatens to assault her or does assault her in some way and it’s just tiring. I thought that the novel was done with that particular issue once they had left the castle, but the minute that a male that was described as somewhat attractive and not crippled once again enters the narrative, Claire is forced into a position where she should be sexually assaulted. Then it is threatened again with a male that is mentally unstable. If that is the only way you can build tension in a scene with two members of the opposite sex, maybe take a step back and looking at how you’re crafting the story a little more carefully. This isn’t selling the romantic dream of every man wanting to be with you, it is reinforcing the knowledge that every woman has that we should always be on our guard and are never safe, which isn’t something I read fiction novels to be reminded of to this degree. 

One thing that I will give Gabaldon a small bit of credit for was how she dealt with the male rape victim in the novel. I don’t want to spoil who it is or the specifics surrounding the assault, but I believe she gave enough page space and emotional weight, Now this wasn’t just an assault, but torture as well, but the feeling of helplessness and shame that surrounded the character in regards to sex afterwards I believe was well done. However, that leads to another issue I have with this novel, that both homosexual characters are portrayed poorly. One is a villain and it is implied that he raped his younger brother, the other is a caricature and literally only in the novel for a while as a sort of comedic character, who also attempts to rape young boys. You can’t claim historical accuracy in this poor representation. While it might not have been written down, I highly doubt that every non-straight individual in the Scottish Highlands was a pedophile and/or rapist. 

Moving on from that, Gabaldon got the sibling dynamic between Jaime and his sister Jenny down pretty well. While we may live in a more civilized time, this is basically how arguments between me and my older brother go down, sans the whole kilt incident obviously. While it was frustrating that Jaime didn’t give her a chance to explain herself, especially when he already knew about Randall’s issue from Claire explaining her experience, it is a pretty accurate representation of sibling stubbornness. Jaime had years to form a picture in his mind of what had happened and it’s hard to listen to reason, from anyone, when that happens. Jaime’s interactions with his namesake nephew were also painfully adorable and it was a nice respite from the constant danger that they faced while at the castle. I really enjoyed this whole section of the novel, though the weird sexual display when describing what it’s like to be pregnant seemed a bit odd to me. Still, it was easy to understand the mood of the room and it was a rather wonderfully written section. 

Now to address the criticism that Claire is a Mary Sue that I had seen on a number of occasions. The knowledge that she had of medicine from her time as a nurse during the war makes perfect sense for the time period that she was living. The interest in herbs would also make sense if she had learned so much medical knowledge, hell I am interested in herbs and I have zero medical knowledge. While, I will admit, the whole traveling around with her uncle on archeological digs was a bit much, it’s no different than Indiana Jones and no one has a problem with him. While I don’t think that addition was necessary, most people adapt to roughing it when there is no other choice, it wasn’t something that pulled me out of the story. Honestly, I think what saves Claire from being insufferable is that she makes stupid decisions and is not a perfect person. I’m alright with a very knowledgeable main character as long as she also has flaws, which Claire has many. She is a very alive character and I appreciate that about her, even if I don’t like her all the time. 

It was a brave move on Gabaldon’s part, is that she lets the story take a very leisurely pace. There are whole sections that don’t move forward the plot, but they do give us the personality of the Scots that Claire is traveling with or meeting during her trip into the past. It is probably why the novel is almost 900 pages, however I appreciate learning to care about and getting complex characters to fall in love with or loath. While I do think that some areas could have been tightened up a bit, you are pulled with Claire into the Highlands and it is rare that you find yourself thinking that Gabaldon should just speed it up already. While it does seem as if the plot becomes a little repetitive, Claire finds herself in danger, is saved, becomes comfortable in her surrounds, and then the cycle is repeated, I never forced myself to pick up the book and dive back in. The only section that I found completely unnecessary was the entire battle with the wolf near the end of the book. The injuries from that encounter really have no bearing, nor does the actual killing as Claire is forced to kill humans a little later on. It was too long and I found myself really not all that interested. A couple paragraphs could have neatly wrapped up that section and moved the plot forward, but it was the only time I felt that way. It really is well situated to a television format, and it’s easy to see how sections could be broken up into episodes. I might search out the show now that I’m finished with the novel. Overall, I enjoyed my adventure in the Highlands and will continue with the rest of the series, but I don’t see this becoming my favorite series. There are just too many problems with it that I find hard to overlook or ignore.

[ieryana]

Dinner with Christians

*** Disclaimer *** - this is tongue in cheek fun. If you take it seriously and get triggered because bew hew you know a Christians then tough shit frankly. Enjoy! ________________________________________________________________

