#for archiving purposes and vacant reading

[jyngerpeach]

Debauched for a Dollar

summary: reader/OC is a prostitute at a hotel and Mr. Kidd is a repeat customer

pairing: Martin Kidd x reader

word count: 1562

rating: total, absolute filth. if you read it you are no longer allowed to perceive me, I cease to exist. kinktober, huh? 😩

tags on ao3

Gossip spread like brushfire in the hotel where you did your business, every newcomer attracting notice. Miners and ranchers were the most frequent patrons; workers, drifters, unfazed by the inescapable smell of stale whiskey and horse and piss that hung in the air. But that didn't change the fact that any traveler needed a place to stay, and something to keep them busy.

The latest rumor was that Martin Kidd had been seen in town. Word was he was in pursuit of his missing wife--kidnapped was the story, but who's to say she hadn't simply wised up and made a run for it.

The whores talked, of course, about the clientele: who had particular preferences, which ones were sober enough to actually perform with any stamina.

Most of you knew about Mr. Kidd.

The handsome businessman from Santa Fe with a perpetual crease between his brows, who often passed through when his affairs took him south. Knew what he wanted. Usually had a quick temper. Exceptionally well-endowed.

This wasn't conjecture--no, you had fucked him before. Get him in one of his moods and you were guaranteed to be sore the next morning.

And this situation no doubt would have him angry.

--

The thing was, Martin Kidd wasn't like most of your usual clients. With wealth came privilege, and his tastes were refined. He carried a wooden cane, a delicate gold pin embellished his cravat. The fine waistcoats he wore hugged his lithe frame, jackets and hats concealing broad, well-muscled shoulders and a head of thick brown hair.

But in the oppressive, high desert sun, he had disposed of his outer layers as he entered the hotel, exposed shirtsleeves taught and damp, hairline dappled with perspiration. His presence commanded the attention of the barkeep, who wordlessly poured him a shot of whiskey.

Mr. Kidd swallowed the liquor, slamming down the glass for a refill. He drained another mouthful, and when he lowered the glass, dark eyes met yours across the room. His wolfish gaze scanned your bust, which was accentuated by the girded waist beneath your corset, and you saw the corner of his mouth twitch beneath his fastidiously trimmed mustache.

You were well aware this establishment was below the standards that a man of his stature was used to. With his money he could spend his time in proper parlors, buying tarts in satin dresses who called themselves "saloon girls." But something kept him coming back.

--

He had wasted no time getting you upstairs to a vacant room, pulling you by the hand, when normally it was you leading the john in a farce of seduction.

Inside was a small brass bed, with not much more than an end table, wash bowl, and oil lamp for amenities. Unremarkable, but functional enough for your purposes.

"Bet you don't get too many like me around here," Mr. Kidd mused, observing your surroundings as he advanced on you, cane tapping alongside his footsteps. You breathed in the light scent of soap mingled with sweat.

In the heat you had foregone your undergarments--no sense when they were going to come off anyway--and he smirked, brown eyes dancing with delight when he reached down beneath your skirts and instead of fabric found your folds. His thick fingers began to move, ever so slowly, and together with the prickle of his mustache against your neck, your body started to respond, betraying you with a soft moan.

"You like that, don't you?" he asked, but you turned your face away, cursing the arousal that stirred within you.

He pressed the grip of his cane into your cheek, forcing you to look at him.

"Pretty little thing," he drawled, a finger tracing the low neckline of your chemise. "Do you remember me? Because I certainly remember you." His knuckles brushed the swell of your breast, rising as you tried to control your breathing.

Oh, you remembered. The way it took everything you had, despite all your experience, not to gag around his considerable length when it hit the back of your throat. How telling him to fuck off for being handsy had earned you a slap to the ass that made you clench at the memory.

He knew you remembered, but you wouldn't dare give him the satisfaction.

"How about we get you out of these clothes. Sir." You bit down heavily on the last word, reaching for the knot in his cravat. He quirked an eyebrow, but finished loosening the necktie before moving to the buttons of his vest and shirt, his gaze never leaving you as you walked toward the bed, unhooking the busk of your corset. With considerably fewer garments to remove, you settled yourself naked atop the threadbare quilt, watching as he stepped out of his boots and the drawers he wore beneath his trousers.

Lord help you for admiring every toned muscle that moved across his ribcage when he bent down; the trail of dark hair below his waist leading to a cock that, even half-hard, sent a surge of lust to your core. Once fully undressed, he instructed you to get on all fours, and you only hoped the tatty bedframe could withstand the beating that was to come.

Large, rough hands ran down your back and over the curve of your ass, and you felt him grow harder against your thigh. What followed was a prolonged pause--your rear in the air, nothing but the sound of heavy breaths through his nose and your heart hammering in your chest. You tested your luck. "Get on with it already," you grit between teeth.

To your surprise, he chuckled. "Mmm, anxious, are we?"

He lowered his voice to a growl, suddenly right against your ear, the bristle of his whiskers making you shiver. "I was just enjoying the view."

You lurched at the feeling of him entering you, an inch or two at first before he pushed in. You bit your lip to keep from wincing, but the initial sting subsided quicker than you expected as your growing wetness allayed the blow.

"Fuck." He spat out the curse like venom. "Oh fuck."

With an exhale, you relaxed your pelvic muscles to let him better fill you all the way. When he was fully sheathed you squeezed, eliciting praise for how well you were taking him. His colorful language continued as he set a pace that quickly became aggressive, groping your breasts in ravenous handfuls, keeping you teetering on the line between pleasure and pain.

Eventually both his hands settled on your ass and he pounded into you, relentless, joints of the bed creaking dangerously. You tipped your pelvis until you found just the right angle, so every brutal thrust hit you in the spot that choked the air from your lungs; the spot most men didn't know--or care--even existed. You dropped a hand to touch yourself, determined to slake the appetite that was now too powerful to ignore.

Soon you could no longer tell between the gasps you affected for his ego and your own. A quiet "Ple--please," escaped your lips, desire clawing toward its peak, heat searing the surface of your skin.

You were so close to coming when suddenly he pulled out, ready to finish. He flipped you over, and you grunted in frustration, propping yourself up on your elbows to wait for those final few strokes it would take for him to spend himself on your chest.

Instead he inched himself forward, on his knees, until he was straddling your torso. He leaned forward and used his hands to push your breasts together around his cock, leaking and hard and red with need. Your arousal that coated his length provided enough lubrication for him to sink his hips against your sweat-glazed skin, fucking the space between your cleavage.

His jaw slackened, captivated by the sight of his strained erection sliding between your tits. "Christ," he breathed, and continued pumping.

While he worked himself on top of you, you slipped a hand down into the gap beneath his thighs, searching for relief from the unresolved ache he left between your legs. Swiping some of the moisture from your center, it only took a few fast circles around your clit before you could feel the coil inside you return, already so, so tight.

His mouth twisted into a grin. "A filthy whore, aren't you? Getting turned on when I fuck your tits," he panted.

"Yes-" you moaned. He thumbed your nipples and your hips jerked into your hand. "God, yes."

He spit down onto his shaft to keep the momentum, massaging your breasts around his cock until his thrusts became erratic and he jerked to a halt. His stomach muscles tensed as ropes of his warm cum painted your neck, your fingers applying just the right amount of pressure to your clit for your body to stiffen and flex with the building tension.

Regaining his breath, Mr. Kidd regarded you smugly for the few more seconds it took for you reach your climax and you bucked beneath him, riding out the orgasm with a depraved whimper.

You sank back into the mattress, the back of your hand coming to rest against your forehead, now dripping with sweat. The businessman climbed off you and wiped his brow, satisfied that you could never again pretend not to remember him.

[ybyblog]

#015 Independent Project 

Discourse linked to power and social interests Language use and social practice framed by institutions -Institutions determine rules and positions of agents

Power and language both are related through two major aspects 1 Power in discourse 2 Power behind discourse Language is closely related with discourse, it creates meanings in discourse and behind discourse.

Power is the ability of a person to influence others for his own purposes. And language is a tool to exercise this power. How to convey these words, in the past it was through newspapers, but now it can be through social media. Today's new media is a mixture of various information. Compared with social media, paper media is more convincing, and traditional things seem more reassuring.

The special thing about "Discourse" is that it is a kind of soft power - it is not a mandatory order, but a means of hint, induce, infect, and persuade to control through issue set. Also, It can affect our judgment of right and wrong and value orientation.

Public opinion makes people voluntarily think and act in a certain prescribed way. Precisely because this kind of power is difficult to detect (and therefore very confusing) and it depends on the popular support.

I found it interesting that many people read newspapers on the train or outdoors. The institutions behind newspapers represent "authority", "reliability" and "stability". The British newspapers The Guardian, The Daily Telegraph, The Times, Financial Times. All newspapers have different political stances.

Broadsheets are generally more serious and focus on current affairs news; tabloids cover different topics such as entertainment gossip, novels, etc. Politically, The Daily Telegraph and The Times support the centre-left Conservative Party. Traditionally, newspapers can have a clear political stance.

But in life, when reading events or remarks published in newspapers, people may not be clearly aware of their political tendencies. We simply read the content.

Newspapers, film, diaries, and photos can all record real events. From the video records of the Gasul Family Collection, you can see what the city really looked like in 1939. Just weeks before the Nazis invaded the city with devastating consequences for Polish Jewry.(https://www.ushmm.org/collections/the-museums collections/about/film-and-video-archive)

In the bookstore on Prince Street, I found RATION BOOK and IDENTITY CARD. They looked like redesigned cultural and creative products, but they might also be documents used in the past era.

The bottom of the card reads "NOTICE: The parent, guardian or other person having charge of the person to whom this Card relates must sign his or her own name in the first vacant space on the back." and "Within seven days after the l6th birthday of the person to whom this Card rélates that person must produce it at the local National Registration Office for the issue of a new Card.” Another card also contains different precautions and processing requirements. Just like what I saw in the refugee report before, "When the refugees arrive they get a number and we, the Arabic and Farsi speakers, translate the announcements and explain to people what they need to do and where they need to go." Instructive words, affirmative, and commanding tones are more authoritative, it can more easily invade our thoughts and affect our behaviour.

[riisinaakka-draws]

Under the cut there are some thoughts on the process and ideas behind the drawing JOURNEY INTO THE DARK if you are interested :)

I thought it would be too big of a burden to mention all of this within the art post. This is also for my own archiving purposes (so I won’t forget what was involved! :D) and it’s always nice to see how things start and develop...

Long post ahead! (contains spoilers for the show)

COMMENTARY:

I continued this work bit by bit over a period of several months (I started this just when s4 started airing) and only finished it recently. A few hours then and then (whenever I felt like it or had time for this), but I can’t really say how much time it took all together. Occasionally there were weeks/months that I just forgot about it and was more focused on other things...

Most of the thoughts here are fleeting ideas during the process (how a thing X lead to thing Y) and some personal fun and not something I actually spend too much time on dwelling or planning (or researching lol). I have probably forgotten some already and some happened by accident and some I am just incabable of putting into understandable words.

None of these are any actual instructions (or limits) of “this is how it’s to be seen”. Art doesn’t have to be or even shouldn’t be explained in some cases, but I just wanted to document the process and open up the symbolism since there were a lot of (random) things involved.

It’s also fun to look back on things and how they evolved and what their connection to other things were.

You are free to have your own interpretations of course and I hope this additional post doesn’t ruin any of those :)

The initial idea and motifs:

Flint decends the steps from light to darkness and Miranda is standing behind him as an accomplice/orderer. Stepping stones get bloodier by every step and gold coins are glimmering on the path (Urca de Lima’s gold). Sword is drawn out for war and slaughter. Black water as in the opening credits + general darkness to represent the abyss. Reflection shows James when he was happy (him returning to Hamiltons) and how much he has changed compared to that (McGraw vs Flint). Sort of stage / antique/ greek tragedy(?) setting with marble columns, red curtains (like a myth, a monology or a story or something).

A white feather shining in the dark to show there’s always hope and another way out. I already explained this in another post, but here it is again:

Short answer: Silver (although some of you may not like it) Long answer: the feather is for “hope and an alternative for war” (the dove of peace..haha). Also remember the trap Flint laid in season 1? The feather and the logbook in his drawer -> leads to Silver’s capture later.

The feather is also a reference to the swan of Tuonela (in Finnish mythology the river of Tuonela separates the world of the living and the dead (compare Styx in Greek mythology I guess). Flint decents to the world of death (also represented here by the pale and dead-looking organic shapes of the opening sequence’s sculpture… thing).

Anyway, the feather is mainly about Silver: both how they end up meeting in the beginning (the trap, and then some new hope along the way and eventually some light in Flint’s miserable life) and what (who) also ends up being “the end of Captain Flint” (a tiny nod to the swan guarding the border between the living and the dead).

Visually I wanted something to shine in the darkness to remind there’s always hope and another way out. At one point it had an additional thin string leading to Thomas’ hand. You know, a connection to the memory (and to the reason of Flint’s revenge and war path and so on) but the idea didn’t work so well and felt too distracting so I left it (the string) out. And then the finale happened (!!!) and the reflection became also the future.. :D

a way out of the darkness… :)

There was also a post going around a long time ago about the empty space (the absence of Thomas) next to James and Miranda in some scenes, so I incorporated that in here, too. Unfortunately I cannot remember who did the post, so I cannot link it right now :| It was something about how some of the New World scenes were framed in a way that it looked like there was something missing (aka the third person of the trio).

Here’s the early drafts again so you don’t have to scroll back:

I didn’t like the first composition that much and continued it into another direction with similar elements and the main ideas.

The stepping stones changed to wooden planks: angrier zigzag lines (rage) and also the idea of “walk the plank” (except that you don’t know when and where the nightmare ends...)

I ditched the gold coin idea. The overal setting became more spacious and gloomier to emphasize the vastness of abyss and the smallness of people. The stage / arch became the staircase seen in Flint’s dreams.

The whole thing is sailing on a similar sculptural thing seen in the opening sequence which for some reason made me think about the floating theatre in the Moomins (when the Moomin valley is flooded in one dangerous midsummer. LMAO):

(*coughs* lots of water, a stage and some drama after a disaster...so..)

(At one point I was also thinking about Howl’s moving castle and how that too is a monstrous looking vessel travelling between worlds (well, opening doors) but how the moving castle itself is also composed of various other things... and how in the drawing Flint would be stepping out of the ride for a moment to do some dark deeds in one of these ‘worlds’ etc.)

Black Sails opening sequence - is there a term for that cool monstrosity?

Some other inspiration and references:

Akseli Gallen-Kallela’s “Lemminkäisen äiti” (Lemminkäinen’s Mother, 1897).

(notice the swan, the black water, blood-covered stones, ‘the mother’ and the red-bearded ‘son’ waiting/asking for a spark for new life after the mother has combed his broken parts out of the river and assembled them back into the shape of a man)

I must admit that I didn’t bother to think any deeper parallels with Lemminkäinen and Flint (or the Mother and Miranda) beside this (more about it later though) and mainly had my thoughts just on this painting and its visuals because it is so well known (and liked) in Finland.

Moving on.

Screencaps from season 2 (source here):

I chose the latter stairs for the reflection (although modified) only because they were in London and there is an arch above them (to mirror the window in the drawing)

Some steps futher when the needed elements are more clear:

At some point I tried things with a lot more light and coldness (below, left pic) to channel some of the the dream sequence in s3 but in the end I chose the darker atmosphere, faces in shadows and I also wanted to preserve the red colour somehow (right pic):

The reflection sketch (at some point), although most of it cannot be seen in the finished work and thus didn’t need too much details. Young lieutenant James McGraw returning to London from his voyage:

Also, (and I am so sorry about this, but it was “fitting” and I decided to keep it..) in the reflection (when flipped and put in its position) the plank (their unfortunate blood-covered war-path and future) accidentally hides Miranda’s face and decapitates her so to speak and she won’t be there anymore ;_;

Thomas, on the other hand, is in the reflection to meet James -  both in the past and again in the future - but not in ‘the present’ where Miranda is.

Miranda in Flint’s visions (s3 ep3):

When I first met you, you were so Unformed.

And then I spoke and bade you cast aside your shame, and Captain Flint was born into the world. The part of you that always existed yet never were you willing to allow into the light of day.

I was mistress to you when you needed love. I was wife to you when you needed understanding. But first and before all I was mother. I have known you like no other. So I love you like no other. I will guide you through it, but at its end is where you must leave me. At its end is where you will find the peace that eludes you, and at its end lies the answer you refuse to see.

And then in s3ep5: You can't see it yet, can you? You are not alone.

The end part of it is seen in the fandom as a reference to Silver (and his partnership) and how Flint’s mind is telling himself to see it too. And I agree on that. I don’t think James had any hopes for Thomas being alive (especially in s3). As I mentioned earlier I originally did the reflection to show him (Thomas) only as a memory. Then the finale happened and the reflection got its double meaning :)

And here again Miranda as the mother (there has been better discussions about this topic and speech in the fandom so I won’t go more into that now). In the inspiration painting that I showed earlier the mother had assembled his son back together (for rebirth / reanimation) <--- Miranda being part of the creation (birth) of ‘Captain Flint’.

Aaaaand here’s the feather again and Silver’s words (and sort of motto):

“Take it from me, there's always a way.” (season 1)

“Nothing is inevitable here. I'm showing you a way in which we can survive this.″ (season 3)

Some further fixed details and adjustments. In the end the wall almost disappeared and to me it made this feel a bit like “floating alone without a shelter on your back or a place to return once you leave its premise”... I fixed the perspective of the planks (took me surprisingly long to notice what was wrong) and got the bloody red back on the planks (and not leaking too much on the water).

