#iain - anger

[dontlookherealexhorne]

Why does it feel like the contestants on series 8 are the stages of grief

[talmagemoorehead]

"What became of subtilty?" Understanding the Powerful Cult called...

"What became of subtilty?" Unraveling the left-hemisphere dominated cult that's taking over the USA.

Here’s a video interview of Iain McGilchrist, a psychiatrist and neuroscientist who never mentions the actual thing he’s talking about but gives the most ingenious and satisfying description of how and why a certain modern cultural poison is killing our happiness and annihilating life’s meaning, especially for young people here in the US. He calls it a crisis of total left-hemisphere dominance,…

[bastardtrait]

The following school day, the Whiteducks and Iain had words with Copperdale High's principal. Emotions ran hot and high. uncomfortable, sickening truths started to bubble to the surface.

transcript:

The following day

[SFX: Muffled yelling]

IAIN: …no--you tell me what the hell this school is gonna do about criminals like Konner Prescott! What you are gonna do about it! SHANIA: (numbly) Iain, don't yell. PRINCIPAL: Mr. Lucky-- HELEN: Mrs. Hawley, you have to understand that my son, an Indigenous boy, is now a statistic. Do you know how sickening that is? That boy needs to be expelled.

SHANIA: (shudders) Why did this have to happen to my boy…? PRINCIPAL: Mrs. Whiteduck, Mr. Lucky. I promise you, we are cooperating closely with the police to figure out exactly why this happened. I understand your anger, I do. But I have to ask you to remain level-headed about all of this… HELEN: Level-headed?! Let me tell you something, Mrs. Hawley…

TOBY: (quietly) I'm sorry I wasn't there, Ducko. EDDIE: You were there, Toby, it's okay. TOBY: It's not fucking okay, Eddie. I--I should've been there. I should've fucking been there.

EDDIE: …I just…why me? What the hell did I ever do to Konner, man…? SHANNON: Oh, Eddie… TOBY: I…I don't know. I don't know. But we can only hope he's going to be put away for awhile. EDDIE: He won't be. He's from some rich white family, and I'm not. TOBY/SHANNON: …

TOBY: Well, whatever happens, Eddie, trust me--trust me that I'm gonna be there. With you. EDDIE: … TOBY: Always. With you. Okay? EDDIE: …yeah. Okay. Thanks…Toby…

[myownwholewildworld]

acta, non verba - ii. there is no treachery in the art of war

chapter 1 | series masterlist | ao3 | main masterlist | chapter 3 (coming soon) pairing: conqueror!marcus acacius x ofc!reader. summary: you need to start moving the game along, but you cannot be too obvious. or... can you? a/n: hello there! c: here's the second chapter! there is quite a bit of character & world building in this one, as i felt it served the storyline, so i hope you guys like it! i wanted to thank you all for your nice, encouring words on the first chapter, it really motivated me to keep on writing! you guys are amazing 💖 as always, all interactions welcome, i do appreciate you liking, sharing and/or commenting! take care <3 warnings: 18+, mdni. references to marital abuse (physical and sexual) and child marriage (massive age gap, not in a cutesy way), in line with the time this story is set on. mentions of death/murder. mention of infertility. sexual tension galore (👀). a smidge of angst. w/c: ~8.6k. dividers by @saradika-graphics taglist at the end (let me know if you want to be added/removed please!)

“Honestly, I don’t think it’s a good idea, Callie”, Torcall sombrely warned you, his eyes locking on yours over the wooden spoon he tightly gripped close to his mouth.

“And what would you have me do then?”, you sneeringly replied back.

Your brother-in-law had been pestering you the whole morning about what your plan was to win your lands back. You knew the long game was your best bet — you didn’t have the numbers to face Rome on your own. Your athair had tried and failed in his attempt. Another defeat like the one your people suffered in Raedykes would destroy your clan. It would wipe you out off the map — everything your ancestors had worked for, gone under the crushing yoke of the Romans.

“I would not have you whoring yourself out to a fucking Roman, that’s for sure. Your athair would be so disappointed in you.” He snapped back at you, anger flowing in his words.

His reply stung badly, so much you unconsciously crossed your arms at chest level — an unvoluntary gesture to protect yourself from his accusation.

“That’s beyond the point”, you barked, the green of your irises burning like hellish fire. “And my father would be just fine with my decision. Need I remind you who he married me off to?”

Torcall’s knuckles went white as his fingers pressed around the spoon harshly. You cocked a brow, unwavering.

Ten years ago, your athair had reached an agreement with Iain of Am Baile Ùr(Insh), the lord of Badenoch whose state was a few miles south of your birthplace. For as long as Caledonia had formed, there had always been internal disputes about who was the rightful heir to the Overlord title.