  "Fun as in 'naked twister' fun?" he quipped, slightly too hopefully. Felicity shot him one of her narrow-eyed, ‘you better behave’ sort of looks and squeezed his arm. "It's just that I went to a party once and it was full of forty-something swingers and-" "Oh you did not," She admonished with a flap of her hand that signalled that she didn't believe him and that the subject was dead. "Besides," she added, almost as an afterthought, "they're good Christian people, they wouldn't be into anything like that." "They're what?" A look of horror flew across Max’s face. Last time he’d encountered Christians en masse was his Christening, and he’d slept through that. "Flick!  Daaahling! Happy New Year!" A horribly ‘faux posh’ voice echoed from the porch. "Tom, Helen, how are you both, awww!"  Felicity gushed, hugging her hosts and flashing air kisses that missed by miles.  It was at that moment that the girl that was once Felicity Harbour changed….in a way Max hoped he would never see again. The transformation was devastating, dramatic and swift.  In that moment, she had become the entity known as Flick. Max stood in the doorway and juggled the beer, a resigned but somehow desperate expression on his face.  What had just happened?  It was only seven pm and he already wished the night was over. As he walked into the predictably magnolia and laminate hallway he spared a thought for the lads in the King's Arms, drinking, celebrating, happy, and single.  Happy New Year indeed. From inside, the stomach-churning soprano 'Walking in the Air' began to filter through into the hallway and he knew that with certainty it wouldn't be long before Cliff made an appearance too. Tom and Helen were pretty as boring as the house.  Helen was slightly overweight and dowdy. Straight mousy hair framed a chubby face and she was dressed in a shapeless floral dress.  Tom was the sort of guy you would want to beat savagely and, were it not for the fact that it would be something like kicking a puppy, you feared that you would.  Sporting a pair of tortoise shell rimmed glasses and a drab loose knit sweater; he’d also adopted a magnificent eye twitch that Max found compelling.  Tom would use words like 'cathartic' and 'holistic' a lot and pronounced the word beautiful as 'buuudafull’. Max ground his teeth together and tried to smile.            "So Maximillian nice to finally meet you, how aaaare you?  We heard you've been mentally ill is that right?"  Tom said all in one breathe.            Maximillian? Against his better judgement, he shifted the bitter into the crook of his arm and grasped Tom's limp, slightly damp hand, pumping it in greeting whilst brandishing a vaguely threatening fake grin.  "No, no it was a week off work for compassionate reasons, some work rela-"            "Super!  Well, this is my wife Helen…"  Tom cut in with a disarming smile and a sweep of his hand.             Feeling more than very put out, Max braced himself as Helen approached him for a double air kiss and he was horrified to note a wispy, grey moustache lying in wait across her top lip.  She smelled faintly of Yardley’s English Lavender, and that was no great surprise either.  Helen also had this irritating habit of talking to you through either closed or wildly fluttering eyelids, it made him wonder whether half way through a conversation he could nip away and come back without being noticed.  "Soooo gooooood to seeee yooooou," she whined.            Tom and Helen invited them into an untidy living room and introduced them to the others: Jed and Hannah, Campbell and his friend Philip, and Camilla. "Guys, this is Maximillian, Flick's beau – he's recently been mentally ill," Tom was saying, nodding sagely, "So let’s hope he finds tonight's diverse social integration… cathartic." Max raised a hand in salute. "Well, I wasn't strictly ill, but hello."  Something told him that the five pints of John Smith's he'd downed before meeting Flick and friends wouldn't be enough.  He then noticed Jed was wearing sandals with Argyll socks and briefly flirted with the idea of running away – quickly.            Dinner was a bland vegetarian affair that Helen had managed to become tearful over when she discovered that she had burned the crust of the leak and leak pie.  The potatoes were more than slightly underdone and the onion gravy watery beyond compare, although the Swede and carrot mash was passable.  She seemed heartened by the fact that her eye-watering, sugar-free rhubarb and gooseberry compote was edible, or at least that was the suggestion that everyone had given her by doggedly finishing their bowls.   "I think I've just developed a stomach ulcer," Max whispered to Flick, who shushed him tetchily.            "Matchmakers and coffee?" offered Tom, as if it was the height of sophistication.            "I'll stick with the beer, thanks."  Max pointed to his fast depleting stock.  The group had barely managed to empty three bottles of predictably cheap wine over dinner. He cracked open another can and tried to get comfortable on the lumpy sofa. "So," Jed was saying, his legs crossed and his hands constructing a pyramid at his chest, "Hannah and I met Campbell whilst on sabbatical in Bratislava in 1999…"            "Yea yea, Bratislava’s an awesome country”; Campbell interjected as if anyone was interested in his point.           Max rolled his eyes, but thought again about speaking out, leaving the group to embarrass themselves.            "Well, it's funny," Campbell continued in his soft, whiney Scottish accent and patted his 'friends' arm, "because Philip and I met during his gap year in Burundi." "Yes I was working with Médecins Sans Frontières as a volunteer nurse."  Philip added with a self-satisfied smile.            "Oh that's riiiight," gushed Helen.  "I heard that you had done a lot of good work in the Third World."            "I now do some volunteer work with special needs, but not as much as I'd like to" Philip continued, "in fact I'm a dedicated helper in the community for a great person called Ben Calloe."            “Wonky Ben?"  Max said.            The front room fell silent.  To look at their faces so aghast, one would have thought that he had just dropped his pants.  "What?  Wonky Ben, gammy leg, he comes in the pub."            "He's got cerebral palsy, Max," Philip said with the measured patience of somebody trying to break some really bad news.            "Yeah but you want to try and race lad, he's pretty quick after a few rum and cokes I can tell you."            "You feed him alcohol?"  Campbell seemed genuinely horrified.            Max shrugged.  "He's a bloke not a gerbil. Why shouldn’t he enjoy a drink or two, he’s still a person".  He was vaguely aware of Flick tugging urgently at his sleeve.  "What, you've never raced a drunken spazz?"            "We don't refer to them as 'spastic' anymore."  Hannah said gently.            "Anyway…" Tom intervened.  "Campbell, you were saying about Burundi…"            Max's eyes darted incredulously from speaker to speaker, what irritated him more than the inane anecdotes of who met whom and during what Hutu uprising, was the fact that Camilla simply nodded in agreement to every statement and mmm-mmm'd her approval.  This further cemented Max's theory that she had nothing to add to any conversation.  Anywhere.  Ever.            Max sighed and cracked open another can. "So Maxi, did your faith helped you through your period of mental illness?" Tom said, some time later, turning his attention across the table.            "Sorry, what?" Max jumped awake from the semi-doze he’d fallen into            "Your faith, was it a crutch?"  Helen asked.  "I found that my faith brought me through my darker moments when I was diagnosed with uterine polyps."            "Mmm, yah, polyps."  Camilla nodded seriously, shooting Helen a tight lipped look of unswerving support and female camaraderie.            "Er, no, I'm not a big church goer to be honest."  Or at all, but he wasn’t going to admit that.            "Awww."  The group crooned in an 'oh you poor, silly, ignorant little man' fashion.            He noted that Flick looked suitably embarrassed and could not help but feel a little crow of jubilation inside him.            "You really should consider taking Christ into your life."  Hannah said.            "Mmm-mmm, yah.  Christ our Lord."  Camilla spouted and actually held up a hand in some sort of 'hey Jesus, here I am,' wave.            Max drew a patient breath and forced a smile. "No, thanks all the same.  I'm happy with my lot and it's not really for me, but cheers."            "Don't worry; I'm sure you will regain your faith with Flick's help, she is such a strong woman."  Helen sympathised.  "You will find that it was the glory of the Lord that drew you out of your mental illness."            "Oh, I'm not so sure!"  Max replied smoothly.            They all looked at him in earnest.  "Yes Max… it was. They nodded as one. "Oh yes, Jesus loves you.  He loves us all."  Hannah intoned. This was getting a little creepy, and Max edged his way along the sofa.            "Doesn't seem to love wonky Ben that much does he now," Max replied sourly.            "Ah, don't worry, the Lord has His own plan for Ben. His physical illness is part of god’s plan, as was your mental illness."         Max slammed his hand down on the nearby table causing everyone to jump and sending John Smiths tins scattering.  Camilla stopped mmm-mmming all of a sudden and looked petrified. He stood up and stared at them all. "Look, I'm not mentally ill.  I never have been; I had a week's leave of absence after some work related stresses and my mum dying.  And before you say it, no, she's hasn't 'crossed over' or 'become spirit' or whatever it is you nut-jobs think and she's not 'in a better place'. She's in a box, in the ground, in Highgate cemetery.  Oh and in case you were wondering, I don't want to join your blasted Christian polyp support group or whatever it is.  I have been listening to you lot for the past four hours and you have yet to say anything remotely constructive or interesting!" "Maxi, I really don't think this is-" Campbell began to speak, looking pale. "It's Max you irritating Scottish poof!" "Wha-what?"  Campbell and Philip both looked stunned, as if some great and unspoken secret had been splashed across the national news. "Oh come off it, people!  If these two were any more mince they'd be a Chilli Con Carne." An awkward silence fell across the group, broken only by Philip, who began to weep quietly into his napkin. He glared at them for a few seconds longer before about turning and striding into the hallway.  "Jesus Christ!  No wonder they threw you lot to the lions!” The door slammed shut in his wake. "Peace be with you…"  Tom murmured cheerlessly, smoothing his pullover.