I wanted the water to be quiet, pitch black and endless and the reflection to seem like a dream. I probably should’ve done everything a bit more detailed or sharper, but in the end it didn’t feel so necessary (and it would have been way too much work, haha).

The final drawing:

The planning and initial idea was done after seeing s3 and just when s4 was beginning so there weren’t any thoughts linked to s4 while making this (other than the surprise connection with Thomas). Most of this I did paint after s4 though, but only to finish what I had already started.  

One more thing. I also made “the doors of the warship” -drawing after planning the JOURNEY INTO THE DARK (although I posted the doors pic first, since it was finished earlier).

It has a similar lighting and the theme of James and Miranda facing together ‘the civilization’ although this time they are stepping towards the light again (in hopes of closure and the promise of new life... which doesn’t go well as we already know ;_;).

James and Miranda about to leave the warship and meet Lord Peter Ashe in Charles Town:

So, here we sort of have a beginning and an end for their journey in the dark (together)  - believing that there are just the two of them left from the original trio.

Aaaaaand, that’s about it. Sorry about some repetition and messiness.

As I said in the beginning of this post, you are free to have your own interpretations (and I hope this post didn’t ruin any of them). These were just the things and thoughts that went into this work (or were stumbled upon along the way...), but you don’t have to take them to your heart.

Thank you so much for checking out this post and I hope it was worthy of your time! ( ˘ ³˘)♥  

[scotianostra]

On July 14th 1927 The Scottish National War Memorial opened.

As this post regards the Memorial that was to become part of Edinburgh Castle, there is a wee bit history of the castle itself in this post. I recall putting a post together last year on it’s centenary, but keeping it short as there ahd been many articles in the newspapers and online about it, this year with have devoted more time putting together this long post.

The National War Memorial for Scotland was established by Royal Charter to commemorate the sacrifice of Scots in the Great War, Second World War and subsequent conflicts. The Memorial within Edinburgh Castle houses and displays the Rolls of Honour of Scots servicemen and women from all the Armed Services, the Dominions, Merchant Navy, Women’s Services, Nursing Services and civilian casualties of all wars from 1914 to date.

In 1927 the architect Sir Robert Lorimer and 200 Scottish artists and craftsmen created a serene Hall of Honour and Shrine, where the names of the dead are contained in books that are on permanent display.

A number of eminent Scots wanted a truly Scottish memorial, in Scotland, recording the names of all Scots and displaying Scottish material. The moving force behind this vision was John George 8th Duke of Atholl. A leading member of the Scottish aristocracy, the Duke of Atholl, or “Bardie” as he was known from his title, the Marquis of Tullibardine, was a serving soldier who had fought in the Sudan and had raised the Scottish Horse Yeomanry. He was a man of considerable vision and energy and, what was more important, he had both influence and connections.

In the spring of 1917 Atholl gathered around him a number of leading and powerful Scots. Atholl lost no time in promoting the Scottish case for a memorial. He wrote to the Commissioner of Works asking that Scotland should have her own memorial in the form of a museum collection to be housed in Edinburgh Castle. There then followed widespread consultation, which included the five Lord Provosts of the Cities of Scotland and extensive press coverage, largely in The Scotsman newspaper.

Initially there was concern on the part of the City of Glasgow and it was important that the City Fathers of Scotland’s largest urban centre agree to the scheme. The problem was solved when Spencer Ewart hosted a dinner for all of the interested parties and agreement was obtained.

The choice of Edinburgh Castle was inspirational, historically interesting and sensitive.

The Castle stands high above the centre of the capital city of Scotland dominating the skyline for miles around. Even in 1914 the Castle was a major tourist attraction and its roots lay deep in the folklore and traditions of Scottish history.

Until 1914 it had been the main barracks for the Infantry garrison of Edinburgh and soldiers had lived there and guarded its walls for many centuries.

The standard of military accommodation within the Castle precincts was however very basic. The barrack rooms were crowded and draughty with leaky roofs. The accommodation was heated by small coal burning fires in open grates some of which were still used for cooking. There were only a few baths for the whole of the garrison, no running hot water and very basic toilet facilities. The one communal cookhouse meant that most of the men still ate in their barrack rooms.

As a result of these shortcomings a new barracks was built at Redford on the outskirts of the City which would house both infantry and cavalry units. These barracks were being built in 1914 just before the outbreak of war. It was therefore envisaged that when the war ended there would be vacant accommodation within the Castle walls which could be adapted for the Memorial plan.

In addition, the concept of a military museum was a very new idea which would not compete with existing regimental museums for there were none. The Scottish regiments were more likely to agree to a central location such as the Castle where they had all served at one time or another. By this time the individual regiments had acquired many regimental trophies and together with much of the silver, artefacts and archives these were usually deposited with the Regimental Depots and were not on display to the public. Thus the opportunity to show the regimental histories and traditions was welcomed.

The choice of Edinburgh Castle was however a sensitive one. Any proposal to alter the distinctive Edinburgh skyline by the building or demolition of any part of the existing structures was bound to meet with considerable opposition. This opposition was both vociferous and powerful and was in time to change the plan significantly.

In October 1918, a Scottish National War Memorial Committee was appointed by the Secretary of State for Scotland, “to consider what steps should be taken towards the utilization of Edinburgh Castle for the purposes of a Scottish National War Memorial”. Great care had been taken with these appointments to ensure that the Services, the press, the church, learning, architecture, Scottish history, the cities and the political parties were all represented.

The architect Robert Lorimer designed the stunningly beautiful Chapel for the Knights of the Thistle in St Giles Cathedral, but advised against a church or chapel as it “would excite much opposition”. It was estimated that the Memorial Shrine and Cloisters and the museum he proposed would cost a staggering £250,000.

While the money was a problem, there were many others that I won’t go into in depth, needless to say, some were ploitical, others were fro, The Cockburn Society, who still do a great job to this day, trying to safeguard Edinburgh’s heritage, to just give an example of the anger some people had for the scheme, the leading critics were Sir Richard Lodge, Professor of History at Edinburgh University, Principal Laurie at Heriot-Watt College and Lady Francis Balfour who actually demanded that the Duke of Atholl and Sir Robert Lorimer should be hanged!!!!!

Such was some of the opposition that there were even proposals to abandon the whole scheme in the Castle altogether and to erect a memorial on Calton Hill or Princess Street Gardens.

Undaunted they began fundraising. However this too had its problems as the Memorial appeal coincided with large appeals being made by Edinburgh Infirmary and Edinburgh University and the many small appeals for Parish memorials, most of these that you see in our towns and villages were paid for by public subscription.

Lorimer did make substantial compromises to his plan. He suggested that Billing’s Buildings should be retained and adapted to form a Memorial Gallery. On the North side he proposed a deep apse, the roof of this extension being no higher than the existing height of Billing’s Buildings, protecting our famous skyline.

Finally, in April 1923 the opposition crumbled. The Ancient Monuments Board gave a favourable report on the changes, the War Office gave final and unqualified consent and, in October of that year, the Government approved Lorimer’s designs. Six years after Atholl had made his original proposals the project went to tender and work began.

Robert Lorimer paid regular weekend visits to Blair Castle to discuss the fine detail and how every regiment, service and corps should be remembered, including the animals who in their own way had served and suffered in the war.

Some of the finest Scottish craftsmen and women of the day committed many hours to ensuring that every detail was correct. The windows had to lend a soft and subtle colour to the interior, but there had to be sufficient light to ensure that the names in the Books of Remembrance could be read.

The frieze in the Shrine, the work of Mrs Gertrude Alice Meredith Williams, was deemed by all to be a masterpiece and the Duke of Atholl was particularly delighted with it. Referring to “Mrs Meredith Williams’ wonderful frieze”, the Duchess of Atholl recorded, “ The beauty of the frieze is in part due to her husband. During his three years in the ranks in France he made endless drawings of his fellow soldiers. The drawings furnished a priceless inspiration for the amazing number of men and women recorded in his wife’s masterpiece”.

It is clear from the records that both the Duke and the Duchess of Atholl played a major part in influencing the interior design of the building, particularly in relation to the subtle symbolism and the wonderful serenity and simplicity.

[sweeterthankarma]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: SKAM (France) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Maya Etienne/Lola Lecomte Characters: Lola Lecomte, Maya Etienne Additional Tags: Post-Season/Series 06, Pre-Rehab, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Fluff Summary:

It’s a little bit embarrassing for Lola, if she’s honest. There are two thoughts fluttering around in her mind, desperate to be said, though she keeps her mouth shut, busies it with kissing Maya’s. One: she’s in love. Two: she doesn’t want to leave.

Title comes from the song "Lucky Strike" by Troye Sivan.

Grass tickles Lola’s ankles, the stretch of skin between the hem of her jeans and her high rise socks that scrunch against her shins. With fabric the color of rosewood and patterned with little flowers that have lost their definition after too many cycles in the wash, Lola figures that even a stranger could likely tell that they don’t belong to her, but rather the girl beside her.

Lola doesn’t ask, but she knows she’s taking these socks with her when she goes, maybe even snagging a few other pairs from Maya’s drawers, the ones with cats or pizza or funny sayings scrawled with loose, stringy thread. “Putain, c’est lundi,” reads one pair that Lola’s seen Maya wear most frequently, always on the correct day of the week, and never without a chipper, unwavering smile on her face. Lola thinks Maya should give those socks to her indefinitely, or at least for the next few weeks as well, considering that her own wardrobe— almost exclusively solitary colors, primarily black— echoes the sentiment rather well.

Besides, Lola just wants every piece of Maya that she can get, every bit that she can possibly hold onto.

They’re not exactly dancing around the subject— where Lola’s going, why she’s going, how long it’s going to be— but they’re not really talking about it either. Lola doesn’t exactly want to either,  hence why she brought the food— crepes, bread, salad drenched in vinegar, feta, and olives; Icelandic style yogurt, countless pre-packed containers of fruit, just to name a few. It’s all in hopes to keep them busy, sated, though she knows they don’t need food to accomplish that.

Some bird squawks in the distance. Lola’s knees shift, twist up the picnic blanket, and Maya laughs beneath her, the sound shiny and silver and golden and actually just about every color Lola’s ever seen, ever known, mixing and blending into one. The dots of eyeliner beneath Maya’s lower lash line scrunch up against her top one when she goes on, keeps giggling, keeps looking at Lola like she’s lucky, like she’s happy. It’s hard for Lola to believe that she is. Even harder to believe that Maya is beautiful— so, so beautiful— and Maya is hers. Even if just for right now, just for this brief, fleeting moment. If that’s all that this is, all it’ll ever be, Lola will take it, no questions asked.

But she feels safe, steady, like she can trust this. Like it isn’t going anywhere, like Maya isn’t running, or won’t be as soon as she gets the chance. Her hands skate up Lola’s back, tap against either side of her spine, each notch, all the way until she reaches the nape of Lola’s neck. Lola doesn’t need coaxing to bend down, to kiss her, again and again and again and again. She could tell Maya that, but she won’t. Won’t do anything to make them move, to get Maya to pull her hands away from her shoulders, to make her be in any position where she can’t be like this, holding her, with her.

It’s a little bit embarrassing for Lola, if she’s honest. There are two thoughts fluttering around in her mind, desperate to be said, though she keeps her mouth shut, busies it with kissing Maya’s.

One: she’s in love. Two: she doesn’t want to leave.

She sticks with silence. Maya is good for her, but Maya is good, period, just as whole on her own as she is when she’s in Lola’s arms, splayed out beneath her looking like the purest picture of heaven Lola’s ever imagined. Lola, however, needs to be just as good on her own, and there’s one third, final statement that she knows, maybe even truer than the first two, no matter how much she’s going to drag her heels on the way out the door: she has to leave.

It’s what she needs right now. There’s no way around it. And honestly, it’s a good thing. It’s going to be a good thing. This time, she swears it’ll be different.

    “You taste like strawberries,” Maya mumbles against Lola’s lips, nudging them back together in more of a languid movement than a purposeful kiss. Lola’s back burns hot from the sun, from Maya’s fingers playing with the straps of her shirt.

    “We ate a lot of strawberry things,” Lola supplies. A little movement of her elbow and she’s both shrugging the strap down more and nudging the non-alcoholic champagne beside them. It rolls off the fabric of the blanket and into the grass, onto its condensation-wet side. Maya turns her head to the side to look at it, as if wistfully, like it’s long gone and wouldn’t take another effortless, lackadaisical attempt to retrieve it. Then she’s peering back up at Lola again— unbothered, still beaming, flushed from Lola’s kisses and the July sun— and that’s as close as they’ll get to the topic.

That’s okay with Lola. This is more than okay with her, finding solace and hope and renewal in the arms of the first person who’s ever truly loved her without any kind of force, any sort of mandate. Maya is pure, giddy and true, and Lola is sure she mirrors her expression, even if not her soul— at least not quite yet anyways, though Lola’s really not expecting to come out of rehab with a heart that’s anywhere as close to gold as Maya’s. It’s therapy and routine and good influences, not magic.

But Lola has no doubts that if she could see herself, more than just the limited reflection in Maya’s summer-drenched eyes, that she’d have difficulty recognizing herself. For once, she finally means that in a good way.

     “Viens ici, chérie,” Maya says, and Lola’s sinking down again, fitting her legs between Maya’s and dropping her cheek against her chest. The softness of her t-shirt , decorated with cherries and a stitched-in saying in English, something about féminisme, sweeps against Lola’s kiss-stained lips, rhythmic with every rise and fall of Maya’s chest.

    “Let’s stay here all day,” Maya decides, sounding wistful and far away. Lola wonders how it’s taken her this long to propose that idea when she’s been thinking since the moment they arrived that maybe they should just say “screw it” to the rest of the world, camp out here forever, find eternal blue sky in some vacant park far too wide and flourishing to sensibly be this empty.

    “That was the plan,” Lola answers, sounding entirely committal and meaning it. She reaches up, finds loose fists of lilac hair, the back of her hand brushing against the shell of Maya’s right ear. Maya hums in content— maybe at the touch, maybe at the words, maybe just at Lola’s presence— and Lola does it right back, then sets on a mission to kiss every centimeter of Maya’s skin that she can reach. She does it for now, for the minute after that she hasn’t yet gotten to, and when that minute comes, she’ll do it for tonight, when Basile will make her his famous risotto again and Daphné will cry like she always does when these sorts of departures happen, even though this time it’ll be for different reasons than before. Lola kisses Maya for tomorrow when she’ll be too busy packing, for the evening when she’ll sleep alone in her bed for the last time for a while, and she kisses her for every day after that, every day until she comes home.

Goodbye will be hard, but it won’t be for long. Lola swears she’ll be rebuilt, rejuvenated, better in no time.

If you enjoyed, please let me know! Comments and kudos make my day.

Come say hi and talk to me about the Skamverse at my Tumblr blog here or at my Twitter account here! I adore Lola and Maya, so if there's anything else you'd like me to write for them, tell me about it and I'll see what I can do!

[daniwoitkowski]

A Closer Look at Milwaukee Zip Code 53206

After reading A Closer Look at Milwaukee Zip Code 53206, an article published in the Milwaukee Magazine in 2014, I’m ashamed of the city I currently call home.

Contained between I-43 to the east, 27th Street to the West and North Avenue and Capitol Drive to its south and north sides is one of the largest zip code areas in the city of Milwaukee. Zip code area of 53206 in Milwaukee, Wisconsin is often written off as the poorest area in the largest city in the state.

An eyesore in Milwaukee, zip code 53206, is where a third of the city’s vacant lots reside. The greatest percentage, nearly 95% of its residents in zip code 53206 are African Americans. Surrounding counties implemented restrictive covenants preventing African American tenants' equal rights, which confined most African Americans to the northwestern portion of the city, or around the 53206 area. The Supreme Court ruled such covenants to be unconstitutional in 1948, they remained on the books until Congress passed the Fair Housing Act in 1968. Milwaukee known for being one of the most segregated cities in the United States.

Warren’s Lounge on Hopkins Avenue, owned by 81-year-old Warren Harper, a “Cheers” like bar hides itself in the middle of the deserted condemned buildings. Warren and his wife, Shirley, have been married for over 59 years, with four children and multiple grandchildren. Warren and Shirley bought the lounge back in 1970. Back in the lounge’s heyday factory workers from around the area would stop in for lunch or beer relaxing after their shift. During the time when the Green Bay Packers played at county stadium, players could be regularly seen enjoying the relaxing atmosphere.

Life has changed and the lounge is not the same, feeling the pain of the abandoned factories. Even though, their children attempt to sway them into having hip-hop bands play into the addition to the jazz and blues bands that periodically play at the lounge. Life has been hard on them, however they will not close, “It’s their life.”

Wandering around 53206 tends to make people, especially white people, uneasy. Too many businesses are either closed or enclosed in metal bars and padlocks. Even with a gem like, Warren’s Lounge, can be intimidating to its visitors as you enter through the small, dark doorway hidden behind a locked heavy metal grate with a bell that must be rung for entry.

Opportunities seem to climb and decline rapidly for African Americans in Milwaukee. So, what happened?

One generation hopes and dreams becomes heavy burdens on the forgotten generations that follow. Looking past educational statures, joblessness and the crime in the areas of poverty, we need to begin looking into the history of the African American population of Milwaukee, Wisconsin at once was and why it became what it is today.

The African American population increased with the Great Migration north, which affected the African American communities in Milwaukee. Like most African American families, Warren and Shirley moved to Milwaukee in 1957 during the Great Migration in search of a better life.

The Great Migration was when millions of southern African American people migrated north for better opportunities between 1916 to 1970. Many came to Milwaukee for the ever-growing jobs with the industrial factories at the time. Families settled down bought homes in the area, new businesses opened and grew, times were good. By the 1980s, times were not so good. Factories started to close in the area and businesses started to move out of the once flourishing neighborhoods. Some people moved out to the suburbs, while the majority of the African American population stayed behind and survived.

Barbara Miner, the Milwaukee-area freelance writer, purpose in this article was to educate by showing a face to the neighborhood around the Milwaukee 53206 zip code. The article brought tears to my eyes as I read about the longevity of people who make up the community even through the absence of jobs, transportation, and sort of conveniences that those of us who live merely blocks away take for granted. Then there is the stealthy growing abandoned housing market. However, many families have still stuck around to support their community or stay for the affordable housing.

Through the article, Miner, is attempting to educate the audience on the poverty in our own city. We have created this blind spot within our own community, and we tend to forget the area’s history. We are left with the assumption that the people living in these areas have chosen their fate instead of understanding the truth behind our ignorance. It’s well known what happened in Detroit after the auto industries started closing, but it is not known how the same affects had and still affects so many in our own city.

Beauty exists, such as with Dr. Carter, a retired Pharmacist who continues to go back and visit his community passing along trusted remedies to his neighborhood residents. Dr. Carter broke down barriers back in 1968 after he founded one of first Milwaukee black owned pharmacies. Now after selling his pharmacy, Dr. Carter can still be found at the store as a consultant in natural remedies.

Yet the media has forgotten about this area as though it doesn’t exist except for the inquiries pertaining to shootings in the area. The problem, or exigence, here is with the ignorance surrounding this forgotten and disregarded area of our city. I begin to ask myself, why do we have such a blind eye with our own neighboring areas? I wonder how the decline to industry in the city of Milwaukee and the poverty relates to the poverty that was created with the auto crisis in Detroit. I would have liked to see more of the information we read from the A Closer Look at Milwaukee Zip Code 53206 article on the non-existence of corporate businesses and declining public transportation and after school programs ties into the jobless market that intertwine in the poverty rates in these areas.

Current circumstances in 53206 go deeper than the loss of factories and that the jobs in the area.

“There’s investment out there, and there are jobs. But they’re in New Berlin or Waukesha. There’s no bus, so how are people going to get there?” (2015, Jan 28)

Perceptions have also been made that the housing bubble was the issue that affected people in this area, and they were of the many that shouldn’t have bought a home in the first place. However, a lot of families that lost their homes in 53206 were long-time owners.

Miner goes on to talk with a group of students from North Division High School who are studying zip-code-53206. Miner gathered their thoughts on how they feel about the area and what they would want people to know about the area, some of which that were mentioned as follows:

“Notice that we are here, that, like you, we are human, and we deserve the same things you want.”

“The police, I can’t explain it, but they don’t like black people.”

“It ain’t got no future.”

“Nothing’s going to change, ’cause nobody cares.”

Unfortunately, conditions such as the few mentioned have contributed to demolish government help enabling people to believe such areas are beyond any genuine rehabilitation, deeming the area in the past too black and ghetto.

Poverty is so much more then people just making bad choices or the wrong decisions in life. The purpose of the rhetors with this medium explain how trauma that stems from poverty begin way before one can make their own choices in life.

Regardless, parents in 53206 want the same things as any other parent anywhere in the world wants. We want our children to be safe, happy and a better childhood than we had. Is there anything wrong with the hope that our children grow up without the worry of crime surrounding them or to be able to go through school without bullying? We all want hope for the future.

Whether we live in Milwaukee or not we can relate to the exigences mentioned in the life cycle of the Great Migration and African Americans in Milwaukee mentioned, you cannot deny the purpose. The effects of poverty have an impact with your entire life, from childhood on through your adult life and passed on through the next generations. We become our parents, our community, our surroundings. We are what we are familiar with whether it be hiding money for emergencies like those who lived through the Great Depression to as unknowingly as our dialect or accent we commonly use day to day. If raised in poverty the traumatic affects you would carry through life, even if you leave those surroundings, the effects remain.

For Milwaukee, the future needs to bring education on the history of the African American population. Milwaukee doesn’t give the same possibilities to the people in the now poverty areas affected by the industrial decline. Such possibilities as, public transportation to give access to jobs and convenience stores, such as Wal-Mart or even McDonalds. Overlooking the truth and ignorance of the past never helped humanity in the future.

Source Cites:

Barbara Miner, Milwaukee. (2015, Jan 28). A Closer Look at Milwaukee Zip Code 53206. 1/28/2015 https://www.milwaukeemag.com/milwaukee-zip-code-53206/

Reggie Jackson, Milwaukee Independent. (2019, Apr 19). REGGIE JACKSON: REMEMBERING A TIME WHEN 53206 WAS KNOWN AS A LOVING COMMUNITY TO GROW UP IN. 4/19/2019 http://www.milwaukeeindependent.com/featured/reggie-jackson-remembering-time-53206-known-loving-community-grow/

Dan Schneider, Dollars & Sense. (2015, Nov/Dec). The Worst Place in the US to Be Black Is... Wisconsin 11/2015 http://dollarsandsense.org/archives/2015/1115schneider.html

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Myling Around || Morgan and Miriam

TIMING: Current

LOCATION: The Archive

PARTIES: @meflemming & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Miriam and Morgan go looking for leads to Morgan’s ghost problem and scare up an entirely different one in the process.

Even with her muted senses, Morgan couldn’t help but run her fingers over the stacks and breathe in the smell of old books in the Archive. “You ever miss the smell of old books?” She asked her companion. “Or do you have the smelling problem? Is everything still roses and lavender in your garden of un-earthly delights?” She steered down another aisle in the stacks and checked the titles she’d written down again. They had to be somewhere around here. “Thanks for coming, again,” she said. “I know this is up your special interests alley, but you don’t have to do anything for me. This is personal, not principle. And you are more than just my rent-a-witch-killer call, even if I’ve been kind of bad about showing that. You’re more, Mim. I believe that, even if I did drag you out to The Archive for a research field trip on ghost torture.”

“I have heightened senses,” Miriam murmured as she looked at another shelf, taking in the Archive. She believed that the last time she’d been in this place, she’d been alive, looking for some obscure book for Gilly and paying for it, of course. “Though, I wouldn’t say it’s all roses and lavender. You wouldn’t believe how much worse certain things smell now. Some of the colognes the kids wear these days? Disgusting, truly.” She wrinkled her nose at the smell of some teenager that had walked in her store the other evening. She had smelled his acrid, chemical scent from her office. “Of course, dearest, I’m happy to come.” She was happy to see how things had changed, certainly, and happy to see if there was anything around that she could add to her own home library. Miriam had grown quite the collection of books on magic. She liked seeing it get even larger, though it was mostly from trophies. She looked up at Morgan, an eyebrow raised. “You’ve made it abundantly clear that you think much more of me than just a witch hunter. I appreciate it.” Even if it did seem that all they did together these days was hunt witches and then discuss the moral implications of her continuously hunting witches. “Color me curious about the ghost torture, though.”

Morgan wrinkled her nose at the thought of smelling teenager body odor and cheap cologne, or even Deirdre’s carcass hauls with their odours dialed up to eleven. They were almost comforting to her with the way she was, sweet in their decay, but not enough to turn her stomach. At least, not in a bad way. “Maybe we should hold off on the sensory swap, then,” she sniggered. “Although I do have a literal garden with roses and lavender you could smell, if you wanted. You can remind me what they smell like. Hey, does this mean you can smell things you couldn’t before? Is there anything, like, surprising?” She glanced over at Miriam as she spoke, noticing the small upturn of her lips and the brightness of her eyes and she looked the place over. She was interested, engaged, almost alive. “The thanks still stands. I wouldn’t have thought you’d enjoy a place like this with all the, you know. But then, I guess I only know you a little well after all.” She stopped as she came to one of the titles on her list and hefted the book in her arms as the flipped through the contents. “I just...want to make sure you know that I’m not all talk. We can do normal things too, you know. I would even prefer that, maybe.” Or, also, not. Morgan couldn’t pretend to herself that she tried to keep her distance at least a little. She knew Mim was dangerous, that she could never be brought close enough into her circle to know who the Vurals were or about the coven that had thrown them out. But she did care for the vampire, and wondered how many people she had who bothered with her beyond what she had designated herself to ‘do.’

“I mean, bookshop trips are kind of normal,” Morgan went on quickly,  “But I’m not really here just to browse, although we could, if you want, once I knock this out. And as for my purpose, well, as I said in my message when I lured you out here, I’m trying to torture a witch that’s already dead. And there’s not much that can hurt a ghost. But if I know humans at all, someone, somewhere, came up with something truly horrible for just that purpose.” She flipped back to the index and skimmed quickly, then put the book back, dissatisfied. “She’s the one who killed me, Mim,” Morgan said quietly. “The same one who cursed me. Well, me and my entire, miserable bloodline going back a hundred years. And she still can’t leave me alone. What’s up with that, right?”

“What?” Miriam asked in mock surprise. “You don’t want to smell all the wonders that White Crest’s population has to offer?” Some things, places, people smelled lovely. Some smelled wretched. “I have a nice garden myself, but I’m sure yours is far better. I don’t actually tend to mine.” She sometimes thought she should. It wasn’t like she had a problem getting her hands dirty. “Of course I wouldn’t mind describing rose and lavender to you. I might not be as descriptive as you’d like, but I certainly can.” She cocked her head a bit, thinking. “People who are sick smell different. Then, there are certain chemicals released when people are excited in any sort of way that I can smell if I’m close enough. And, if there’s spilled blood, I can smell the difference is species. All of my senses are heightened. Not to the sort of level as other supernaturals, but definitely a major difference.” She ran a finger along the spine of a book, old and brittle. “I can smell ink on pages, sometimes.” It had been far more overwhelming than she cared to admit, when she first turned, the heightened senses and emotions and urges to kill. Now, though, Miriam couldn’t remember what life was like. “Well, then, you’re welcome, of course.” The thanks settled in improperly. She didn’t really feel like she should be thanked for much of anything. “I do know that. Unfortunately, this town, what we are, doesn’t really agree with ‘normal.’” She laughed. “I don’t even know what that means, at this point.”

Miriam shook her head. “We don’t have to worry about browsing today. This is more important.” Both for Morgan and for herself. She’d been trying to… control herself, be a bit more discriminatory on how and off who she fed. And it was leading to her being more… irritable, at times. Anxious, but not anxious. She felt like she was slacking a bit, like she was denying an itch that begged to be scratched. “We’ll find something, I’m quite sure of it. It’s like you said: it has to exist somewhere.” She narrowed her eyes at Morgan’s quiet words before she gave a sharp nod. “Then we’ll make sure she suffers.” If she thought about it too hard, she knew that it could be her that all this quiet, simmering rage was directed at, this desire to hurt. She would have killed Morgan without a thought. Even though she’d liked her, liked talking to her, she would have done it, and there would have only been the slightest pang of guilt. She wouldn’t have allowed herself anything more.

“Why have a garden if you don’t tend to it?” Morgan smirked. “I mean, some weeds get a bad rep that they don’t deserve, but, don’t tend at all? Really? We need to get you a better hobby, Miriam. You deserve more than sad, lonely flowers. Maybe something with a group, like a book club, or sports. You kind of look like the volleyball amazons I ogled in high school.” But Miriam was right, this wasn’t a bookstore and coffee Instagram sort of outing. Constance hated her enough to tear down her life before she went in for the kill. For all Morgan knew, she was hiding around the next corner, waiting to throw down a shelf of books and grind her to pieces. Morgan shuddered at the thought and picked up another book. “We will,” she agreed, oddly strengthened by Miriam’s assurance. She flipped through the contents again, scanning as carefully as she could in case she missed anything. Lots of notes about exorcising ghosts in the abstract, or simplistic, but not about making them suffer on the way out. She was sure she’d read or heard something about the word ‘harm’ being attached to this or ‘to the ...something.’ Certainly not death. Morgan’s thoughts were interrupted by a shrill scream.

“MOMMY SAID NO HITTING!!”

“Wow, someone’s having a really bad da--”

“MOMMYYYYYY SAAAAAID!” It was one of those ragged wails that threatened to break the sound barrier. Morgan looked and...found most of the store looking at the walking child corpse with dazed bewilderment. Did anyone else hear that? A little kid, right? It’s probably someone watching a movie without headphones. Weirdest thing. But she was there, right there, and she was pointing at Morgan and Miriam like they had personally stomped on her Barbie dream house. She stomped towards them, screaming again.

“Because it’s something nice to look at. Besides,” Miriam said, a bit defensively, “it’s a bit difficult to only garden at night, you know. Better to just hire someone that knows what they’re doing in the day.” She raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Volleyball amazon, huh? I’ve never been the best at group activities, you know.” She tended to enjoy taking charge and doing the work herself. Besides, team sports didn’t suit the image she’d made for herself in her youth. It was a shame, really. She wished she’d had a better outlet for all that rage. Miriam began her own excursion into looking through books, hoping to find something that might help Morgan, occasionally skimming to see if there was something that struck her own fancy. She was startled out of her browsing by a child screaming. Her head snapped up to look at it, wondering who would leave a child unattended in a bookstore, when she saw it.

The child was clearly dead. Greyish parlor, vacant eyes, dirtied dress (something that looked similar to what Miriam herself might have worn as a child), and no discernable heartbeat made it impossible for Miriam to do anything more than stare, for just a moment, as the child stomped towards them. Then, she panicked.

“Morgan. Morgan, what do we do? Morgan?” she hissed out, eyes wide as she stared at the advancing little girl. Miriam liked children. She did. She had always wanted a child. She… did not know how to handle children, especially not undead ones throwing temper tantrums. “Hitting what? Books? Isn’t that all metaphorical?” Who was she talking to? Herself? Morgan? The toddler? She didn’t know. Miriam backed herself a bit into one of the shelves, her heels making clicking noises as she tapped her foot. She was at a loss on what to do here.

It took Morgan a moment to compose herself. When she first saw the spectral image, she froze, fearing Constance had found her. She knew what she should be doing: she should be pulling the iron rod out of her bag. She should be dumping lines of salt around them, or running for the door. But she couldn’t find her feet or her grip. The child was shambling towards them on broken legs that might’ve been made of gauze, for how she wobbled on the airy shapes. Morgan was sure she would have remembered her face if they’d met before. She didn’t make friends with all the ghosts in town, but those younger than her tended to stick out, it just seemed so much more unfair. This girl couldn’t have been more than seven at a generous guess, and Morgan wasn’t sure she had it in her to strike the dead girl. Which was looking...really unfortunate, since the Bad Seed didn’t look like she was going to be putting herself in time out anytime soon.

Miriam’s voice snapped her out of her fear. She’d never heard Miriam be afraid before. She had to do something. Now. “Get behind me,” she said, moving in front already. “Also, maybe uh--” She considered passing Miriam the rod, wondering if she’d have the nerve where Morgan faltered. Guilt gripped her at once and she fished into her bag for the salt. “If she gets too close, throw some of this,” she said. “I’ll just, uh…” See what she wants? “Hey, sweetheart…” she cooed, “You okay there?”

“I KNOW WHAT YOU DID!” The girl bellowed. “MOMMY CONNIE TOLD ME WHAT YOU DID!”

“Oh, shit. Mim, we gotta--” She was pushing them towards the door when the shelf they were next to cracked. The ghost girl waved from the other side of it, smug as a loony toon as it toppled down on them.

“I don’t need to get behind you, Morgan,” Miriam snapped in a hushed voice, though she moved a bit anyway. “I’m not scared of a child, dead or not.” Part of her ached for the little girl tottering towards them. A slightly larger part of her was still panicking, though, so unsure about how to handle this situation that she was more than happy to allow Morgan to try and handle it. She took the bag of salt, though she wasn’t convinced she could even possibly begin to use it. She watched Morgan try to deal with the little girl, her voice soothing and syrupy sweet. And she watched as the little girl brought the shelf down.

“Fuck,” Miriam snarled, eyes flashing red in panic as she used a burst of speed to try and maneuver her and Morgan away from the toppling shelf. It was coming down on them, there was no stopping that, and it was definitely going to hurt. It was a good thing that both of them were nearly impossible to kill. She grunted as the shelf fell, trying to support it as well as she could. “You’re the brawn, darling, you’re going to have to help me lift.” Why did fucking books weigh so much. “This child’s a brat,” she said through clenched teeth.

Morgan didn’t remember falling. She was trying to run out of reach, squeezing Miriam’s hand, then she was on the ground, wood digging into the small of her back and books crushing her limbs.

“YOU HIT MOMMY CONNIE!”

Morgan grimaced, struggling to push herself up on her arms. “Getting fucking kids to your work for you, Constance?” She hissed under her breath. “Because that’s so mature…” Her back burned with effort. She didn’t remember moving being this hard when she was alive. “Mim--” she grunted, rising a little higher. “I’m doin’ my best here. Still not exactly the Hulk.” But she had braced herself well enough to lift an arm, give herself a little extra push. Morgan hissed through her teeth. “How’s this sound? We get out from under here, run off with whatever looks useful that we can see, and go literally anywhere else. Maybe Al’s, they’ve got those giant salt shakers!” Morgan could just about sell herself on the idea when two little oxford shoes crept into view. “Or maybe we just go home. Push on three, okay?” She looked over at the vampire as best she could, hope just brimming through her grimace.