[deathonyourtongue]

Den of Thieves: The Review (Spoiler & Fangirling-free)

First off, I’d like to thank copious amounts of Kraken, Sailor Jerry, and a touch of Absolut for not giving me a hangover and making this review possible at the wee hours of 12:00 pm (I went to bed at 2am, don’t @ me.)

I will be the first to admit that I went into Den of Thieves with some trepidation, based solely off the fact that while I know Gerard Butler can act his ass off when he wants to, lately, he hasn’t exactly been making the best choices in flicks, and it’s been showing in his performances. I was worried that this would be another one of those ventures, and that he would inevitably drag the rest of the cast down with him when the ship sunk. I’m happy to say that was not at all the case and he and the rest of the cast knocked this one out of the park.

The audio in this movie was the first thing that struck me. The guns are LOUD. If you have sensitive ears, I suggest covering them for the gun fights, especially if you go see it in a higher-end theater. You feel each shot reverberate through your chest, and in the case of the theater I was at, through the seat. I feel as though they used the same sound effects team as Lone Survivor, and that’s not a bad thing in my book, because with movies like this, you need to feel the bullets and not just hear them whizz past. Speaking of whizzes, I was very happy to hear both snaps and hisses, and not just stock gunfire noises. If you remember the scene in Blackhawk Down, “A hiss means it’s close, a snap means--” it’s time to get the hell out of dodge, ‘cause you’re being shot at.

The other thing I noticed in terms of audio is that the movie is very quiet in terms of score. There were several scenes that were dialogue-only with no score to accompany the actors’ words. This, for me, added to the overall intensity, but also made it quite obvious when you were headed for a ‘big’ scene as the score would then kick in and you knew something was about to happen.

As far as picking sides goes, the movie doesn’t exactly do the Regulators any favors. While they attempt to make Gerard’s Big Nick sympathetic by showing his crumbling family life, all you really see is a man who is entirely responsible for the dissolution of his marriage and estrangement from his kids by way of his vices, attitude, and his far more stable ‘marriage’ to his job. One of the most uncomfortable scenes in the movie is between Nick and his wife, and you see the potential for just how cruel a man he could be, if not restrained by outside forces (in that scene in particular, the fact that his two daughters are watching his every move). The Outlaws, while incredibly flawed, paint a far more sympathetic picture, with special attention paid to 50’s family in the film, and the crew’s long-time friendships either through high school sports or their military careers. By the end, you’re rooting for them to pull off the heist and make a clean getaway and for Butler and crew to bite the dust.

Despite all the talk of it being 50’s movie, it’s really Schreiber and O’Shea that deserve the credit here, both turning out performances that make any other character on the screen obsolete. Pablo is in turns terrifying and nuanced. Not overly physical in his acting in this role, he does so much with subtle facial expressions for Merrimen, that you will be left at times fearing for the lives of other characters, and at others gutted that this is the path his character chose for his life outside the military. One scene in particular stands out not only because of the threat of violence in his eyes, but because the very next cut shows a man who is resigned to his lot in life and knows that he can’t turn back; It feels like  a sucker punch to the gut and makes you wish you could pull him in a different direction before things go sideways.

O’Shea showed a range that really surprised me for an actor who only has three released credits to his name (with three still in production). Donnie is by far the most relatable of the Outlaws, and O’Shea does a masterful job of portraying him as the everyman who’s caught up in something way above his pay grade. When Donnie’s scared, you’re scared not only for him, but with him, and that is a fantastic trait for an actor to be able to deliver.

This all being said, there are some flaws in the film, mainly in the fact that it relies on the audience having knowledge of certain topics going in, namely military, law enforcement, and currency. During my first outing to see the movie, the friend who came with me got pulled out of the story because she didn’t understand why money is destroyed on the daily. Same thing goes for why the FBI and the Sheriff's Department don’t generally see eye to eye, or what a MARSOC FAST Marine is. All these topics are fairly specialized for a general theater-goer, and if you’re like my friend (or the guy sitting next to me who would not get off his phone between his naps…) you may be left a little confused during certain exchanges that happen in the movie where pauses seem to be purposely written in to leave the audience to fill in the blank. These pauses, combined with at-times stilted dialogue, definitely puts potholes in an otherwise smooth storyline. These choices were a risk that only occasionally paid off throughout the film.

Tactically speaking, the movie was a joy to watch. Though I personally have no experience with firearms of any sort, it’s an area of interest for me, especially when it comes to film. Things like trigger discipline, recoil anticipation, and speed reloading are all things I watch for in movies, because it speaks to the level of training that the actors had, and which ones actually evolved beyond the basics in their training. The actors made it clear throughout their press tour that the Regulators got tactical law enforcement training, while the Outlaws got military training, and the difference is noticeable throughout. While the corridor scene provides a good look at how the two teams move together (and how they fall apart), the gun range is where you can really see the difference in the two boot camps.

I’m gonna be blunt and say that Gerard shoots while blinking a lot. A lot. Pablo blinked maybe once that I noticed. The scene at the gun range makes that difference explicitly clear and drives home the point that Merrimen is NOT a man you want to mess with, especially when he’s armed. Tactically, Pablo is pristine, fitting for a MARSOC Marine with plenty of experience under his belt, while Gerard is a little sloppy, which also plays well into Big Nick’s boozy, reckless personality. But more than character choices, I think it speaks to the training and in my opinion, the Outlaws definitely got the better piece of the pie. Pablo, with his prior experience in military films, stole the show.

As for whether the movie is a rip-off of Heat, it isn’t something I can speak to, mainly because it’s been years since I’ve watched it. I came into Den of Thieves with a fresh palette so to speak, and with that, I was thoroughly entertained, found myself biting my fist more than once due to the intensity, and came out with a new appreciation for my old favorites, and some of the fresh faces we were graced with.

9/10

Fun tidbits:

The best way to keep Gerard from sounding Scottish is to keep his mouth full of food, cigarettes, or booze the whole time. Seriously, it’s genius.

I feel like Brian Van Holt’s character was put in this movie just to say ‘What the fuck?’ to everything Nick and Merrimen were doing.

Nick’s distaste for the FBI was hilarious.

There’s an unexpected treat towards the beginning of the movie for any Portuguese speakers, courtesy of Kaiwi Lyman, which gave me a giggle.

There is a metric ton of arm porn on both crews in this one. You’ve been warned.