“Mommy Connie,” Miriam said, her brows furrowed with thought and effort in trying to help lift the stack off of them both. “Morgan, if this is about that witch bitch of a ghost that killed you, then, truly, count me in. One, two--” Instead of saying three, Miriam started to lift with all that she could with Morgan’s help, lifting the shelf off of them both. “Sounds lovely,” she said, feeling out of breath even when she didn’t have to breathe. “You grab what you need, and we can go to my place if you’d like. I’m going to--” she looked to where the child was, unsure and a little pained, “--to try and give us a bit of time.” She took out the bag of salt.

“I don’t want to do this,” Miriam told the little dead girl. “I’d rather not salt you. I like children, as hard as that is to believe. I don’t like brats, though. You seem like a bit of a brat. You could have hurt someone.” Dead things can’t be reasoned with. Still, here Miriam was, trying to reason with a ghost child. Fuck, she hoped Morgan got what she needed and soon. “Did you see my friend here hurt your… mother?” Could this child even answer a question? Or was she too far gone, just another creature that acted on instinct. Miriam clenched the bag of salt tightly, hoping she wouldn’t have to use it but ready just in case.

The little girl’s screams were starting to devolve into sobs. “M-my--Connie--TOLD ME!” If she’d been alive she would’ve started turning color. Every word ripped from her dead throat, raw, shrill, and choked. “She--!” The little girl pointed a chubby, trembling finger at Morgan, “Wants to make her go away! And I. WON’T. LET HER!” Her scream made the glass over the overhead lights buckle. Lights sparked and flicked.

Morgan, meanwhile, scrambled out from under the shelf and waded through the mess of books for anything that had Exorcism in the title. If she didn’t get anything useful out of them, she’d just return them. She kicked the other tomes out of her way, following the last of the panicked customers through the doorway. Some college kid was running backwards, phone out, trying to capture the spectacle. Morgan slapped it out of her hand and shouted, “Run, you idiot!”

“My phone!”

Morgan pushed the girl next and bolted out the door. She skidded to a halt and looked over her shoulder. Miriam was still in there, trying to...reason with the kid? “Mim!” She opened the door and held out her hand.

“NOT UNTIL YOU PAY FOR HURTING MY CONNIE!” The little girl smacked down another bookshelf, starting a cascade.

Morgan grabbed Miriam’s wrist and pulled. She couldn’t die again, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t get hurt either.

Miriam’s eyes widened as she took in the sobbing child, her undead heart cracking just a bit. Maybe the little girl could be reasoned with. But then she started pointing her finger and screaming, and Miriam gritted her teeth. “Oh, bite me, you little brat.” She jumped back as another bookshelf fell, reaction and instinct taking over to push herself away. For just a moment, she considered throwing the salt, ending it. She… couldn’t. She just couldn’t. Instead, she ran to the door and allowed Morgan to yank her out of the destroyed bookstore. Brushing an errant curl back into place, Miriam huffed and looked over to her zombie companion. “Never a dull moment with you, is it, sweetness?” She let out a breathless laugh. “My god, that bitch Connie really hates you.” It wasn’t funny. She didn’t quite know why she was laughing. She sobered a bit, gave Morgan a nod. “If you’ve got the books we need, then let’s get to researching how to get rid of this wannabe undead bitch.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m the only one that gets that title.”

“Yeah, that’s me!” Morgan said, laughing shrill. “Always one for adventure.” She checked herself over as much as she could with one arm and edged away from the doors. Nothing looked permanently damaged, but there was more debris than shelves in there, and in the middle of the room, the dead child with the broken legs continued to wail, heaving her dead lungs for a relief that was never going to come. “I never took you for much of a maternal type, Miriam.” A smile of amused wonder spread as she edged them further into the night. “You really are full of amazing surprises.” And just as quickly, the smile faltered. “I should tell you, though, the Constance pain in my ass was only nineteen when she died. “I don’t want to trick you into anything you’re not up for, but I can give you the rest of my sordid story back at your place, or tomorrow. Maybe next week?” She laughed again. “After all that, you’re the only dead girl I wanna deal with today.”

[musicprincess655]

The sun shines brightly overhead, and Dazai hates it. He would drown it out and disappear into the shadows if he could, disappear from sight, hide away.

He doesn’t let any of that show on his face, though. He keeps the same carefree, vacant expression in place, the one that people see and dismiss immediately, perfected from a life of being seen and not heard. If anyone knows how to disappear, it’s Dazai.

He knocks on the door of his destination, grateful to be there, grateful to escape the mass of people living their stupid, boring lives prescribed by the stupid, boring city. He’d sooner be alone than surrounded by them.

“Dazai-kun.” Fukuzawa gives him a stern look that only reads as welcoming because Dazai’s been coming here for years. “You’ve found your way back here again.”

“I always do,” Dazai says, falsely cheerful in a way that puts people at ease around him. “May I come in?”

The answer is always yes, but Dazai’s learned that Fukuzawa likes to be asked anyway.

“There’s always a place here for someone trying to escape Mori Ougai,” Fukuzawa says, stepping out of the way to let Dazai in. “Ranpo’s in the back with Yosano. I’m sure the three of you can find something to amuse yourselves.”

“You don’t have any new cases?” Dazai asks. Disappointing. The best part of coming to the detective agency is that sometimes, if he’s lucky, there’s a weird case, one that makes him work for it. He gets a spark of something like a genuine emotion when he has to push his brain to the limit to puzzle out something difficult.

“I have new cases, but none you’ll be interested in,” Fukuzawa says. “Just the old staples. Cheating, open and shut murders, theft, you know the drill.”

“That’s boring,” Dazai complains.

“That’s what Ranpo said,” Fukuzawa tells him. “Why don’t you go commiserate with him?”

Dazai wanders to the back of the building to do just that. Ranpo sprawls in his chair, leaning back on two legs, opening chocolates and throwing them in the air, trying to catch them in his mouth with limited success.

“There’s nothing to do,” Dazai complains, sitting across the table from Ranpo and dropping his head to his arms.

“Oh, good, the sassy lost child is here again.” Dazai twists to see Yosano levelling an unimpressed look at him.

“Hi, Sensei,” he grins. Yosano rolls her eyes and goes back to what she was doing.

She likes him. Dazai knows it. He laughed when she threatened to dissect him and suggested she take a souvenir for her troubles. She retaliated by leaving him anatomy textbooks she thought he’d find interesting and teaching him how to suture on a banana.

Dazai reaches across the table to steal Ranpo’s abandoned laptop. If there’s really nothing to do here, he’ll just default to an old favorite: poking at things he has no business sticking his nose in.

It’s not like he couldn’t have done this at his guardian’s house. It might have even been easier. His parents might have pawned him off on Mori as a cousin just closely related enough to be coerced into watching him, but he still has access to things most citizens of No. 6 don’t because of them. But that defeats his entire purpose of getting away from Mori.

He doesn’t hate his guardian. In some ways, Dazai is even grateful to Mori. He’s a difficult child to deal with, and he knows it. A combination of being smarter than both his parents and not yet having the social skills to pull his punches about it got him sent to live with Mori in the first place, though both of them will swear up and down that they needed to focus on their careers. Mori isn’t like that, though. Mori is smarter than him, and perfectly willing to let Dazai play whatever mind game he wants, mostly because Mori is capable of winning. He’s a challenge that Dazai desperately needs, especially back a few years ago when he was so bored by everything around him that he threw all the pills in his medicine cabinet down his throat just to see if that would make him feel anything.

But Mori also, in some ways, represents everything Dazai hates about his life. For one thing, he’s been remarkably good at stopping any further suicide attempts. For another, as much as Dazai likes a challenge, it’s not fun when he never wins.

So, instead, he comes running to Fukuzawa, someone who’s more than willing to take in a refugee from Mori. He gets to help Ranpo solve cases that challenge him, but that have a possibility of victory. Ranpo’s better than him, but Dazai’s learning.

And when there aren’t any cases to solve, and when Dazai’s feeling particularly spiteful, he likes to try and find all the secrets No. 6 wants to keep hidden.

His parents are both politicians, though Dazai doesn’t have a clue what they actually do. He doesn’t much care to find out. Instead, if they’re the ones making the laws, he’ll see what they hide in a place where they punish those who break their laws.

The Correctional Facility has more security around its information than Dazai thinks is strictly necessary. If all they have is prisoner information, it shouldn’t be worth this much effort. It was Ranpo who pointed out, in the middle of one of Dazai’s bitch sessions about it, that if it was really so hard, they must have something to hide.

What could a prison have to hide?

Nothing Dazai can think of in answer to that question seems like something No. 6 would be comfortable having any citizens know, and that’s reason enough for him to want to know anyway. He’s almost got it, too, teasing his way around a tricky firewall.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Fukuzawa joins them in the back, giving Dazai a reproachful look. He knows what Dazai’s doing, or at least has an idea, and he disapproves, but he hasn’t bothered to try and stop him.

“Looking for the truth behind the biggest lies No. 6 likes to tell,” Dazai says breezily.

“You should be more careful,” Fukuzawa says. “You never know who might be listening.”

“Sensei!” Dazai gasps, laying a dramatic hand over his heart. “How could you? I thought we had something special!”

“Please,” Yosano rolls her eyes. “You should be looking at Ranpo. He’s susceptible to bribery.”

“That is true,” Ranpo says. “I would sell you for snacks.”

“I am hurt.”

“That’s enough,” Fukuzawa says. “Ranpo, I need to get working on this murder case, and I need to interview witnesses. I need your help.”

“But going door to door sucks,” Ranpo complains.

“Not even you can solve a case without any evidence to look at,” Fukuzawa says.

“Make Dazai do it.”

“Dazai is not technically an employee.”

“Because you won’t hire him.”

“I will when he finishes school.”

“Ugh.” Ranpo casts a dark look at Dazai. “Thanks for nothing.”

“My pleasure,” Dazai says, turning back to his work.

He’s almost got it. He can even get a few pieces of information at the lowest security clearance levels. And, as suspected, what he finds isn’t good.

In fact, if he’s reading the snippets he can find right, the Correctional Facility might be more accurately described as a lab. It’s not that he doesn’t believe No. 6 is capable of human experimentation. He just wishes they were less cartoonishly evil. A government that does experiments on its own citizens? It’s like a plot from a low budget movie.

“What’s that face for?” Yosano asks him. “You look like you’re about to start laughing maniacally.”

Maybe Dazai should develop maniacal laughter. It would probably be a good skill to have.

“I found something cool,” Dazai says. And then yawns. Without him even realizing it, night has fallen. “I should probably go home.”

“You’ll be careful, right?” Yosano says. “The Lost Town is dangerous at night.”

“Aww, Sensei, you do care,” Dazai simpers. She rolls her eyes, already writing him off. “I’ll be fine.”

Dazai whistles to himself as he walks, hands stuffed in his pockets. Predictable villain plot or not, he still found something interesting, with the promise of more if he keeps digging. He should get at least a couple more weeks of entertainment digging out all the secrets of the Correctional Facility, and weeks more trying to decide the best way to use it.

Part of him wants to just release it to the internet and let chaos make its natural way through the city, but surely if he puts his mind to it, he can come up with something better. Something more targeted.

“Dazai Osamu?”

Dazai slows to a halt. A police officer looks him up and down, takes in the bandages around his wrists, the perfect wide-eyed innocent expression Dazai’s perfected over the years.

“Can I help you with something?” Dazai asks, pleasant, just a hint of fear, the perfect cocktail to portray a well-raised young boy with nothing to hide.

“You’re under arrest,” the officer says, stepping forward with a pair of cuffs. Dazai takes one step back before he thinks better of the urge to run. He knows his own ability, and if a real chase starts, he won’t win.

“For what?” Dazai asks as the officer shoves him in the back of the car. The man’s partner turns around, holding up a device and pressing a button.

“Looking for the truth behind the biggest lies No. 6 likes to tell.”

Dazai wishes he could at least feel surprised. It’s so predictable, he just never bothered to predict it. Of course No. 6 would spy on their own citizens. It’s probably in the wristbands everyone has to wear. ID bracelets, keys to anything in the city, why shouldn’t the also be listening devices?

Dazai suddenly realizes that the part of him that still wants to die is about to get its wish. Will they even bother with taking him to the Security Bureau? Surely they won’t bother with a trial. If they accuse him of stealing state secrets, they’ll have to admit what those secrets are or contend with the possibility that he will. Wouldn’t it be easier to shoot him out here and be done with it?

He’s not sad about the certainty of his death. He never has been. But it does seem like a shame to die for something when he barely found anything out. And, of course, he finally found something to hold his attention for a while. Now he doesn’t even get to finish it.

“Why are we going this way?” one of the officers asks. “Shouldn’t we just…you know?”

“Not for this one,” the partner answers. “Don’t you know who his parents are? We can’t just kill him, and we can’t take him to the Security Bureau either, he might be recognized. Looks like his mother.”

Dazai has never put much stock in his parents, is sure they don’t really want him around. But he also doesn’t want to die painfully, and that’s almost a certainty if No. 6 is the one sentencing him to death. Maybe they can at least spare him that.

Wait.

If they’re not killing him here, and they’re not taking him to the Security Bureau, there’s only one place they could be going.

“We can keep him in the Correctional Facility,” one officer says. “They can keep him out of sight until his parents come get him.”

If my parents come get me, Dazai thinks darkly. He sits quietly in the back and, for once, tries not to think as he’s driven to his own death.

[ao3feed-harringrove]

lather the blood on your hands, romeo

https://ift.tt/2X24hq5

by Pixielle

The night Billy gets flayed, he doesn’t become a mere pawn. He becomes The Flayer. He’s pulled into a vacant rift in space and time with only one purpose left: Kill Steve Harrington and sacrifice him to the Entity that encompasses this entire dimension.

Billy didn’t want to kill. He’d never wanted that.

But as usual, no one cared what Billy wanted.

Words: 1168, Chapters: 1/3, Language: English

Fandoms: Stranger Things (TV 2016), Dead by Daylight (Video Game)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: M/M

Characters: Steve Harrington, Billy Hargrove, mentions of-, Nancy Wheeler

Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington

Additional Tags: dbd au, (no you don't need to know anything abt dbd to read this), Dimension Travel, Mild Blood, Mild Gore, Groundhog Day, Death, (death but not permanent death. just the way i like it.), possessed Billy Hargrove, flayed billy, who's actually, Soft Billy Hargrove, but is trapped :(, POV Alternating

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2X24hq5

[bylillian]

A black Detroit man is suing three white women who repeatedly fabricated charges against him in calls to the Detroit Police Department. Marc Peeples and attorney Robert Burton-Harris claim the women made up increasingly serious but bogus stories throughout 2017 and early 2018 as he built out an urban garden in Hunt Park near the State Fairgrounds. The women did so as part of an effort to have Peeples removed from the park, Peeples alleges. In the complaint, he states that the women had their own plans for Hunt Park and wanted to "take control" of it. Aside from the garden, Peeples had boarded up neighboring abandoned houses and made other improvements to the park. He previously told Metro Times he was arrested for "gardening while black." In May 2018, DPD charged Peeples with three counts of stalking, but a Wayne County Circuit Court judge dismissed the case. She called the women's charges "fabricated," said they lied under oath, and said they "should be sitting at the defendant's table for stalking and harassment charges, not Mr. Peeples." In police body camera footage obtained by Burton-Harris, an officer responding to one of the calls can be heard calling the women's charges "B.S." The complaint filed last week in Circuit Court alleges the women worked "concertedly to cause Marc economic harm and emotional distress" and engaged in "targeted harassment of [Peeples] for more than nine months." In the complaint, Peeples calls the women's actions "extreme, malicious, wanton, and outrageous," and alleges "the conspiracy was to get Marc incarcerated or seriously injured by law enforcement." He's asking for $300,000 in damages. "I was arrested in front of children, and even after I was arrested my name was still being slandered, people were still saying things about me that wasn't true," Peeples says. "I wanted to hold people accountable. I was locked up, I had to face trial, and I had to put my life back together." Burton-Harris tells Metro Times there's strong evidence that the women lied to police and lied under oath. "We want some consequences," Burton-Harris says. "We waited to see if DPD or prosecutor's office would investigate the women, and that didn't happen, so that's part of the reason we decided to move forward." The three women — Deborah Nash, Martha Callahan, and Jennifer Morris — are named as defendants. They live across from or near the park and couldn't be reached for comment. Among other allegations, the women said Peeples made threats of physical violence against them. Nash also claimed that the pan-African colors Peeples painted on vacant houses and trees were "gang colors." Nash alleged in 2018 that Peeples threatened to burn down her house and repeatedly threatened to kill her. That was followed by allegations that he participated in a drive-by shooting on her home, and blocked the streets so she couldn't get to her house. In March 2018, Nash called DPD while Peeples worked in the park and told officers he had a gun, which was untrue. When six officers arrived at the park, they found Peeples raking leaves. When that didn't succeed in getting Peeples removed from Hunt, Callahan waited until Peeples had a group of children working in the garden, called police, and told them Peeples was a pedophile who wasn't supposed to be around children. However, that was untrue, as Peeples has never been accused of or charged with such crimes. Burton-Harris wrote in the lawsuit complaint that the charge was "totally invented and completely baseless." Butron-Harris notes in the complaint that the three women sought permission from the city to adopt Hunt Park and "implement their own projects" after Peeples was arrested and ordered to stay away from the park. They also removed or covered Peeples' work. "At all times, Deborah, Martha, and Jennifer, collectively and individually, acted with the ulterior purpose of obtaining control over Hunt Park," Burton-Harris wrote."They made false police reports and accused Marc of various crimes that they knew he did not commit." Peeples is planning to return to Hunt Park to build out the garden — now called Liberated Farms — this season. It will be a part of several local schools' STEM curriculum, and he says he's planning to add playground equipment, as well. A GoFundMe page set up for Peeples in October raised about $53,000, which Peeples says is helping fund the new farm, and helped him buy a house for him and his mother. He says he isn't worried about further confrontations with the women. "I have to do for my people and that's my concern — rebuilding the neighborhood back up," Peeples says. Find Liberated Farms on Facebook and Instagram. Read our previous story on the accusations and previous court case here.