[tap-dat-agent]

Who Knew? 4/? (Merlahad) - A Roxy Aside

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3

A/N: Not necessarily vital to read if you wanna skip it (no Merlahad/Eggsy interactions in this)…just wanted to give Roxy some much deserved attention. Also, her not being dead is a great thing Vaughn & Co. should consider.

Part 4

Everything hurt.

The bedposts had held steady, as she knew they would, but the destruction beneath her had heaped a bit more than just a few scrapes and bruises. Already she struggled to breathe in the suffocating fallout. Only the fact that she could feel every ache in her body kept her hopeful that the damage was very minimal and that somehow, in some way, she’d get out of this mess alive.

Roxy passed out.

When she came to, it was morning. She could see sunlight refracting off dust and smoke. It appeared her room had been split into two, by the destruction, tipping her bed ever so slightly to reveal the debris of Kingsman’s country house training facility. The structure had been compromised beyond salvaging, with only a few crumbles of its former self still standing. The sight triggered a series of mental regressions wherein missiles threatened to take out all of Kingsman. Despite the agonizing pain, the agent known as Lancelot forced her body up from the confines of what might have literally been her deathbed and moved to free herself from the rubble pile.

“Fuck,” she hissed, her hands clawing weakly at stone and mortar, the infrastructure of what had become her home away from home too solid and heavy to push out of the way. That didn’t stop her from trying, of course, she was insanely stubborn that way. She hadn’t ranked highest in her year and graduated with top marks for sitting on her arse and waiting for things to happen, no…the rubble simply wouldn’t budge.

Roxy collapsed into a tight sprawl, subduing the urge to hyperventilate. The damage was all-encompassing, in her hair, up her nostrils, and beneath her fingernails. The heat of the explosion had singed the room’s materials into nothingness, leaving only the clothes on her back and…and her glasses!

Roxy reached over her shoulder, wincing form the pain of it, as she searched the dim and small space for where she’d felt her glasses fall. She’d held onto them steadfast, in the skirmish to take cover, knowing even in the face of certain death that her eyewear would be worth even more than her life in the event of Kingsman’s total annihilation. She finally found them, somewhere above her, head and quickly put them on, releasing a pained exhale to find that the equipment still worked. The lenses were pretty scratched up but, with the slightest nudge to the bridge of the frames, they fired up a reboot display of systems detail and basic Kingsman clearance information.

Kingsman glasses were military-grade, meant to last, equipped with every tech utility and augmented virtual interface a spy would need to be the best eyes and ears on the field. The day Merlin had fitted her with a pair was the day she’d truly become a Kingsman.

Roxy’s heart seized to imagine that man might now be dead.

It troubled her to think any of her colleagues were now similarly inconvenienced or, worse, possibly scattered in bloody bits among the wreckage of a missile attack.

Roxy touched the sides of her glasses to reopen communication channels and received no return signal.

“Hello?” she said, the word escaping in a raspy breath, the reality of having a stronghold estate collapse on you sounding as apparent as it felt. “This is Agent Lancelot. Does anyone copy?”

The readout continued to search for a signal but received none.

“Agent Lancelot reporting. For the love of fuck, please, tell me someone receives me.”

“…Message received, Lancelot.”

Roxy jostled her addled mind to pin a face to the voice on the other end of her eyewear’s mic piece.

“Percy?”

“Agent Percival reporting.”

“You’re alive.”

“Trust, I’m as shocked as you,” Percival said, a smile of relief in his voice. “Hang on a moment—I’m establishing visual.”

Roxy waited, all she could do, the frightening helplessness of her predicament at last setting in during Percival’s brief absence.

“Ah, there we are,” Percival said, popping up in a window screen, a reflection of his disheveled state appearing before a dingy-looking mirror. “Can you see me?”

“Yes,” Roxy said, smiling tearfully, the relief of seeing her mentor’s very-much aliveness washing over her. “Where are you?”

“I can’t say,” Percival said, the uncertainty of his own declaration evident in his eyes. “Are you alright?”

“I think so,” Roxy said, looking down at what she could see of her person. “I followed protocol, got under the bed, and activated the frame-seal. I think the mechanism’s broken now. I can see the room around me. Perce, it’s gone. I saw the incoming missiles. I’m still here, at—”

“Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know,” Percival interrupted. “In fact, I shouldn’t even be talking to you right now.”

“What, why not?”

“The doomsday protocol,” Percival sighed. “It went into effect the instant headquarters went down. In the event of such a catastrophe, we must assume no one is to be trusted. All communications are to cease before convening at the safe point.”

“Right, of course.”

“Lancelot, if you’re where I think you are, it’s best to find the groundsman.”

“What?”

“I have to go—I’m still on assignment,” Percival frowned, eyeing his surroundings. “Find the groundsman, Roxy.”

Percival, seemingly her last vestige of hope for escaping her would-be tomb, signed off without warning. Roxy worked to memorize his surroundings, the nastiest lavatory she’d ever seen, and it wasn’t enough. He could be in any part of the world, on a mission of nondescript importance, and it would still matter more than coming to her rescue. That was the job. She could already hear Merlin, with his hardened Scottish cadence, drilling into her the importance of the mission and how it would always outweigh their safety and the lives of their colleagues.  

Her heart sunk to think that that man, above all others, might no longer be among them. After all his dedication, having lost those that were clearly dear to him, to have been robbed the opportunity to go out on his own terms seemed an offense to all that he was. Fighters didn’t deserve to go out unawares. Fighters deserved to go out fighting.

“God damn it, Eggsy,” Roxy sighed, staring up at the metal under of the bed. “You better still be alive.” She never imagined him going out on his arse either, munching down on a plate of meatballs and lingonberries no less. If Percy managed to escape unscathed then perhaps there was hope for the likes of Galahad and Merlin.

Roxy’d be damned to go out without a fight. After a deep breath and a reassessment of the situation, she realized she had a key tool in her possession. Her glasses seemed to function at full capacity, no worse for wear, and so she touched the sides of the frames again and troubled through the eyewear’s many functions. Roxy prayed that what she sought after might actually work when she found the dropdown option wedged between face-mapping and infrared vision.

Two red beams shot out from the corners of her glasses and started breaking through the metal bed frame on first contact. Roxy took the eyewear off to turn away from the slight sparking as the combined laser points created a perfect square cut-out above her.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” Roxy chided, sneaking glances at her work, her having to laser her way out of the collapsed wreckage of a missile attack on a secret service agency base a fact of life she couldn’t quite square away. Yet there she was, buried alive, cutting her way through a mechanically-reinforced bed.

Also, she was a fucking spy.

The slab of metal cut out dropped down at about three stones. Roxy caught it before it could crush her already compromised frame and pushed back against it with all the strength she could muster. The wood had already splintered, the mattress itself scorched beyond recognition, so when the metal slab finally fell through there was nothing left but her and the sweet air of freedom.

“Ugh!” she gasped, chugging down relatively breathable oxygen like her life depended on it…because it did. “Oh my god…!”

Roxy, aching, injured, quite put off, annoyed, angry, confused, and afraid, used what was left of her energy reserves to attempt climbing out from under her own would-be tomb, pushing and tossing away rubble ranging from the size of small pebbles to jagged blocks the size of her head.

“Oi!” called a voice from above the wreckage. Roxy looked up, noticing the nearly ten-meter drop from ground level for the first time, to find a sizable man sporting a healthy beard and a casual disposition staring down at her. “Are you still livin’?”

Roxy stared up at him, beside herself in astonishment.

“Wait right there!”

The man strolled off, and Roxy did what anyone stuck in a 10-meter deep, country house-sized hole would do: sat her arse in wait.

The man that pulled her from the newly-made chasm of structural integrity and decimated top-secret information was the groundsman, Balyn, who’d been canvassing the area since the previous night. He wore black gloves and a navy-blue herding jacket. Roxy thought she might have seen the man here and there, maintaining the property, but she kept to limping behind him as he led her to some onsite cabin all the same, just in case the very man that had rescued her had ulterior motives, like say, participated in the destruction of Kingsman.

“Welcome to Avalon,” Balyn said, pulling open the large sliding door of a cobble fixture that looked neglected and unassuming on the outside but inside marveled with the kind of high-tech displays that not even the tailor shop could parallel. It was small, true, but looked to be a more condensed version of the control room and weapons annexes of the Kingsman training facility. “Please, come in. Wipe ya feet on the carpet and try not to die on my watch.”

Roxy had no intention of dying just yet.

“Back already, Balyn?” carried the questioning voice of a women from behind a wall divide. She appeared quickly thereafter dressed in plaids, brown boots, and a deerstalker. A figured redhead with pastel skin and more breasts than Roxy would have known what to do with if it had been her appeared. Seriously, she imagined the woman suffered from chronic back ache. In her hands she carried a high-caliber hunting rifle which appeared to have a few tricks of its own up its sleeves. “Well, bloody cock.”

“I should hope not,” Balyn huffed, assessing a cascade of monitors projecting various camera feeds and mapped locations. “Quite fond of the knob.”

“You are a knob,” the women declared, staring Roxy up and down. “You Lancelot, yeah?”

“How did you—”

“We’ve got you on the scanner, see?” the woman explained, tilting her head towards the monitor set-up. “We picked up the glasses’ signal and couldn’t believe our fucking luck could we, Balyn?”

“Thought everyone dead.”

“Name’s Balan,” the woman said. “Balyn and Balan. That’s not too confusing, now, is it?”

From Arthurian legend, Roxy thought, but she wasn’t prepared to accept the common thread of naming as any proof just yet.

“Who are you?” she asked though, from the make of their setup, she could make a few intelligent guesses as to who they might have been and who they might have worked for.

“Obvious,” Balan ruffled, leaning her gun up against the divide. “We’re Kingsman.”

“I’m sorry, but, what?” Roxy looked between the pair, frowning from behind the film of debris and dust caking her face. “What do you know of Kingsman?”

“Questions later,” Balan said, approaching, and Roxy concisely but carefully considered the many ways in which she could overpower Balyn and Balan, if it turned out they meant her harm. “We’re not gonna attack if that’s what you figure.”

“That’s what she figures,” Balyn chimed in, never once taking his eyes off the monitors at his post. “Like a wounded animal ready to pounce.”

“Let’s get you cleaned up and checked for any internals,” Balan took Roxy by the arm and led her to an automatic sliding door that opened up before a descending staircase, “then you can ask all the questions you like. If you think they don’t hold, you’re welcomed to try and kill us. Emphasis on the “try”.”

From then on it was surrealism within surrealism. Roxy had just gotten to feeling seamless in her double life, as both only daughter to an old family with investments in textiles and mobile parts and international spy working independently from Queen and country, before an unknown threat leveled a building on top of her. Now the likes of two people she was admittedly unfamiliar with, who claimed an affiliation with Kingsman, had rescued her from the rubble pile and fashioned her wounds.

“Who do you report to?” Roxy asked, sometime later, as Balan patched her up. The other woman had already treated her to a full suite wash room and a set of new clothes stored in one of the numerous underground rooms situated beneath the cabin post. “If you’re Kingsman, why don’t you attend roundtable debriefings?”

“Eyes and ears aren’t obligated,” Balyn said, his voice projecting from the speaker systems installed in the corners of the room.

“We see everything, we hear everything, and we answer only to Arthur,” Balan answered, finishing her work. “You’re good to recover. You can rest up, as room and board is yours. Now that we have you here, however, we can’t let you out of our sight. It’s the doomsday protocol.”

“Percival mentioned the doomsday protocol,” Roxy said, in earnest. “He’s alive.”

“We know,” Balyn’s voice rang true. “Listened to the relay through access on your eyewear.”

“Can’t say the same of anyone else,” Balyn said, a learned indifference about the shrug of her shoulders. “We received the same incoming warning as you did. After that, silence.”

“Couldn’t pick up on Percival’s location,” Balyn revealed. “The explosion must’a muddled the systems.”

“No signal from the tailor shop, either.”

“No,” Roxy exhaled, her hands clutching onto the edge of a surprisingly comfy bed, and her heart sunk. Her worst fears were coming true. In the pit of destruction, she could pretend to be of one and a few onsite staff harmed by the attack. Now that she was safe and seemingly secure, the reality that others just might not be as lucky was beginning to settle beneath her freshly-washed skin. “Percy survived.”

“The only other it appears,” Balan said, recognizing the devastation coming over Roxy. “I’m sorry about your mates. They were good agents.”

Eggsy, Roxy thought, remembering the last message he sent her.

‘ur da best’

“Best agent or best friend?”

‘both ;)’

“What can we do?”

“Well…” Balyn hummed over the intercom. “Until we sauce out who’s friend or foe, we do nothin’.”

“We just sit here?”

Balan shrugged again. “We wait.”

[thestraggletag]

The Offering, a Bellish May Day Fic

Giftee: @applejackcat

Summary: Lochdubh is the quintessential Scottish town, which often meant nosy townspeople, a few rowdy locals and more fires than a constable could put off in a day. But it had never meant being incapacitated, stripped down and left in the forest to appease some non-existent spirit.

Yet.

AN: So sorry for the wait, giftee/Zookeeper! What started as a much simpler story devolved into something much more complicated that I had to later wrestle into a short story. I hope you like it!

Written for the @maydaymenagerie exchange of 2017.

It started with a few sheep, and later three pigs and a cow. Dead as doornails for no reason, at least none the vet could find. No signs of an animal attack, or traces of poisoning, though the animals had been burned after a thorough examination just in case. Since all the animals were from different farms and none of the farmers could find motive to believe it being intentional Hamish suspected some local was up to no good involving chemicals and the animals had died of poisoning of some sort. It was unusual for some prank or crazy scheme to have such drastic consequences but he wouldn't be too shocked either if he sooner or later found one or both McCrae's behind the whole thing.