About Goddamn time.

[sneakronicity]

Chapters: 3/? Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Clint Barton & Wanda Maximoff, Scott Lang/Hope Van Dyne Characters: Clint Barton, Natasha Romanov (Marvel), James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Sam Wilson (Marvel), Scott Lang, Hope Van Dyne, Wanda Maximoff, Bruce Banner, Steve Rogers, Hank Pym, Janet Van Dyne, Luis (Ant-Man movies), L*ura B*rton (but only briefly promise) Additional Tags: Post-Canon Fix-It, Fix-It, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Divorced Clint Barton Summary:

A few weeks after the snap is reversed, Clint is struggling to fit back into his old life. He's not the same person he was five years ago, and he can't just go back to how things were, so he makes a drastic change and tries to find new purpose in a world without Natasha.

But what if he doesn't have to? What if there's a way to get her back?

Post Endgame fix-it fic

~~~~~

The cafe was quiet, with only a few scattered tables occupied by people who looked like they had chosen it for that very reason.  Clint certainly had.  It had just reopened after five years of sitting vacant, and had yet to regain all its capabilities let alone its clientele.

How many businesses were there out there just like this one?  Stuck in the past and trying to pick up where they left off when the world moved on without them?  How many would fail?  How many had been repurposed while the owners were blipped?  Everyone was back now, but adjusting to this might be even harder than it had been to adjust to them being gone. Some people had never moved on and had welcomed the return, but what of the people who had?  Past and present colliding couldn’t be easy to deal with, and even those in the former group like Clint had found picking up again impossible.

Staring thoughtfully out the window, he saw Wanda crossing the street toward the cafe, the sun gleaming on her hair making it glow like fire, and for a moment another redhead was brought to mind.  The shade is all wrong, he thought, ignoring the pain in his heart and rising to his feet to greet her as she approached.

“Clint, it’s good to see you,” she said, wrapping her arms around him.  He noted how her smile didn’t reach her eyes, and how the hug felt almost absent, like part of a routine with no feeling behind it.

“Sorry, it's been a while,” he apologized.  He had called her when he’d moved to the city, told her what had happened, but this was the first time he’d seen her since Tony’s funeral.  Taking his seat again, he surveyed her quickly as she ordered her coffee, then asked for a refill himself. She looked thinner, sharper, like her features had been carved from stone.  “You look good,” he said anyway.

This time when she smiled it was slightly more genuine, like she was still in there somewhere, just sleeping.  “So do you,” she replied, knowing full well he was lying so doing the same in return.  “Tired of the mohawk?”

Clint chuckled self consciously, rubbing the side of his head where they hair had grown back in.  “Yeah, well… it’s a pain to keep up.”  The waitress arrived with their coffee and they took a moment to just try to relax in each other’s company.  It was slightly easier now that the ice was broken.  “How have you been?” He asked eventually.  He knew it was a stupid question, obviously she wasn’t doing well, but it was what one asked after not seeing each other for some time.  Or any time really,  Standard small talk.

She seemed to take his question more seriously though, and contemplated it longer than he expected.  “Every once in a while I have a moment where I think maybe I will get through this and move on again, but it always fades,” she replied, eyes fixed somewhere outside the large window.  

Wanda was so young, but had lost so much in so few years.  Her parents, her brother, her lover, her friend.  It was too much for one person, and it wasn’t fair that she had to go through this.  She has nothing and you have everything, yet you throw it all away. He hated the thought, the guilt.  Would he ever be able to be around most of his friends again without this nagging guilt? When Wanda had lost Pietro it had almost tore her apart, but she had been so strong, had turned her pain into good instead of letting the darkness consume her like he had.  She was the one who deserved her loved ones back, who deserved to be happy, to live with more than just regret and loss.  

When Clint looked up at her again he found her studying him with a piercing gaze, like she could see deep down into his soul, see the ugliness, the rot that was eating him up from the inside.  

He looked away.

“The offer still stands.  If you wanna come back to the Avengers, we could use the help getting everything back up and running smoothly again,” he said, clearing his throat.  What if she secretly hated him? If she resented him for getting his family back while hers was gone forever?  But not Natasha; Natasha they had both lost.

“I appreciate it,” Wanda replied evenly, her voice not cold, but not warm either.  “But I need to be on my own right now.”  She paused for a long moment, and when she continued it was with the first hint of emotion in her voice,  “I might travel for a few weeks.  There are too many memories… maybe going somewhere I have not been will help.”

Clint got that.  Despite what he was doing for the Avengers, his words to Rhodey about helping, he had yet to set foot back on the destroyed base.  He wasn’t quite ready to face that yet, but he would have to soon.  “I could go with you… if you wanted,” he said quietly, more a plea than an offer.

The wall she had built up between them seemed to crumble then, even if only a little, and she reached across the table and took his hand.  “You are needed here,” she said, a faint but affectionate smile on her lips, “But I appreciate the offer.”

Laying his free hand over hers, Clint squeezed it gently.  He wasn’t so sure he was needed anywhere, maybe he never had been, but he didn’t voice this. He had lost Natasha, but Wanda had lost pretty much everyone.  Everyone except for him.  And it was so easy to forget that while it had been over five years for him, for Wanda it had been only weeks since Vision’s death.  “Just know the offer is always there. Whenever you need me, I’m here.”

“Thank you, Clint,” she said softly, her eyes slightly wet.  Maybe she was a bit distant, a bit cut off from her emotions, but he knew Wanda was still in there, he just had to coax her out.  And he had meant his words, he would be there for her no matter what.  “I do not know how I would have gotten through losing Pietro without you, or the others.  We must stick together, yes?”

“Yes,” he replied without hesitation.  When Pietro had died she had had an army to rally around her, but now who was left?  He and Sam were probably the only ones she had spent any amount of time with left, unless she wanted to go hang out at the old folks home or wherever it was that Steve had taken up residence.  He had essentially abandoned her, abandoned all of them, but Clint wasn’t quite ready to work through his feelings on that whole issue yet.

“Then you know I am here for you as well,” Wanda continued.  Clint nodded, figuring that was acknowledgement enough, but she wasn’t finished.  “She would be proud of you.”

The words were supposed to be comforting, but they hit him like a sucker punch to the gut, knocking all the air from his lungs.  How could she be proud?  Natasha had given her life for him so he could get his family back, and he was throwing that second chance away.  The cost had been too great.  

Wanda could clearly read his thoughts written all over his face and squeezed his hand harder.  “Above all else she would want you to be happy, and would be proud of you for taking the needed steps.  And trying to fill her shoes on the team as you are doing.”

Clint chuckled a little bitterly and shook his head.  “No one can fill her shoes, least of all me.”  For five years it had come down to Natasha.  The rest of her original team had left her holding the ball, but she never once dropped it.  She kept everything going, proved to be the leader he had always known she could be. She deserved to be here now, the official leader of the new wave of Avengers.  Clint was a poor substitute in her wake.  “But I have to try.  Everything she worked for… I have to keep it together.  For her.”

“It is why we keep going,” Wanda agreed.  “For all of those we have lost.”

Clint studied her for a long moment before smirking half heartedly.  “How’d you get so wise?  I’m the old guy here, you’re making me look bad.”

Her smile in return was soft and real, like the one he remembered from all those years ago.  “You do not need me for that.”

A joke?  An actual joke?  Despite trying to look wounded, Clint couldn’t help but grin back.  He hadn’t just been mourning his family those five years, but Wanda too.  Her brother had given his life to save Clint, and there was nothing he could ever do to make it up to her, but he had adopted her into his heart, made her an honorary part of his family, even if he never voiced it.  She was so strong, so resilient, but he worried. How much was too much? Everyone had a breaking point, he was a walking example of that.  But if she could still joke around he had to believe she hadn’t reached hers yet.  She resembled Natasha in that manner.  “Ohhhh, I see how it is.  Kick me while I’m down.  I get it.”

“You make such an easy target,” she replied, and for a moment it was just like old times.  Wanda wasn’t much for joking around, she was one of the more stoic members of the team, but Clint seemed to bring out her playful side more than the others.  He took pride in that, same as how he had always prided himself in being the one who could make Natasha laugh.  Not a polite chuckle, or something soft and breathy, but a full on belly laugh. It had been beautiful, and rare, and he didn’t know another person who could accomplish it.  Had been able to accomplish it.  Damn it.

“Well if I’m expected to take a beating right now, I might as well risk trying the pancakes here as well.  Not sure they’re back up to snuff yet,” Clint said, signalling the waitress.  “You in?” Maybe he’d even throw in a side of bacon.  It would be the first solid meal he’d had in weeks, and if he ended up with food poisoning it would just be his luck, honestly.

“Why not.”

If only it could always be like this.  If only they could forget all the loss and pain and heartache and just enjoy the day, and each other’s company.  Talk about banal subjects like the weather, or some stupid tv show.  If only the world, or the universe in this case, were a kinder place.  No crazies with god complexes trying to rule it or ruin it. Just peace, and happiness, with everyone they loved around to share it.

If only.

[eryiss]

Blade of the Wanderer - Chapter Three

Summary: Laxus’ life was fine. Not comfortable, not as good as it could be, but fine. Then a stranger entered the walled town of Magnolia, a stranger named Freed Justine, and everything changed. [Fraxus Multi-Chapter | T for Violence]

Hey all! Here’s a new five-chapter fic for you all, and it’s a samurai AU. It’s part of the @ft-bb event, in which I’ve been signed up with @fyo-schiiwho’s made this amazing art!

You can read it on Fanfiction, Archive of our Own, or under the cut. And you can see all chapters right here. I hope you all enjoy it!

Chapter Three – Swindling Cities

Year: 1539x. Luna-cycle: 9. Day: 9.

He wouldn't admit it, but Laxus found himself incredibly intimidated.

A month had passed since Laxus had been exiled from Magnolia, and three weeks had passed since he had agreed to travel with Freed until they reached a city that Laxus could make his new life in. It had taken twenty-two days of near constant traveling – with only one night spent in an actual bed after they had stumbled across a town with a vacant inn – but they had finally arrived at the city nearest of Magnolia. And Laxus found himself very taken aback by it.

After spending his entire life in a village, a city was an entirely foreign experience. The buildings seemed to expand indefinably; the shadow of the towering castle located in the centre of the city was cast over half the buildings; and even from the entrance Laxus knew that the multiple alleys would make for a hellish labyrinth for anyone new to the city. Including Laxus.

"We should find somewhere to sleep for the night."

Laxus snapped his head to look towards Freed after he spoke. The other man seemed more at home than Laxus, though that wasn't surprising. Over the three weeks together, it had become very clear that Freed hadn't just travelled to Magnolia on a whim; he was a well-versed traveller and had probably seen every corner of Fiore.

Over the three weeks of traveling, their relationship had become almost exactly what Laxus had expected. They couldn't be categorised as friends, that would be too far, but the hatred that Laxus still slightly wanted to feel towards him wasn't right either. Tolerance was probably the most accurate term, but even that seemed a little too clinical for Laxus' taste. They could hold a conversation as they had three weeks prior, but it had felt like they were just filling silence whenever they did.

They were civil to each other. That's all Laxus could be sure of.

"I know of a cheap tavern here, the owner's fond of me so I can perhaps negotiate some long-term habitation for you," Freed continued, looking over his shoulder. "Unless you have any objections, of course."

"No, that'd be fine. Great actually, thanks," Laxus nodded a little. "You really think you can do that for me? Not exactly sure when I'm gonna get some money to pay for it. Probably not an easy sale for ya, is it?"

"If you're willing to do some physical work for them until you get a job, lifting beer barrels and such, I'm sure it'll be fine."

Although he wouldn't say it, Laxus was thankful. Not only was he completely overwhelmed by the city and knew he wouldn't be able to adapt on his own – not immediately – but he had also worried about what he would actually do when he found a place to live. If Freed could make good on his promise, then Laxus would not only have somewhere to stay for a little while but, if he did end up working for his stay, he could potentially turn that into a full-time job. It wouldn't be glamourous, but practicality was all Laxus needed.

The way Freed had offered his help was something Laxus was appreciative of as well. Despite Freed outwardly admitting he was taking pity on him before, Laxus felt a silent respect had formed between them. Nothing near admiration, just respect. So, while he could have been patronising towards him, he had simply offered Laxus a way to survive on his own.

"The tavern is a fairly long walk away," Freed continued. "There's a market on the way and I'm running low on supplies. I can point you in the right direction form there if you don't want to watch me shop."

"No, if I'm gonna spend time here, might as well get to know what it's like soon," Laxus said, not admitting that he also expected he would get lost in the city even with directions.

Freed nodded and started to walk towards one of the many alleyways that Laxus could see. They soon had merged into the busy crowd, something Laxus was thankful for. Even in the town's they had come across, they stuck out, so it was nice to have some anonymity. Well, they weren't entirely faceless in the crowds, Laxus only had one outfit other than the kamishimo that he had been exiled wearing, and it consisted of barely fitting clothes that were unwanted by the town's tailor as they couldn't be sold. The black pants, purple shirt and fur lined coat was a mismatch of colours that attracted the eyes of some passers-by.

Laxus hadn't yet admitted to himself that he had grown fond of the cape-like coat. This hesitance to admit it was only partially because Freed had insisted that he buy it whereas Laxus had been resistant to it.

They walked in silence, and Laxus tried to memorise the streets as best he could for future use. The seemingly endless rows of almost identical buildings made this difficult, as did the copious amounts of side streets and alleys that Laxus had lost count of multiple times. Laxus assured himself that he would get used to the new place in time, but something in his gut said that he was only kidding himself. He tried to shut that voice out.

After what Laxus guessed was fifteen minutes of walking, the relatively cramped streets opened up into a fairly large town square. It was shadowed by a cathedral and the cobbled ground was covered by a busy, bustling market town. People were eating, buying whatever wears they needed and talking with each other.

It brought a smile to his face. Although the memories faded slightly, this reminded him of how market days in Magnolia used to be before Ivan. Full of chatter and happy people. Looking across the almost familiar sight, Laxus found himself missing Magnolia for the first time since joining Freed.

"It shouldn't take long, I know my way around this market-" Freed stopped himself as he looked to Laxus. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, fine," Laxus looked towards him, snapping himself out of the daze he didn't know he was in. "Just got caught up in my thoughts. What are you looking for?"

"Not much. Some food, and my knife's starting to dull," Freed continued to walk again, going towards the busy market with purpose in his stride, as if he'd been there before. He probably had. "Is there anything you need, I can direct you to wherever you need to go."

"No, think I'm fine," Laxus replied, looking around with a small amount of intrigue.

The market, though slightly resembling the one that had taken place in Magnolia, was on a much grander scale. White stalls seemed to fill the entirety of the town's square, people seemed to cover all of the cobbled streets, and the intoxicating smell of the food vendor's goods wafted across the air and towards the two men. Laxus tried not to let his stomach grumble, he'd been hungry since leaving and this was the first-time real food had been attainable.

He shadowed Freed as he walked throughout the market, not seeing any point in interacting with anyone. The food was nearest the clocktower, then it faded into wears such as knives jewellery and such; and ended up with clothes and fabrics. Fairly easy to remember.

As Freed inspected a selection of knives that would make both a butcher and a warrior feel inferior, Laxus found himself tempted by the suddenly domineering scent of a roasting pig at a stall only meters from where he stood. He'd only eaten the cold food that Freed kept with him, not having requested anything cooked on the few instances where it was possible. Freed would have had to pay for that, as Laxus had no money, and the blonde refused to be in the man's debt any more than was completely necessary.

Soon the smell would get too much, and his stomach would start grumbling, so he tore his eyes aware from the food market and looked back to Freed. He had picked up a small dagger and was holding it against the tip of his finger, inspecting the blade with slightly narrowed eyes and a frown across his features.

"I'll have this," Freed eventually settled, looking to the vendor. "How much is it?"

"Three gold," The vendor's voice was gruff, leaving no room for argument. Freed clicked his tongue but reached into a coin pouch and handed in the money; obviously the dagger was worth it in his eyes.

"Thank you," Freed nodded. The vendor just nodded and looked away.

Again, Laxus only watched as Freed slid the newly acquired dagger into his belt. Freed seemed to be perfectly content with not speaking and allowing Laxus to follow him as he made his way around to the food part of the market. The blonde tried to focus on anything other than the pig slowly being turned atop an open flame, which was practically screaming at his senses and begging to be devoured… ignoring it wasn't going well.

Thankfully, a distraction from the food was offered in the foreign sound of a laugh. He looked towards Freed to see that, yes, Freed had indeed laughed. Furthermore, it seemed as though he had laughed at Laxus, if the amused expression aimed towards him was to be believed.

Before he could ask his travelling companion what he thought was so damn funny, Freed started to walk again. This time, he walked in an entirely different direction to where he had been going before, this time walking straight towards the hog-roast that was the subject of Laxus' desire. Confusion now undeniably obvious on his face, Laxus followed Freed and allowed his question to die on his tongue.

Almost as soon as they reached the food stall, Laxus' stomach got the better of him. An annoying grumble sounded and Laxus winced, purposefully not looking towards Freed as he almost knew he would receive a patronising smirk if he did.

"Two rolls, please," Freed said after a few moments, causing Laxus to look back towards him.