After the animals came the rain. Though Lochdubh was no stranger to the weather phenomenon- it always seemed to either be raining or about to- no one had seen it fall in such magnitude. By the end of March, it had rained in three months the same amount as the whole of the year before, and the resulting floods had caused all manner of losses and damages. Hamish himself counted at least three leaks in the living room and two in his own bedroom, one conveniently located right above his pillow. It didn't help the situation that wee Jock was determined to jump onto every mud puddle they came across. He was considering letting all the grime and muck crust over so the little mutt would be forced to shuffle around like that.

But the physical damages were nothing compared to what the rain did to people. For some reason, he could not quite figure out every resident seemed to think raining was some sort of crime and therefore fell under his jurisdiction. It became commonplace to be stopped on the street or harassed at the pub regarding something water-related. Soon enough it was almost impossible for him to get any peace and quiet anywhere outside his house except for the library, and it was mainly because the residents of Lochdubh were convinced it was haunted. For one it was located near the woods, almost outside the town limit, and that alone was enough to scare most locals away. Like most places in Scotland the forest ripe with lore and local tall tales of nature spirits and sacred trees, guardian goddesses both unimaginably kind and terrifyingly cruel.

It didn't help either that the library had once been part of a monastery and was likely the oldest building in the village, its sad, grey stone walls covered in ivy. It looked, for all intents and purposes, like a prime haunting location, the kind spirits would fight over to inhabit. The interior was a bit disappointing, with a utilitarian use of the space, old library furniture and a modest collection of books. Not even the librarians were spooky. Mrs Aldridge, who had retired a few months ago, looked like everyone's favourite grandmother, down to the annoying habit of pinching everyone's cheeks without reason or warning (Hamish wasn't too proud to admit to having more than once crossed the street to avoid the lovable old bat). The new Librarian was even less impressive, a little mousy slip of a person, short and nondescript, most of her face hidden by big, old-fashioned glasses that made her look like an overgrown owl. Her choice of nondescript brown/beige clothing and the muddy shade of her lanky hair didn't help either.

Strangely enough even though Lochdubh was not the kind of town to get new residents all too often no one had made much of a fuss about little Miss Caill. She had moved in with very little fanfare and almost no attention whatsoever, as if people barely registered at all. Hamish himself could attest to the fact that he hadn't noticed her about the village at all, which seemed odd. Lochdubh was almost painfully small, after all. But somehow he'd managed to only have a very vague idea of her presence in town until one night, when the heavy rains had just begun, when he'd chanced upon her on the side of the road, making her way from the library to the pub, most likely. He'd almost passed her, small and insignificant as she seemed.

He'd offered her a lift, smarting a bit at seeing the shocked look on her face. He was a respectable constable, it rankled a bit that she would think a small gesture of gallantry surprising. She'd barely said a peep during the short ride, though he'd sensed her looking at him, as if trying to figure him out.

Curiously after that first incident he'd noticed her more around town, as if she'd been invisible before and now was allowing him to catch glimpses of her. He'd tip his hat at her, giving her a charming little smile and after a while she'd smile in reply, delightfully shy in a way that put a spring on his step. It was a pity no one else in town seemed to notice her much, Belle was truly one of a kind. Kind, for one, the sort of compassion that shone through the eyes, blue and warm, and unbelievable curious. She said nothing whenever he'd take refuge in the library to escape the nagging of the town, and seemed to find his passion for detective novels endearing.

After a while he got used to her rather unique appearance, finding her more charming that ugly. The overly-large clothing only accentuated how wee she was and the glasses looked rather adorable on her, highlighting her rather impressible blue eyes. The more he thought about it the more he decided it'd be wise to keep an eye on the little librarian. Soon enough others would notice her proper and come sniffing at her skirts, which could easily turn into a spot of trouble. She looked so... innocent in many ways. As if the world was new to her. Since she didn't go into town much, and feeling like he imposed on her far too much, he had taken to taking little treats with him when he visited, which they would eat in a corner of the deserted Ancient History section as if they were naughty little school children sneaking food into the library under the nose of some matronly librarian. Often during those times something about the way Belle behaved, especially when he'd thought to bring ice-cream, seemed off, almost as if she was tasting things for the first time.

Other times, however, there was something very old about her. Not in appearance, since every time he saw her she seemed to get younger rather than older, but in spirit. An old soul, TV John would say, old and powerful. He had a strange sort of reverence for the Librarian, treated her with a level of respect that seemed almost too much. Still, TV John was amongst the last sane people in Lochdubh, specially once the rumour got around that there were no animals in the forest. No one had seen a rabbit or a fox for days and some, the most outrageous ones, claimed there were no birds either.

It was then that Lachlan McCrae Jr got roaring drunk at the pub, climbed atop a table and confessed to anyone who could understand his drunken ramblings that he'd accidentally crashed his motorcycle against the old druid stone ruins in the forest. They weren't much, certainly nothing to help attract tourism. Just a small stone altar, crudely made and covered in moss and ivy. And now, according to Lachie, a pile of rubbish, as was his precious bike. It was that discovery that turned the covert, whispered conversations about the supernatural into open, heated debates, with most people convinced something magical was afoot but disagreed on the who or what. Some people ranted about druid practices, about deities and the like. Others spoke of fairies and nymphs, and those older of forest spirits, one of which inhabited the woods. The breaking of the altar, once a gift of the town to this... being, had caused it to curse the village in retribution and there would be no peace in Lochdubh till things were made right again.

 Hamish hadn't taken the town talk seriously once it turned towards the magical. He'd ignored it at first, thought it unimportant. But it didn't really surprise him much to find fireman Peter walking home in the early morning stark naked but for a small towel he clutched tightly across his hips, weird symbols painted with some sort of ashy substance on his skin. The poor sod, shaking from head to toe with cold, stuttered some excuse about it all being Lachie's idea- like Hamish needed to be told that- and scurried away. He wisely decided not to give chase, not very eager to arrest him for public indecency or have him half-naked inside his newly-washed patrol car. TV John later told him that he'd heard some boys at the pub some time before talking about old rituals, Celtic stuff they'd gotten from the internet about May Kings, virile men offered to appease forest deities. Since the smashed stone structure had broken the pact the original people of Lochdubh had made with the deity they thought another offering, of pleasing flesh, would do the trick. Hamish rather thought it a horrible idea, not even because magic didn't fucking exist, but rather because Peter wasn't exactly fighting women off with a stick. Thank God magic wasn't real or otherwise they'd be getting hail from an overly-pissed spirit rather than simply rain.