The vendor of the stall made quick work on their order, hacking away at the meat and filling bread rolls with generous helpings. He handed them both to Freed, and Laxus found himself unable to look away from the cooked meat that would – unless Freed truly was sadistic – soon be eaten by him. The idea of eating any hot food seemed fantastic after living off the bare essentials but having flame cooked pork was simply faultless.

"Fifty silver," The vendor requested, and Freed paid for it without complaint.

Soon, one of the rolls was handed to Laxus, who looked down at it with a small amount of confusion despite his desperate want to eat it like a wild dog. But he and Freed hadn't acted like this with each other; there had been no small favours, so why now.

"Eat it before it goes cold," Freed instructed with amusement in his voice. "It's not poisoned, if that's your concern."

"No. Erm, thanks," Laxus still was frowning towards the food. His confusion got the better of him. "Why?"

"To be honest, I was wondering how long you could go without asking," Freed said, annoyingly not answering Laxus' question. The smirk on the man's face was grating against Laxus' nerves as well. "Subtlety is certainly not one of your strong points, Laxus."

"The hell are you talking about?"

"Your looks whenever there's hot food nearby, the little sighs whenever you have to eat the same food for a third time in that many days, and a whole assortment of small things that you've been doing to show how much you need something hot to eat. You thought I hadn't noticed?" Freed chuckled. "I just wanted to see how long your pride would get in the way of you asking me to buy something for you."

Against his will, Laxus' face reddened a little. He hadn't realised he had been so obvious with his want for something other than cold meat pies, bread and the occasional fish. To be caught out and mocked because of it was not enjoyable.

"You know I would have brought you something if you wanted, don't you," Freed continued, still obviously amused. "To be honest, I thought about stretching your limits. I was half tempted to get a full meat breakfast at that inn to see if you'd want some for yourself or if you'd just sit and watch me eat. But perhaps that would have been too cruel."

Laxus knew he should have been annoyed, but he wasn't. He didn't waste time wondering why.

He simply brought the food in his hand to his mouth and took a large bit, savouring the flavour of heavily buttered bread, perfectly cooked meat and crispy wisps of fat as he ate. He all but moaned as the warm food set his taste buds alight, the first thing to do so since his last evening meal in Magnolia.

The two ate as they walked, and were back on track to where Freed was initially leading them before their detour. By the time the foot had been completely demolished by the blonde, his stomach felt more satisfied than it had in over a month.

"Worth the wait?" Freed said almost immediately in a mocking – or perhaps teasing was the better word – tone. Laxus was pretty sure he had been waiting to say it, with how quickly the words left his mouth.

"Asshole," Was his only reply.

"Perhaps," Freed agreed, still smirking a little. "But you brought it upon yourself for not being forthcoming. And, if you can handle me in a fight as well as you did, I think you're more than strong enough to handle some gentle teasing."

Ah, so teasing was the right term. Good to know.

They continue to walk through the market, Laxus no placated by the warm food he had tasted as well as the promise of something of a regular life on the horizon. He still found himself slightly intimidated by the busy market as they walked – the contrast was near impossible to believe – but he hoped he did a better job at hiding it than he did his need for a real meal. Freed didn't mention it, so he expected that he wasn't doing too bad of a job.

Still focusing on memorising the market for future use, Laxus saw a stall that Freed was walking towards and almost rolled his eyes. It was a preserves stall, therefore a jam stockpile. So Freed wouldn't be staying in the city for long then. Laxus probably should have expected that.

As they got closer, Laxus saw a young man standing at the stall who seemed to gauge their approach and smiled widely towards them. He could also see what he thought was Freed frowning a little, but it was from the corner of the blonde's eye, so it was entirely possible that he had misinterpreted what had happened. Either way, they continued to walk forward, and the stall's owner continued to look at them.

"Mr Justine, a pleasure to see you," The man greeted with a smile and fondness in his voice. "And a guest, fantastic."

"Rustyrose," Freed said, voice almost monotone. Laxus' brown furrowed a little. "Isn't your father here?"

"He's retired, I'm afraid. You can't expect an old man like that to work the cold mornings of the winter, that's practically medieval," The man – Rustyrose, apparently – said with an unneeded amount of flair. "I'm sure I'll make more than a good enough replacement."

"I doubt it," Freed said, picking up a jam and inspecting it. His voice sounded uninterested. "Your father is a man I respect. You're an intolerable cretin."

It took a considerable amount of self-restraint, but Laxus managed not to snigger. The expression on the stall-keeper's face was priceless, and it soon faded from a look of shock to one of annoyance. Freed looked up from the jar of jam and made direct eye contact with the man, almost challenging him to be offended. Rustyrose didn't take up the challenge.

"So," Freed continued. "I assume your prices are the same as last time?"

"Oh," Rustyrose suddenly perked up, voice overly dramatic again. "I'm afraid times are hard, and with father-dear not working we need all the money we can get just to keep him alive," Laxus had to doubt that. "So our prices may have inflated a little. I am sorry."

He wasn't. Neither Freed nor Laxus thought he tried to be sincere.

"How much are they?" Freed sighed. "And without the theatrics, if at all possible."

"The small jars are one gold and fifty silver, the larger ones three gold and twenty-five silver."

Laxus faltered a little. The same size jars from his town would have been more than half the price in Magnolia. He perhaps had expected a small price rise in the city, but certainly not this much. And, by the almost full glare on Freed's face, the other man hadn't expected the prices to be increased by this much either. At least that meant that Laxus wasn't completely naïve to the world outside Magnolia in this respect.

"Yer kiddin', right?" Laxus said, possibly cutting Freed off.

"Ah, he speaks," Rustyrose gleamed, looking towards Laxus with a grin on his face. "And I think the prices reflect the quality of the product."

As he spoke, Rustyrose motioned towards a sign that had been nailed against the back of the stall, which claimed 'the best preserves the imagination could conceive.' Laxus almost snorted at the claim; assuming he had been eating the man's products while traveling with Freed, he could prove quite easily that Mirajane's products were considerably better quality. He wasn't going to voice that though, as Freed's actions caught him off guard.

The other man pulled out his coin pouch again and fished out the appropriate money for two of the large jars. Laxus didn't exactly know why, everything he knew about Freed lead Laxus to believe that he wouldn't entertain the idea of paying for such an obvious scam. He couldn't really think it was worth the money.

"Raspberry and apricot," He demanded, voice portraying his annoyance.

"A fine choice, sir," Rustyrose sneered, and turned to pick up the correct jars.

Laxus watched, trying not to let his mouth drop a little at the interaction. Surely Freed wouldn't just accept that fact he was being grossly overcharged for some jam. It wasn't possible that this was the only place in the city that sold the damn jam he wanted. And why was he getting those two flavours? He always seemed to favour the strawberry one, Laxus had noted.

Why had he noticed that?

Despite Laxus' disbelief, the situation played out as if it was any other transaction. Rustyrose gave Freed what he wanted, Freed paid for it, Rustyrose gave them both a clearly snide goodbye, and they walked away. It took exactly seven steps before Laxus let his curiosity out.

"You seriously happy paying that much?" He grunted. "And from that guy? He was clearly an asshole."

"He was," Freed agreed.

"Then why the hell d'you let him win," Laxus turned towards the other man. "Guy needs an ego boost even less than you do."

"I know," Freed smiled a little. Laxus noted he didn't seem bothered by the insult. "That's the point. His ego got in the way."

"Yeah, this vague bullshit ain't explaining anything," Laxus muttered.

"He was too busy feeling proud of himself because he thought that he'd won our interaction, he wasn't paying attention enough to see a slight depletion of his stock," Freed said, fully smirking.

Laxus looked down when Freed opened the small bag that he kept. Sitting beside the two glass jars that he had paid for were two other jars, both filled with strawberry jam. Laxus continued to look down, processing the fact that Freed had stolen them, before he looked at his travelling partner with a small frown on his face.

He really hadn't expected Freed to be the stealing type. Sure, Rustyrose deserved it, but that didn't make it any less unexpected. Still, Laxus knew that the money didn't come from nowhere and a traveller could only do so many small jobs. Cutting costs down needed to occur, Laxus just hadn't thought about it until that point. It led him to wonder if Freed had stolen anything else while they had been traveling together. He obviously was good at it, given Laxus hadn't noticed and he was standing right beside him.

"I'd recommend we keep walking," Freed continued. "They tend not to like it when we don't pay."

Laxus didn't say anything, but he nodded slightly and the two continued to walk towards the nearest exit to the market. The blonde wanted to increase his pace, but Freed made sure not to let that happen. Most likely so they didn't look suspicious, they didn't need to stick out any more than they already did.

Their exiting nearly went well. They had managed to make it nearly out, but eventually heard the shrill exclamation that obviously belonged to Rustyrose; his voice really did carry. Laxus, probably against his better judgment, looked over to see the man looking directly at them.

"Shit," Freed whispered, looking forward.

Following his gaze, Laxus could see three men who were obviously guards looking towards them. He looked back over his shoulder to see another guard looking at them, as well as Rustyrose pointing at them furiously.

The guards started to walk towards them before either could do anything. The stalls made barriers either side of them, and the crowd was parting to let the guards through, so there was practically no escape that Laxus could see. The blonde looked down towards Freed to see the man's teeth were clenched and his expression slightly stressed, so obviously he couldn't think of a way out of this situation either.

This wasn't good. And the guards were getting closer.

"Show your hands!" One of the guards yelled. "NOW!"

It took Laxus a few moments to process the instructions, and he was only snapped out of the small trance when he saw Freed's hands raised in the air, the bag on the cobbled streets. The blonde slowly copies the action, not expecting this to have been their plan of action.

The guard's moved quickly after that. They went for Freed first, with the closest guard storming forward and slamming his fist into Freed's stomach. As the man was winded, the guard quickly brought him to the grown with neither finesse nor mercy. The traveller's head was brutally slammed against the cobbles, enough to cause a nasty bruise by Laxus' estimations.

But he had no time to think, as he was soon given the same treatment. One of the guards punched him in the stomach, hard. He then was given a kick to the back of the legs – from the guard that was behind them, probably – and he was then forced to the floor.

He blinked a little, head slammed against the cold stone. The force left him dizzy, and he was almost sure a bruise would be there to commemorate it.

Soon, he felt frayed rope wrapping tightly around his wrists, tying them together with no wiggle room. He was still being held down, both his stomach and his head being pushed against the cobbles as he tried to make sense of what was happening. From his position, he could only see the bottoms of the stalls and some boots of people who were watching, but he could hear that Freed was also getting his hands tied together by the guard.

As he heard the guards talking to each other, they said that the two prisoners – the name given to him and Freed didn't fill Laxus with hope – were to be taken to the local jail and their fates would be decided by the lawmaster. The blonde felt his stomach drop.

Freed was right. Shit, indeed.

-~—~-

Laxus had observed that many things in the city were more luxurious when compared to Magnolia. The market was bigger and had considerably more stock, the buildings were presented as spotless and clearly designed with an artist's eye, and the atmosphere just seemed to be more pleasant. Almost everything was an improvement, with a few small exceptions of course. One of which was the jail cells that Laxus found himself in.

Because of course that's where he would end up on the first time in a city.

The walls were damp and made of cracking, moss covered stone. The wooden benches were worn away and purposefully uncomfortable. The light flittering through the small, barred window highlighted the heavy layer of dust in the room. It was the antithetic of luxurious.

Laxus had been taken to the jail cells of Magnolia a few times, though never having been a resident of them. Ivan had taken him there to both intimidate the prisoners and to show Laxus is superiority over the rest of the town. Magnolia's cells were almost identical to the ones that Laxus found himself in, only the city had significantly more of them. He and Freed had somehow managed to be placed into the same cell though, which acted as a little comfort to the blonde as he sat and tried to rationalise the situation that he was in and calm himself down.

It didn't work. But it was nice to give himself the illusion of any control over what was happening.

He glanced to his left to see that Freed was sitting on the bench beside him, eyes closed and posture more relaxed than he should be, considering the situation. Laxus quickly got the impression that this wasn't the first cell that Freed had found himself in. Given his reaction to the guards back in Magnolia, Laxus probably should have guessed as much.

The blonde had to wonder if Freed was actually planning to do something. The moment he and Laxus had been shoved into the cell – with all the care someone might give a rabid dog – Freed's eyes were everywhere. He focused on the lock, the bar-covered window and the long corridor of cells that they had just walked down. And now his eyes were closed, and his expression suggested that he was in deep contemplation.

But he couldn't be sure. And the possibility of Freed somehow dealing with the situation didn't do much to calm his nerves. Not after the delighted way that the guards informed them both that the lawmaker of the town was close friends with Rustyrose, and that she was incredibly unhappy with their apparent disrespect to him.

Needless to say, the situation wasn't looking good for them both.

"So," Laxus eventually spoke, the quiet getting to him. "You wanna tell me how many times?"

Freed frowned and looked towards him. "Excuse me."

"How many times you've been in here, or bee in any fucking jail," Laxus grunted a little, still looking forward. "You ain't panicked at all, just kinda acting like it's just a nuisance that'll pass in a couple hours. So, how many times?"

The traveller beside him seemed to think for a few moments. Laxus watched from the corner of his eye as Freed leant the back of his head against the cold stone that made up the walls of the cell. After a few seconds, still with his eyes closed and expression filled with contemplation, he looked back towards Laxus with a neutral expression.

"I assume it won't be a comfort to tell you I may have lost count," Freed chuckled a little.

"Not really," Laxus laughed with a small amount of humour. "How did you manage to get locked up that many times. Other than today, you ain't really done anything that'd piss off a leader. Well, my dad I guess, but he gets pissed at anything."

"Really? He seemed like such a level-headed man when we met," Freed chuckled. "And I don't make a habit of breaking the law, but it sometimes becomes needed."

"Huh?" Laxus looked towards Freed, still wearing a frown.

"I started to travel when I was thirteen, and I haven't spent any substantial amount of time in the same place since I left," Freed looked emotionless as he thought back. Laxus wondered why. "I took some funds with me, but they could never last me forever. I try to do small jobs in towns and cities whenever possible, but sometimes I won't have the time for that nor the money to get myself food, so I sometimes had to steal it.

"It didn't go well at the start, and I got caught most times. Thankfully, lawmakers can be easily manipulated by a teenager who they think is down on their luck – which technically wasn't a lie – so I never spent more than a night in a cell. As I got better, I was caught less, so the cell time depleted."

Laxus nodded a little, glad that there was at least justification to Freed's breaking of the law. Although, it probably wouldn't matter if Freed was just a criminal for the thrill of it – or any other similar reason – as they probably wouldn't see each other after Freed left the city and Laxus started to create a life for himself here. So he wouldn't be traveling with him, knowing that he was a criminal for fun.

Although, he had to admit the idea of doing that was interesting.

Wrongly, Laxus had assumed that Freed was pretty much a square. Sure, he had pissed off Ivan when they had met, and had obviously proven himself to good fighter, but Laxus had just assumed that Freed was adapting to the situation because he had to. Knowing that Freed had a habit of being imprisoned, that put a different tint on their time together.

Maybe Freed had been behaving himself, for Laxus' sake. If that was true, the blonde had to wonder what their travels would have been like with this other side of Freed being shown to him. It was an amusing thought, one he kind of wanted to explore.

Huh. He was second-guessing himself.

But no, that wasn't the plan. The plan was to get to a city and live there from now on. Freed almost defiantly wouldn't want him for any longer than needed; he'd probably diminished the mans food reserves more than he realised, as well as making him spend twice as much on the inn they'd stayed at. No, he couldn't travel with Freed for any longer than needed, he would simply have to unleash his curiosity when they had the chance. And locked up together was as good a time as any.

"When was the last time you got arrested, then? Not including Ivan," Laxus asked, body now shifting towards Freed.

"A while, actually. Over a year," Freed smiled a little. "Shockingly, I'm not nostalgic about it."

"Shocking," Laxus mimicked with a small grin. "I'm gonna guess that part of the reason we ended up here today is because of me, if it's been that long."

"I couldn't possibly say," Freed chuckled a little, standing up and walking to the bars of the cell. Laxus couldn't see a reason for his sudden movement, so just assumed he needed to stretch his legs. "Would I have acted differently if I were alone, perhaps. Would I have been caught, almost definitely not. But don't feel like you're to blame for this."

Laxus rolled his eyes a little when he saw the smug, teasing grin on the traveller's face. The blonde was grinning a little as he muttered. "Asshole."

Well, at least he was teasing and willing to joke about the situation. Laxus would rather that than have Freed angry at him for getting him there. He wasn't entirely sure what would happen if Freed was genuinely angry at him.

Conversation trickled off a little, wit Freed still leaning against the metal bars and Laxus looking around the cramped cells. The fact that Freed had said he'd only spent the night in a cell when he was a kid as if it were a small amount of time, it probably meant that they would be there for considerably longer than that. He might as well get used to the place that would be his home for a short time. Hopefully not too long, though.

Eventually, Freed walked back from the bars and sat down on the cell's bed; well, is a wider wooden bench with a ratty pillow and a blanket could be considered a bed. He sat opposite Laxus directly and grinned.

"Well, I think we've been in here long enough to learn our lessons, don't you?" Freed was smirking.

"I guess," Laxus frowned. "You just gonna walk out? Don't think they'll like that."

"Probably not," Freed chuckled. "But I can get us out, if you want."

Laxus frowned and sifted a little so he was leaning forward. Why wouldn't he want that, unless there was a risk of making things worse for them both. "The hell are you talking about?"

"There's two things we can do, from what I can tell," Freed begun, Laxus leaning forward a little further. "We can stay here for as long as it takes, probably have some kind of punishment from the lawmaker, and we'll eventually be released. They'll also probably keep everything they confiscated from us and, somewhat ironically, we'll probably have to steal some food to survive. Adversely, you can go along with my idea and we'll be out in less than an hour."

"And I'm guessing there's a risk," Laxus sighed.

"There's a chance it wont work. Minimal, but a chance," Freed looked down a little. "And, for the first few weeks of living here, you might need to keep your head down. You will have escaped from a jail, so making yourself known will bring you back here."

"I can do that," Laxus nodded, leaning back against the wall. "So, what do you need me to do."

"Just follow my lead," Freed smiled. "And, in advance, you have my apologies."

With a frown at the last sentence, Laxus watched as Freed stood up again. Confusion was painted in the blonde's expression as he watched the other man shrug off his coat and placed it on the wooden bed, undid the buttons of his cuffs and pulled his sleeves up to his biceps. His confusion doubled when Freed instructed him to do the same, but he did as he was told, placed his coat alongside Freed's, and slid his sleeves up as well.

As he went to sit down on the bench again, Freed grabbed him by the arm and stopped him. Still confused, he allowed Freed to position him in the middle of the cell so that they were facing each other. Laxus really wasn't sure how removing their coats was going to get them out, and he was starting to think that Freed was just playing with him to pass the time.

"Again," Freed said, voice quiet. "I'm sorry."

And then the fucker punched him in the face.

Laxus staggered back a little, grabbing his jaw where Freed's punch had landed. It had been merciless, and Laxus shouldn't have been shocked by the power that was behind it. He knew the guy was strong, evident from both their fight upon meeting and the obvious muscles in his bare arms.

"What the fuck!" He yelled, looking to Freed while still cupping his jaw.

Freed didn't reply, instead he walked forward quickly and planted another vicious punch, this time in Laxus' stomach. Again, he stumbled back, this time winded. Now slightly hunched over and grabbing his stomach, he looked towards Freed with a mixture of anger and confusion on his face. Freed waited for a moment, and then he rolled his eyes a little and stormed forward, his expression going from a small amount of exhaustion to one of anger. It was honestly almost terrifying to see the expression aimed at him.

"So now you're quiet!" Freed suddenly yelled back. "But when a guard's around, you just love making noise!"

He grabbed Laxus by the throat and pushed him against the wall, the anger still in his eyes. The blonde grabbed the arms that were clasped around his neck, not sure if Freed was actually intending to crush his windpipe. By the strength he was holding him, there was every chance that was his intention.

However, when he looked back to Freed's face – which was uncomfortable close to the point where he could feel the man's breath on his lips – he saw the expression of anger was gone. In its place, Freed was looking directly into his eyes with a clear expression of purpose. When his eyes flickered towards the bars of the cell, Laxus followed them and saw a single guard sitting at the end of the corridor.

Just follow my lead.

When a guard's around, you love making noise.

Ah. Okay. They were getting the guard's attention. He could do that. Maybe this could be some overdue catharsis for when they first met.

With a small nod to show he understood, he placed his hands-on Freed's chest and shoved him back; he made sure not to hold back in the same way Freed had. The two looked at each other, both panting a little, and Laxus could have sworn he saw Freed smirking before his expression turned back to the look of anger. He decided not to think too much about why that happened, and instead got his mind back on the task at hand.

He thought back to how he felt when he first met Freed. The expression his father had worn when he lost the fight. His fucking father.

The punch was flying before Laxus knew it.

Slamming his fist into the side of Freed's jaw was weirdly satisfying, but he only felt that happen when he saw Freed grin again. Yeah, this was certainly going to be cathartic, even if it wasn't against the man he thought it might.

Mind now on the 'fight' occurring, Laxus grabbed the other man's shoulders and pushed them down, bringing his knee up at the same time to slam it directly into Freed's gut, winding him in the same way that he had previously been through. Again, once he saw that Freed had recovered, he felt a sense of enjoyment flow through him.

"Loud?" Laxus yelled again, hoping to get and maintain the guard's attention. "Maybe if you stopped fucking about being cocky, we might get shit done!"

"At least one of us has something to be cocky about," Freed retorted, voice a little croaky. Laxus was sure that it took a few seconds longer for Freed's smile to slip away than it had before. "Unless you think stumbling around is something you be proud of, you fucking ogre."

Throughout the jail cells, it was quiet. Previously, there had been the quiet sounds of other conversations or movement of other inmates. Now, all attention was on them. Laxus decided not to reply to Freed, instead listening to the row after he thought he heard the sound of wood scraping against the stone floor; the stool the guard was sitting on. In the silence, Laxus could hear boots walking towards them.

"He's coming," Laxus muttered, taking the break to catch his breath.

"He'll try splitting us up," Freed whispered back, chest heaving slightly. "When he's in the cell, focus on him."

With a nod, Laxus launched himself forward again and wrapped his arm around Freed's neck, pulling him down into a brutal headlock. He felt Freed struggle a little but kept his grasp firm as he heard the guard getting closer.

After Freed slammed his elbow into his stomach again, Laxus released him and stumbled back again. The elbow had landed in exactly the same as the punch from before, leaving him winded and trying to catch his breath. When he saw Freed glance outside of the cell and watched his pupils dilate a little, Laxus knew that he wouldn't be given this break and the fight would have to continue immediately if it were to look real at all.

The punch delivered to his face confirmed his suspicions.

"Asshole," He yelled.

This time, he grabbed Freed's hair. With a firm grasp, he dragged the other man to the wall of bars and forced his head against them. Now with an unhindered view of the corridor, he could see the guard only a cell away. He was looking directly at them. Good.

As Freed broke out of Laxus' hold again, Laxus stepped back to see the guard reaching for his keys. When he saw that the two men had stopped fighting for a few seconds, he obviously hesitated in unlocking their cell. Freed must have seen that, as he lurched forward again. Laxus only had time to wince before he felt the clenched fist against his cheek again. The fucker had a good punch.

"Hey," The guard yelled, key in the lock now. "The hell d'you think you're doing?"

"Giving this moron what he deserves," Freed practically spat. "Just leave us alone, you'll have one less person to deal with at the end of the day."

The door to the cell swung open, and the guard opened his mouth to speak again. Freed and Laxus, however, simply shared a glance and an almost unseen nod. A moment later, they lurched forward and Laxus slammed his fist into the guard's stomach. He stumbled back a bit, and couldn't stop Laxus from grabbing his head and slamming it into the bars with more viciousness than he had with Freed.

Huh. He didn't have to wait to see if the guy was okay before he felt satisfaction from the attack like he had with Freed.

As Laxus kept the guard occupied, Freed had reached around and grabbed the key that was still in the lock. He then quickly reached for the guard's belt as he was grabbing his stomach and pulling out the knife that was kept there. Laxus could only watch as Freed moved quickly, forcing the blade against the man's adam's apple, which bulged at the blade that was now in danger of cutting it. The speed in which Freed had moved reminded Laxus of how they had fought back in Magnolia.

Looking back to the guard, he saw the young man's eye dilate and his posture turn rigid. It was pretty clear that he wasn't going to put up much of a fight.

"This is what's going to happen," Freed spoke with the same tone that he had used when addressing Ivan. Velvet smooth yet somehow threatening in a way that was hard to describe. Laxus hadn't been able to appreciate it before. "We're going to walk very calmly and quietly to the inventory room, we'll get our belongings, and we'll be on our way without so much of an issue.

"However, if you have any ideas of trying to fight back, I'll cut your throat. Then I'll lock you in that cage and we can see how caring your colleagues are," Freed smiled a little and forced the knife up, making the guard look directly at him. "Do we understand each other?"

The guard nodded, and Laxus was left to wonder if Freed would carry out that threat if needed. He thought it best not to ask, instead he picked up both their coats and simply stayed silent.

As the three men started to walk down the corridor, with the knife still resting against the guard's, Laxus could see the other prisoners watching them. He tried not to pay any attention to the eyes watching them as they passed, instead looking straight ahead and following the directions of the guards; even if they were stuttered and said out of fear. The blonde just wanted to get out of the place as soon as he could; the situation was just too foreign for him.

Thankfully, they soon found themselves in what Laxus assumed was the inventory room. Laxus quickly grabbed everything that he recognised was there's that had been taken when they were arrested. After he'd taken anything back, he looked to Freed for guidance.

"Well, my friend, I think it's time for us to depart," Freed chuckled, looking to the guard as if he was enjoying this. He probably was. "I assume that you won't cause us any further trouble."

"N-no," The guard stammered a little.

"Good," Freed smiled, and then released the knife from the man's throat and handed it back to him. "I wish you a good day."

Freed was quick to leave the room, and Laxus followed suit. The confidence in which Freed moved was somewhat comforting, and it seemed the other man had no worries about being caught by another guard so Laxus tried to replicate that.

Apparently, that confidence was not misplaced, as they soon left the building without any trouble at all. Either the guards in a city just happened to be lax on that day, or maybe Ivan was more regimental in his treatment of the guards than Laxus had thought, because walking out of the jail was easy. Perhaps it made sense, without being able to trick the guard into walking into their cell, the two of them would still be there and no guard would be required outside.

As they walked away from the building – at a pretty quick pace, Laxus noted – the blonde found his mind wondering. Wondering about how he would manage to live here after escaping jail, about how he was still a stranger to real society, about how he would probably not see Freed again after he left. It all left him feeling… wrong.

"Hey," Laxus muttered after they merged into a crowd, allowing them to slow down their pace. "I know you said you'd get me a place here, and I'm thankful for this," The blonde's cheeks were slightly red as he spoke. "But, I dunno, maybe this place ain't for me."

Freed paused and looked towards him, a small frown on his face. "You don't?"

"Just doesn't seem like my kinda place, y'know," Laxus found his hand had reached the back of his neck, and he couldn't seem to look Freed in the eye. "And, if the guards are gonna be looking for us, doesn't make sense being here. Not exactly the most subtle guy, am I?"

"I suppose not," Freed chuckled.

"Yeah," Laxus looked down. He knew he was just going to have to ask, dignity be damned. "Look, d'you mind if I stick around with you for a little while longer. I know you probably don't want me hanging around you or anything, but-"

"I enjoy the company," Freed cut him off. "Besides, it's a large choice to make, you shouldn't rush it. I'm sure you'll find a place you're comfortable with soon enough."

"Yeah," Laxus said, though he found himself unsure of his words.

Freed gave him a small nod, and they both continued walking down the busy street and towards the inn that Freed had spoken about. Again, as they walked, Laxus found his mind wondering. This time, however, his mind was entirely occupied by the man he was walking beside. And, unlike before, the feeling in his stomach was that of warmth.

A month ago, this man had turned his life around for the worse. Now he was traveling with him, and glad of it too. In fact, Freed really wasn't that bad of a person to be around; he was good company and pretty similar to Laxus. And, if Laxus was honest, not bad looking too.

Huh. That was new.

[ao3feed-hannor]

The Hunter’s Moon in Fallbridge

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2Pp5OBS

by InkStainsOnMyHands

Small towns, such as Fallbridge, were known to be hosts of secrets, some not-so benign. The residents of these insular bastions tended to fiercely guard their skeletons from any wandering stranger, such as Connor. Therefore, it was not the first time the novelist felt the isolation of vacant motels, averted stares and purposeful silence.

The mystery of it always made for amusing work, but it was far from easy, especially in this particular town where it was difficult to find whisperings in the wind. It would seem that even gossip was held back behind tightly locked lips.

Connor, a true crime novelist, is rescued by a stranger, who is as enigmatic as he is attractive. Fortunately for the young author, Connor unravels mysteries for a living.

But, after discovering that the subject of his next thriller hits a little too close to home, Connor realizes some secrets are better left uncovered.

Words: 1975, Chapters: 1/8, Language: English

Fandoms: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Hank Anderson, Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Kara (Detroit: Become Human), Elijah Kamski, Luther (Detroit: Become Human), Jeffrey Fowler, Markus (Detroit: Become Human), Alice Williams (Detroit: Become Human), North (Detroit: Become Human)

Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Werewolves, Werewolf Mates, Vampires, Witches, Demons, Paranormal Romance, Mentions of/Implied Minor Character Suicide, Case Fic, Magic Manifestation, Small Towns, Size Kink, Squirting, Cunnilingus, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Trans Male Character, Trans!Connor, werewolf!Hank

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2Pp5OBS

[scotianostra]

On July 14th 1927 The Scottish National War Memorial opened.

As this post regards the Memorial that was to become part of Edinburgh Castle, there is a wee bit history of the castle itself in this post. I recall putting a post together last year on it's centenary, but keeping it short as there ahd been many articles in the newspapers and online about it, this year with have devoted more time putting together this long post.

The National War Memorial for Scotland was established by Royal Charter to commemorate the sacrifice of Scots in the Great War, Second World War and subsequent conflicts. The Memorial within Edinburgh Castle houses and displays the Rolls of Honour of Scots servicemen and women from all the Armed Services, the Dominions, Merchant Navy, Women's Services, Nursing Services and civilian casualties of all wars from 1914 to date.

In 1927 the architect Sir Robert Lorimer and 200 Scottish artists and craftsmen created a serene Hall of Honour and Shrine, where the names of the dead are contained in books that are on permanent display.

A number of eminent Scots wanted a truly Scottish memorial, in Scotland, recording the names of all Scots and displaying Scottish material. The moving force behind this vision was John George 8th Duke of Atholl. A leading member of the Scottish aristocracy, the Duke of Atholl, or "Bardie" as he was known from his title, the Marquis of Tullibardine, was a serving soldier who had fought in the Sudan and had raised the Scottish Horse Yeomanry. He was a man of considerable vision and energy and, what was more important, he had both influence and connections.

In the spring of 1917 Atholl gathered around him a number of leading and powerful Scots. Atholl lost no time in promoting the Scottish case for a memorial. He wrote to the Commissioner of Works asking that Scotland should have her own memorial in the form of a museum collection to be housed in Edinburgh Castle. There then followed widespread consultation, which included the five Lord Provosts of the Cities of Scotland and extensive press coverage, largely in The Scotsman newspaper.

Initially there was concern on the part of the City of Glasgow and it was important that the City Fathers of Scotland's largest urban centre agree to the scheme. The problem was solved when Spencer Ewart hosted a dinner for all of the interested parties and agreement was obtained.

The choice of Edinburgh Castle was inspirational, historically interesting and sensitive.

The Castle stands high above the centre of the capital city of Scotland dominating the skyline for miles around. Even in 1914 the Castle was a major tourist attraction and its roots lay deep in the folklore and traditions of Scottish history.

Until 1914 it had been the main barracks for the Infantry garrison of Edinburgh and soldiers had lived there and guarded its walls for many centuries.

The standard of military accommodation within the Castle precincts was however very basic. The barrack rooms were crowded and draughty with leaky roofs. The accommodation was heated by small coal burning fires in open grates some of which were still used for cooking. There were only a few baths for the whole of the garrison, no running hot water and very basic toilet facilities. The one communal cookhouse meant that most of the men still ate in their barrack rooms.

As a result of these shortcomings a new barracks was built at Redford on the outskirts of the City which would house both infantry and cavalry units. These barracks were being built in 1914 just before the outbreak of war. It was therefore envisaged that when the war ended there would be vacant accommodation within the Castle walls which could be adapted for the Memorial plan.

In addition, the concept of a military museum was a very new idea which would not compete with existing regimental museums for there were none. The Scottish regiments were more likely to agree to a central location such as the Castle where they had all served at one time or another. By this time the individual regiments had acquired many regimental trophies and together with much of the silver, artefacts and archives these were usually deposited with the Regimental Depots and were not on display to the public. Thus the opportunity to show the regimental histories and traditions was welcomed.

The choice of Edinburgh Castle was however a sensitive one. Any proposal to alter the distinctive Edinburgh skyline by the building or demolition of any part of the existing structures was bound to meet with considerable opposition. This opposition was both vociferous and powerful and was in time to change the plan significantly.

In October 1918, a Scottish National War Memorial Committee was appointed by the Secretary of State for Scotland, "to consider what steps should be taken towards the utilization of Edinburgh Castle for the purposes of a Scottish National War Memorial". Great care had been taken with these appointments to ensure that the Services, the press, the church, learning, architecture, Scottish history, the cities and the political parties were all represented.

The architect Robert Lorimer designed the stunningly beautiful Chapel for the Knights of the Thistle in St Giles Cathedral, but advised against a church or chapel as it "would excite much opposition". It was estimated that the Memorial Shrine and Cloisters and the museum he proposed would cost a staggering £250,000.