Just in case, however, he went over to the library to check things out, skimming through books of Celtic lore while he talked to Belle about old movies. She talked about films like she'd just discovered them at all and was enthusiastic about anything with Bette Davies on. He ended up renting Now Voyager just so he could talk to her about it and had to hide it from TV John, lest he imply something that wasn't. Just because he found the librarian pretty, something beautiful hidden in layers of ill-fitting clothing and comical glasses, didn't mean he was looking for something to happen between them. So he thought about her often, of course he would. He spent more and more time in the library, it was natural for her to become an important part of his life. And sure, he sometimes fantasised about her, wondering what her blue eyes would look like half-lidded and liquid, what her mouth and hair would feel like. But that just meant he was a healthy adult man with the accompanying urges.

He was sure Belle didn't see him that way anyway. She was lonely and was grateful for a friend and it was better to leave it at that. Women and him didn't mix well, at least not in the romantic sense. And there was something so... other, about her. Like she was somehow just out of his reach, like she belonged elsewhere. She was a fascinating friend, nothing more. Someone that made life a little bit more interesting, that cut through the dullness of his routine and made him look forward to things.

It didn't seem worth thinking about it at all, especially since he was too busy dealing with the rain and the town and the general madness that had taken over everyone. Too busy to think about much else or to pay attention to more mundane things. Too busy to be suspicious when Lachlan Sr left a bottle of fine Scotch on the station's doorstep, a gift for "May Day". And certainly too busy to notice the strange aftertaste of it. A few minutes later he was asleep to notice much of anything else.

 "Kidnapping a police officer is serious business, Lachie, are you even sure it's gonna work?"

"Look, a police constable has got to be a good enough offering. Seems to have taken a liking to Macbeth in any case, it's worth a shot."

The voices faded away a bit after that and for a moment there was bliss in the silence. Though it was difficult to string thoughts together Hamish tried hard to piece what had happened to him. He raised his sluggish hands to his face, sensing something pressing against it. It felt hard, a mask of some sort, covering half of his face, with horns protruding from it. Everything else felt disturbingly bare, though his skin itched around his hips. Patting the area, he found that he was wearing some sort of kilt, new and stiff, like the ones sold at the local tourist gift shop.

His head felt heavy and light at the same time and everything around him seemed to be moving, spinning in dizzying circles. Whatever they had given him had his blood boiling and his adrenaline pumping, as if preparing for a fight or some other form of exertion. Though the woods must have been freezing he felt hot all over, either from the drugs or the bonfires surrounding him. Dimly he thought of the very real possibility one of them could end up burning the whole forest down. He tried standing up but his legs wobbled and soon dropped him on his ass, and even the thick wool of the damn tourist-trap kilt didn't help soften the blow, though he barely felt it. The almost pungent smell of rosemary wasn't helping his efforts to clear his head. Rather it seemed to numb him even more, till he could barely feel the horned mask that at first had been so fucking cumbersome.

At some point, he lay back down, humming in delight at the cool softness of the moss beneath him. It wasn't that bad, really, just a spot of involuntary camping. In the morning TV John would come pick him up, hopefully bringing some of his clothes with him, and he'd proceed to meticulously and ruthlessly ruin everything the Lachies and their cronies loved. Perhaps he could convince Agnes and Barney never to serve them anything stronger than Earl Grey for a month. It'd be fun to rub their noses on a cold pint of Guinness.

"Constable?"

It was unsettling, for a brief moment, to hear a voice after so much silence. He startled, hoisting himself up and moving his head to one side and then the other, as if the stag mask didn't completely blind him to everything around him. He tensed, suddenly aware of his vulnerability. He wished above all for his uniform, not because he was half-naked in the woods but because it brought him confidence, it made him feel almost invincible, like he was nothing he couldn't do, no problem he couldn't solve.

"Who's there?"

He felt a soft, almost whispery touch down his arm and then someone was taking his hand, helping him up. He stumbled upright like a new-born colt, or a man more than in his cups.

"Shh, it's alright. It's only me."

The scent of wildflowers reached his nose, making him instantly relax.

"Belle."

His owlish little librarian had tracked him down, thank God. At last the one sane person in the crazy fucking town he called home sweet home was there to end the madness. He tightened his hold on her small, delicate hand. She was such a wee thing, small and dainty. And she smelt so good...

"Constable? Constable!"

"Call me Hamish."

He was feeling incredibly mellow, all of a sudden. Happy. Like he didn't have the weight of an entire deluded town on his shoulders. Like he was wobbling semi-starkers in the middle of the bleeding woods because he felt like it and not because he had been fucking kidnapped in the middle of the night. Like he couldn't find better use for his fingers than ghosting them along the supple flesh of the librarian's inner arms.

"You don't seem alright, Hamish. Do you need help?"

Did he? A minute ago it seemed like it but now he was feeling perfect. Belle always had that pacifying-yet-electrifying effect on him, calming him down while at the same time filling him with a strange sort of restlessness. A bit like he was itching all over, eagerness humming softly through him, low but ever-present. He traced a path from her hands to her shoulders, frowning when he didn't encounter a scrap of fabric on the way.

"Did the little pricks drag you here too? Did they fucking undress you? Because I'll fucking kill them, cut them in teeny-tiny pieces and feed them to wee Jock if they did, I swear to-"

Her hands cupped the lower half of his faced, bared by the mask, and she pressed her thumbs softly over his lips, cutting off his diatribe.

"I'm here for you. Do you want me here, Hamish?"

On the back of his mind his skillfully-honed police instincts were screaming at him, telling him in no uncertain terms that something was off. But it was hard to find in himself to care. Everything smelled so good and Belle felt so soft under his hands. She no longer shied from his touch, no longer seemed interested in keeping that last bit of distance that was always between them. There was nothing to do but to nod enthusiastically and sigh when her fingers delved into his cropped hair.

"And what do you want me to do?"

His rational side, sputtering and on its last legs, supplied a long list of things. They needed to get him some clothes, douse the fucking fire and go home. Find out what the hell those little cunts had given him. Make them pay. But above all go home, and sleep this whole night off. Instead he found himself leaning forward and, blindly, kissing her. Far from pushing him away and slapping him, the sensible response, she pulled him closer, her arms wrapping around his naked shoulders and a mouth-watering little sigh escaping her lips. She took control almost at once and he let her, more than happy to allow her to completely devour him. She was almost feral, rough and bruising and completely fucking perfect. He clung to her as tightly as he could, splaying his hands across her thinly-covered back and letting out the neediest little moans he'd ever heard.

At some point, in between the savage kissing and the undignified groping, he found himself back again on the mossy forest floor, with Belle sucking on the spot where his right shoulder met his neck. He was too far gone by that point, barely noticing when kissing turn to biting and the tips of her nails began to carve patterns into his chest and arms. The pain only added to the euphoria of the moment, turned the pleasure bittersweet and heightened it at the same time. His clever fingers dipped low to feel her upper thighs, as smooth as marble and as cold as ever. When he stumbled across the hem of what felt like a sundress or a nightgown he pulled it up impatiently, managing to wrestle it off her without much problem. He was quick to claim his reward, moving his hands to grasp her hips, dip into her waist, flutter across her tummy and finally cup her breasts, as perfect as he'd often found himself picturing them beneath layers of shapeless clothing.

Abruptly Belle released him altogether and scampered away, giggling as he protested loudly. Instead of ripping the mask off to give chase he chose to let his hearing guide him, the sport warming his already hot blood and making him grin maniacally. They laughed like little kids as he clumsily hunted around for her, his fingers grazing skin or a lock of hair before she was out of his reach again. It felt as if she was almost guiding him somewhere, like a siren weaving her spell on a hopeless sailor. And he couldn't find it in himself to care.

Finally, he managed to hook an arm around her waist and send her crashing into his chest. She felt warmer, strangely, as if she'd drunk some of the heat in his veins from his lips, as if she was absorbing it from his skin and into hers. When she captured his mouth again he gave himself to her willingly, eagerly, raking his blunt nails down her sides and grabbing her by the back of her thighs, all the encouragement she needed to wrap her legs around his torso. The added weight made him stumble forward till something- a tree most likely- broke their fall. Propping her up against it he found it easier to manoeuvre the tip of one of her breasts into his mouth. Her hiss of delight made his cock twitch in eager anticipation.

She was divine. Small and dainty but fierce and completely in control, taking from him what he was only too eager to give. Her hands did not tremble as they undid the buckles of his ridiculous kilt, nor when they grasped his erection, guiding it to the entrance of her sex.

"Do you offer yourself to me, Hamish?"

Fuck, she was talking. It took him a moment or two to try and make sense of what she'd said, at which point all he could do was nod enthusiastically, groaning in utter relief as she allowed his cock to sink into the heavenly warmth of her cunt. It felt as if a shock passed through him, something powerful and unsettling. But a moment later he was thrusting into her, his ears ringing with her mewls and delightful cries. Every one of his senses was full of her, his skin prickling all over with an awareness of her that was almost uncanny. The moment seemed to stretch for hours, as impossible as that was, and Hamish could've sworn dawn was breaking when he finally felt her flutter around his cock, bringing him finally to release.

A minute later, or several, he found himself somehow back on the clearing in the forest, the bonfires dimmed to nothing but burning coals and Belle wrapped snugly against him.

"You've pleased me well, my King. Now rest, darling, rest. It's all done now."

  "Rough night, eh, Hamish?"

Constable Macbeth was greeted by an array of jeers and catcalls. He stoically pretended not to hear any of it, making a show of talking to TV John to make it clear he was not paying attention. Barney greeted him with a pint of beer and a slap of the back.

"It's on the house, lad. You took one for the team, it's the least we could do."

Never in all his years in service had Barney given him as much as a glass of water on the house. The gesture itself left him too speechless to reply. On the booth next to him TV John whistled, impressed.

"That's a first."

Hamish could scarcely take the first sip of his glass before someone else vigorously clapped his back, making the scratches there sting like hell. One by one it seemed every man in Lochdubh was dead-set on showing him some gesture of male camaraderie and, strangely, sympathy. They brought with them snacks, cigars and other small gifts.

"It must have not been easy, but you pushed on and came through." Lachlan Sr patted his shoulder forcefully, making him bite back a howl when his hand made contact with the bite mark there. "It's all over now, lad, you did good."

He shot him one last pitiful look before ambling back to his seat to high-five his son, who flashed Hamish a thumb's up when their eyes crossed.

"Fucking barmy. What do they think, that they can butter me up and I'll pretend they didn't kidnap and drug a police officer?"

"Well, the way they see it your impressive manhood appeased the cailleach and saved the town. Quite a feat, really."

"Don't tell me you believe those sods too. The rain had to stop, it just happened to coincide with the day after my unwilling nature walk. And with the rain over of course all the little critters start to reappear, there's nothing fucking supernatural about it. And what the hell is a cailleach?"

"A hag. Vengeful spirits that can take the form of old crones, or ugly women. So, you see, the way they see it you just made a great sacrifice for this town. It certainly calls for a bit of buttering up, some well-deserved pampering at the least."

"What?!"

"Well, it was Lachie Jr that figured it out and you know his reading comprehension only gets him so far. No sense in trying to explain the nuances of Celtic folklore to him or anyone else that listened to him, the complex nature of spirits and deities. I tried, believe me, but nobody wanted to listen. It's all most complicated than that, you know?"

The door of the pub swung open and though Hamish had his back to it he could immediately tell who had walked through it. He nodded distractedly at TV John, making a vague sound to signal he was engrossed in the conversation even as his eyes and most of his attention, focused on her.

"Well, hags are complicated figures in lore. Some say kind, guardian spirits and vengeful hags are but two sides of the same coin. There are tales of deities turned into hags to wander amongst mankind, ignored and ill-treated. A test of worthiness, sometimes said to be passed by men in possession of a kind heart and a noble spirit, who'll prove worthy. This later became a very common figure in medieval literature, that of the loathly lady, made famous by Chaucer in his tale..."

"Belle."

She was dressed very differently than usual, a royal blue short dress paired with sky-high heels and not a cardigan or a coat in sight, though she appeared not to feel the cold. Her glasses were gone too and her hair shone just like he remembered it doing under the light of the bonfires in the forest. Her eyes, however, looked the same as they'd always been. Bright blue and overly curious, as if the world and everything in it was new to her.

"Hamish."

Suddenly he felt like a sodding pre-teen with his first crush, completely clueless. Thankfully the librarian seemed not to suffer from the same problem, looping her arms loosely about his neck and planting her lips firmly on his, a gentle kiss with a playful hint of tongue, that, embarrassingly, turned the tips of his ears red. Around him everyone was suddenly deadly quiet, not even the sound of clinking glass to be heard. Briefly glancing around he noticed the wide-eyed stares of everyone in the pub, including a rather delighted Esme and Flora, the town's main source of gossip (and knitted scarves). The Lachies were both gaping at him, their mouths almost comically open. Beside them Reverend Snow crossed himself, which Hamish thought was a bit much.

"Miss Caill... there's something different about you. New haircut?"

The librarian smiled, and for a second there was something faintly dangerous about her, not altogether human. A moment later it was gone. The constable blinked and took a swig of his ale, cursing himself for letting the craziness of the town get to him for a second. Gnomes and fairies and Scottish deities, what a load of rubbish.

"So kind of you to notice, John. How's that book on the Opium Wars going for you? I thought it was a fascinating read."

Soon both the older Scotsman and Belle were engrossed in a discussion. Too tired still to contribute Hamish contented himself with letting Belle lean on him, his arm around her waist and her hands toying with his shorn hair. When her fingers grazed the bite-mark she'd made he shivered, feeling heat pull on his lower stomach.

May Day hadn't turned out so bad after all.