While the money was a problem, there were many others that I won't go into in depth, needless to say, some were ploitical, others were fro, The Cockburn Society, who still do a great job to this day, trying to safeguard Edinburgh's heritage, to just give an example of the anger some people had for the scheme, the leading critics were Sir Richard Lodge, Professor of History at Edinburgh University, Principal Laurie at Heriot-Watt College and Lady Francis Balfour who actually demanded that the Duke of Atholl and Sir Robert Lorimer should be hanged!!!!!

Such was some of the opposition that there were even proposals to abandon the whole scheme in the Castle altogether and to erect a memorial on Calton Hill or Princess Street Gardens.

Undaunted they began fundraising. However this too had its problems as the Memorial appeal coincided with large appeals being made by Edinburgh Infirmary and Edinburgh University and the many small appeals for Parish memorials, most of these that you see in our towns and villages were paid for by public subscription.

Lorimer did make substantial compromises to his plan. He suggested that Billing's Buildings should be retained and adapted to form a Memorial Gallery. On the North side he proposed a deep apse, the roof of this extension being no higher than the existing height of Billing's Buildings, protecting our famous skyline.

Finally, in April 1923 the opposition crumbled. The Ancient Monuments Board gave a favourable report on the changes, the War Office gave final and unqualified consent and, in October of that year, the Government approved Lorimer's designs. Six years after Atholl had made his original proposals the project went to tender and work began.

Robert Lorimer paid regular weekend visits to Blair Castle to discuss the fine detail and how every regiment, service and corps should be remembered, including the animals who in their own way had served and suffered in the war.

Some of the finest Scottish craftsmen and women of the day committed many hours to ensuring that every detail was correct. The windows had to lend a soft and subtle colour to the interior, but there had to be sufficient light to ensure that the names in the Books of Remembrance could be read.

The frieze in the Shrine, the work of Mrs Gertrude Alice Meredith Williams, was deemed by all to be a masterpiece and the Duke of Atholl was particularly delighted with it. Referring to "Mrs Meredith Williams' wonderful frieze", the Duchess of Atholl recorded, " The beauty of the frieze is in part due to her husband. During his three years in the ranks in France he made endless drawings of his fellow soldiers. The drawings furnished a priceless inspiration for the amazing number of men and women recorded in his wife's masterpiece".

It is clear from the records that both the Duke and the Duchess of Atholl played a major part in influencing the interior design of the building, particularly in relation to the subtle symbolism and the wonderful serenity and simplicity.

As there is no photography allowed in the War Memorial, this video allows those who have not visited the chance to get a rare glimpse of the building.

[phgq]

Velasco hopes for 'peaceful transition' of House leadership

#PHnews: Velasco hopes for 'peaceful transition' of House leadership

MANILA – Newly-installed Speaker Lord Allan Velasco on Monday expressed hope for a "peaceful transition" of the speakership of the House of Representatives.

In a speech after being elected as Speaker by 186 lawmakers during a remote session at the Celebrity Sports Plaza in Quezon City, Velasco said he would like to extend his hand and sit down with Taguig-Pateros Rep. Alan Peter Cayetano as they comply with the 15-21 term-sharing agreement brokered by President Rodrigo Duterte at the start of the 18th Congress in July last year.

"With this compelling proof that has installed me as Speaker of the House, I would like to extend my hand to Speaker Cayetano and hope that he would be amenable to sit down with me as we comply with the agreement for a peaceful transition for the benefit of our members and the country," Velasco said.

Velasco said he wanted to become Speaker in response to the "call of service", even as the country grapples with the coronavirus disease (Covid-19 pandemic).

"The true measure of leadership comes not when things are easy, but especially when things are most difficult. Whether famine or feast, poverty or plenty, a leader will always rise to the challenge and respond to the call of service," he said. "It has been a difficult journey to get to where we are, one fraught with many frustrations and complications, but then we are all here, and this is a testament to our indomitable spirit and our collective commitment to honoring our word.”

Velasco said the House, under his leadership, would continue to support President Rodrigo Duterte’s legislative agenda and contribute to the "shining legacy that the Duterte administration will leave behind".

He also vowed to pass laws that are responsive to the needs of Filipinos, as well as the passage of the proposed PHP4.5-trillion national budget for 2021.

“We commit to pass laws that are responsive to the needs of our fellow Filipinos here and abroad, laws focused on jobs, the economy, healthcare, food on the table, peace, and order, and clean and sustainable energy. And most of all, today’s events would ensure that the President’s call for a timely, legal and constitutional approval of the 2021 budget will be complied with,” he said.

He thanked the President, as well as Davao City Mayor Sara Duterte, Deputy Speaker Paolo Duterte, and Senator Bong Go for their support.

“Higit sa lahat, ako’y nagpapasalamat sa ating mahal na Pangulo, -- a man of his word -- may isang salita, sa mabuting halimbawa and for inspiring young government servants like me na hindi hadlang ang pagiging probinsyano para tayo ay makapag serbisyo (Most importantly, I’d like to thank our beloved President -- a man of his word -- for being a good example and for inspiring young government servants like me that being someone from the province should not be a hindrance to serve [the public]),” he said. “That a young probinsyano congressman from a small province like Marinduque can be elected Speaker of the House of Representatives... this can only happen in the age of Duterte when anything is possible for the benefit of the Filipino people.” 

‘Fake’ session

Cayetano, however, slammed the session held by lawmakers outside the Batasang Pambansa complex as “fake”.

“Ang purpose nila, manggulo (Their purpose is to cause disruption). The last time I checked, ang Celebrity Sports Club ay hindi Kongreso (the Celebrity Sports Club is not Congress). They are throwing the Constitution to waste. Fake session ang ginagawa nila (They held a fake session)," Cayetano said in a press conference at the same time the pro-Velasco lawmakers held their remote session.

Cayetano’s camp also released a copy of a manifesto signed by a total of 200 House members showing their support for him amid alleged ouster moves by the Velasco camp.

“Following the President’s call for the individual members of the House of Representatives to vote freely and without reservation on who we wish to lead this chamber, we the undersigned hereby manifest our full and unequivocal support for the continued leadership of Speaker Alan Peter Cayetano,” the lawmakers said in the manifesto.

In signing the manifesto, the 200 lawmakers said they were declaring their “common desire to heed the call of President Rodrigo Roa Duterte and the entire nation” for the swift passage of the proposed 2021 national budget.

“We likewise join the call of Speaker Alan Peter Cayetano and the leadership of the House of Representatives for unity and cooperation among our colleagues in all priority legislation that are in line with the efforts of the Duterte administration in combating the Covid-19 pandemic and providing a safe, prosperous, and comfortable life for all,” they said.

The lawmakers said they believe Cayetano’s resignation as Speaker on Sept. 30 had in effect rendered the term-sharing agreement between him and Velasco “moot and academic” as the majority had already spoken.

“We, therefore, call on Congressman Velasco to respect the collective desire of his peers to allow the continuation of Speaker Cayetano’s exemplary leadership,” they said.

They also reaffirmed their commitment to the people “to do what is right and stand up for the honor” not just of Cayetano but the entire House.

"We forge this agreement with you, our fellow citizens, to uphold your best interest against the pressures of partisan politics and personal interests,” they said.

Another manifesto circulated to the media, wherein 187 lawmakers have called to assemble, declare the speakership post vacant, and elect Velasco as the House’s next top leader.

"In accordance with Section 13, Rule 3 of the Rules of the House of Representatives, of the 18th Congress, we call to assemble, move to and cast our vote to declare the position of Speaker VACANT on Monday, October 12, 2020," the manifesto read. "Further, also in accordance with the same section, we will move to and cast our vote to declare Representative Lord Allan Velasco of Marinduque as Speaker of the House of Representatives of the 18th Congress."

The lawmakers slammed the move of the House leadership to “unceremoniously” terminate the budget deliberations and approve the 2021 General Appropriations Bill on second reading on Oct. 6.

“The current House leadership deprived the Filipino people of exercising, through their duly-elected Representatives, their right to participate in crafting a national budget that would best serve the country," they said. “The House members were stripped of their legislative duty to scrutinize the spending plan of various important agencies.”

The lawmakers pointed out that the creation of a “small committee” that will accept alterations to the budget is an “invalid delegation” that effectively railroads and replaces the important budget process, which consists of sponsorship, debate, and amendments. (PNA)

***

References:

* Philippine News Agency. "Velasco hopes for 'peaceful transition' of House leadership." Philippine News Agency. https://www.pna.gov.ph/articles/1118249 (accessed October 13, 2020 at 12:39AM UTC+14).

* Philippine News Agency. "Velasco hopes for 'peaceful transition' of House leadership." Archive Today. https://archive.ph/?run=1&url=https://www.pna.gov.ph/articles/1118249 (archived).

[superb-y-lab]

The Art of Punk and the Punk Aesthetic.

（Ramones Los Angeles fan club mail-out, USA, 1977. Source: Punk: An Aesthetic (Rizzoli).

... ...

For a musical and social movement that snarled in the face of authority and wasn’t averse to spitting at its friends, punk has received a great many shelf inches in the last 30 years respectfully devoted to histories, reassessments and eyewitness accounts. Today, there is even an academic journal exclusively devoted to the pursuit of punk and post-punk studies, which has just published its second issue. There can’t be much left to say about the music, clothing, media outrage and legendary gigs, but the graphic expression of punk has received less critical attention. Now, within weeks of each other, two thick, illustrated volumes have appeared: Punk: An Aesthetic (Rizzoli) edited by Johan Kugelberg and Jon Savage, and The Art of Punk (Omnibus Press/Voyageur Press) by Russ Bestley and Alex Ogg. Kugelberg and Savage have also curated “Someday all the adults will die!”, an exhibition of punk posters, handbills, record covers and ’zines at the Hayward Gallery in London.

The books are nicely complementary, with fewer overlaps in what they show than one might expect. Both address British and American punk, with the Rizzoli survey leaning towards the US, and the Omnibus volume inclining towards the UK, while also showing a strong awareness of punk scenes in other countries. Anyone nursing a serious interest in this subject will need to buy or consult both titles.

(Anarchy in the U.K. fanzine, UK, 1976. Photo: Ray Stevenson. Design: Jamie Reid. Source: Punk: An Aesthetic)

The editors’ approaches are different, too. Kugelberg and Savage’s book is more of an album, with the images presented in art-book style on a plain white page (no objections here — it’s good to be able to see the work clearly without punk-inspired page layouts intruding). These are smart writers and Savage, author of England’s Dreaming: Anarchy, Sex Pistols, Punk Rock, and Beyond, is a key participant in the era; his punk archive is now stored at Liverpool John Moores University. But neither author is a historian or critic of graphic art, design or visual culture. “The history of the punk aesthetic cannot be told, only shown,” claims Kugelberg, somewhat unpromisingly. Savage made punk collages with the artist Linder Sterling and he has some good observations about punk montage: “In the act of dismembering and reassembling the very images that were supposed to keep you down and ignorant, it was possible to counteract the violence of The Spectacle and to refashion the world around you.” He points to the visual influences of John Heartfield, Martin Sharp’s work at Oz magazine, the feminist artist Penny Slinger, the Beach Books 1960s pamphlets, and Dawn Ades’ Photomontage (1976). I bought Ades’ trail-blazing study when it came out and would love to hear more: which punk image-makers were looking at the book and what did they get from it?

Bestley and Ogg write with a carefulness of phrasing and appearance of academic detachment that only partially masks the same devotion to punk as listeners and fans. Punk graphics was the subject of Bestley’s PhD and he curated the earlier exhibition “Hitsville UK: Punk in the Faraway Towns”; he is course director of the graphic design MA at the London College of Communication. Ogg is author of No More Heroes, a history of British punk, and an editor of the Punk & Post-Punk journal. “It is important to question the notion of a direct association between work by prominent early punk designers and the emergence of a radical new visual language of parody and agitprop,” they write. “To an extent, the techniques adopted by Jamie Reid, for instance, were already widely accepted as the natural languages of anger and protest.” Such a comment can only be addressed to readers who know nothing about the histories of graphic design and graphic protest. As Savage and Kugelberg point out in their exhibition intro, punk’s precursors and putative influences include Dadaist collage, the Situationist International, the mail art movement, the graphics of counter-culture protest, and the 1960s underground press. I say “putative” because none of these connections is explored in depth and definitively established in their book.

(Situationist pamphlet by David Jacobs, USA, 1973. Source: Punk: An Aesthetic)

(Sex Pistols, Pretty Vacant poster, UK, 1977. Design: Jamie Reid. Source: The Art of Punk (Omnibus Press) The buses appear to come from David Jacobs’ design. Reid claims he sent the Situationist group the image in 1973)

(Pretty Disobedient, screenprinted poster by Shepard Fairey, USA, 2001. Signed by Fairey)

It was valuable to revisit so many original pieces in the exhibition after looking at small reproductions in the two books because the show communicates the explosive energy and “messthetic” rawness of punk graphics with persuasive power. This was an art of expediency, making use of collage, cartoon drawings, hand-lettering, rub-down lettering, ransom-note lettering, stencils (Savage and Kugelberg include a fantastic display of used stencils made by Crass), rubber-stamping and black and white Xerox copying, as well as silkscreen and offset litho. Looking at the discordant profusion of examples in the books, I kept trying to single out less familiar pieces that were highly accomplished as “design” from the many pieces that are hugely expressive and exciting, but not original or well resolved when seen in strictly graphic design terms. In the show, savoring scores of examples packed together at full size on the walls, those distinctions seemed irrelevant. These were raucous, vitality-filled transmissions from a turbulent graphic universe totally different in intention and effect from the smooth, orderly, design history-conscious parallel universe of professional design aesthetics, purposes and training. There didn’t necessarily have to be any points of contact or interchange between the two co-existing spheres.

(Flyer promoting a gig by Adam and the Ants, UK, 1977. Design: Adam Ant. Source: The Art of Punk)

(Poster promoting a gig by Crass, UK, 1978. Source: Punk: An Aesthetic)

But the question of the relationship between punk D.I.Y. design in its most basic or amateur forms and the later development of graphic design cannot be avoided for anyone who is both sensitive to punk’s impact and legacy (“the immediate implementation of D.I.Y. grassroots culture among the young” — Kugelberg) and committed to graphic design as a medium. Kugelberg and Savage say that the “anarchic upsurge in graphic creativity . . . revolutionised design,” a clear attempt to assert punk graphics’ significance beyond the punk subculture, yet this claim, too, can only be substantiated by a lot more detailed research. (In my book No More Rules, I connected punk’s anti-design ethos to the late 1980s/early 1990s idea of “deconstruction” in graphic design.)

In the UK, the punk-related designers that had most influence in the early 1980s were a handful of individuals such as Malcolm Garrett, who had been formally educated as graphic designers (in his case at the University of Reading and Manchester Polytechnic), though design’s mainstream was, in fact, slow to learn from and assimilate the lessons and styles of subcultural music design’s new wave. In any case, the graphic sensibility of Garrett’s work for Buzzcocks and Magazine, shown in The Art of Punk, has always seemed closer to “post-punk” graphic design than to what is commonly understood as punk — even allowing for Bestley and Ogg’s precautionary advice that “there is no one standard punk visual language” and that “a notion of a pure or authentic punk style is difficult to justify.”

(The Desperate Bicycles, “Occupied Territory” 7-inch single, Refill, UK, 1978. Source: The Art of Punk)

(Prag Vec, “Existential” 7-inch single, Spec, UK, 1978. Source: The Art of Punk)

(Black Flag, “Jealous Again” 12-inch EP, SST, USA, 1980. Design: Raymond Pettibon. Source: The Art of Punk)

It is no accident, too, that the stencil-based graphic identity of Crass, one of the most highly politicized punk bands, is so well coordinated and trenchant. “Both Gee [Vaucher] and myself trained as graphic artists,” Crass co-founder Penny Rimbaud tells Bestley and Ogg. “Both of us prior to Crass had brought money into the house by doing book design and that sort of stuff. And part of training as a graphic artist wasn’t just learning type[setting], it was also thinking in terms of marketing; a lot of the projects at college were: ‘This is the product, how do you design and market it? How do you create a corporate idea?’ . . . It was a very distinct policy that things should have an instantly recognizable image.”

(Crass, The Feeding of the 5000 LP, Crass, UK, 1978. Design: Gee Vaucher. Source: The Art of Punk)

(Crass, Yes Sir, I Will LP (back), Crass, UK, 1983. Design: Crass. Source: The Art of Punk)

There is an old slogan and rallying cry that insists, “Punk’s not dead.” Bestley and Ogg certainly believe that. Their book ends with examples of more recent punk design, though I find it hard to get excited by most of them in graphic terms. Punk might, as they say, have employed a fairly broad set of graphic conventions, but they remain as consistent and constrictive over time as those found in heavy metal. Kugelberg deduces from punk a more general lesson for today: “Form a band, start a blog, become an artist, a DJ, a guitar player, an editor.” No one can argue with that, though many might see it as a stretch to claim that, in 2012, these possibilities derive from punk’s mid-1970s example — unless, perhaps, one were to view punk prophetically as a form of science fiction. Interestingly, this is just how Savage does regard punk: as a “jump cut” into the future. “[P]eople in Britain see punk in terms of social realism and rock music. It was pure science fiction and it was very informed by J.G. Ballard, and by The Man Who Fell to Earth, among a lot of other things. . . . I think what’s important about punk is the idea that it was for a brief period very futuristic.” That’s another intriguing insight that calls out for more excavation.

(Anti, I Don’t Want to Die in Your War LP, New Underground, USA, 1982 Design: Dan Phillips, Ed Colver, Gary Kail. Source: The Art of Punk)

original from here.