The clan who held the stronghold at Inbhir Nis had historically always been considered the legitimate title’s holder. Your family had been the keepers of the land for as long as anyone could remember. But it didn’t stop those who were thirsty for power, so your father had to prove himself over and over again.

After several bloody skirmishes, Murdoch of Inbhir Nis had crowned himself, yet again, lord and master of Caledonia. Iain had been a strong contestant against your father and was only appeased when your athair offered you as a consolation prize to him, as if you were a lamb up for sale at the local market. A cheap one at that.

At the tender age of six and ten, you had been shipped off to an unknown land to be wife to a man you had never seen before. The next ten years of your life would be living hell — what you had to endure, you would not wish it upon your worst enemy.

The memories that would crawl back at night would still wake you up, a cold sweat trickling down your spine every time. Abuse in your arranged marriage was your bread and butter. Every time you returned home under the prying, controlling eyes of Iain or your family came to visit, you would lie to them about the new bruise on your cheek, the limp you had for a couple of weeks or the teeth marks on your neck. Murdoch was the last to realise, unable to come to terms with the destiny he had forced upon you. And by the time he did, there was not much he could do without infuriating Iain, without risking another war.

The peace of the Caledonians outweighed your suffering, after all. You were not worth such a bloodshed.

So you pushed through it all and survived — for family, for clan, for honour. Never resented your father either; he had a duty to protect his tribe, and so did you. For a decade you dragged yourself across ember and ash, until you finally caught a break six months ago.

Iain was found dead in the marital bed, his eyes wide open and his expression struck with horror, as if a wraith had taken his life. At the mature age of six and sixty, you had been his third wife, so when his only son and heir from his first marriage ascended, you were no longer needed. With no family of your own tying you to that ghostly place, you packed your things and swiftly left, the Will' O' the Wisps guiding you home.

“I didn’t mean it that way”, his answer burst out in a pitiful whisper. One of your eyebrows raised even further into your forehead. “I’m sorry.”

You sighed, unfolding your arms and looking at the cold broth in front of you. Grabbing the spoon again, you swirled it in the bowl aimlessly. You didn’t need your most trusted ally questioning your decisions, not when the whole clan depended on your actions. At least he was doing so in the intimacy of a crannog and not in front of your folk.

“I’m just trying my best, Torcall. I know I can win our freedom back, so I need you to have some faith in me. How I get to the endgame is up to me. The means justify the end.” Your words were imbued with unfaltering determination.

“I do trust you, Callie. With my life and the lives of my children”, he mumbled solemnly with a curtsy as his eyes drifted to the other end of the room.

Your niece and nephew, whom you loved dearly, were obliviously playing with some wooden swords their father had handcrafted a while back. They were six years of age, both born during the cold winter months. The twins had filled the blackhole in your heart, one that your marriage had not been able to lade.

“Ah, ye brute!” Your nephew, Daimh, let the sword slip from his fingers to hold his hand close to his chest. “You’ve hurt me, Iona!”

His little feet dabbed towards you, raising his injured hand in the air.

“Auntaidh (auntie), Iona has broken my fingers, look!”, he wept while you cradled his hand.

“Oh, come on here, mo laochain (my little hero). Let me see”, you said while rubbing his hand between yours and kissing it where it hurt.

“What a wimpy!”, Iona complained, running to her father. “I won, daddy!” Her proud, high-pitched voice squealed in excitement, and you couldn’t hide your smile.

“I’m going to tell màthair (mother)!”, Daimh blew raspberries at his sister, and she reciprocated from the other side of the table.

Your heart sunk to your stomach at the mention of Maisie, tears welling up at the corner of your eyes. Both you and Torcall had explained to them that their mother had been reunited with Dhuosnos, God of the Dead, but they were too little to fully understand what that entailed, what it truly meant.

“When is mama coming back from Tech Duinn (House of Dhuosnos), daddy? I miss her dearly”, Iona’s innocent words ripped at your heart.

Torcall and you exchanged mournful glances.

“Aye, me too”, exclaimed Daimh as he snuggled in your arms.

“So do we, sweet pea, so do we”, you mumbled as you kissed the crown of his blonde head.

Daimh stirred in your arms, his green eyes piercing yours. He looked so much like his mother that it was painful. Maisie and you had the same emerald irises, although she had been blonde. Daimh and Iona were living images of her.

“When can we go home? This place smells funny”, your nephew questioned while he sat on your lap.

You wished you could tell him. Your whole family had been living in the castle that now Marcus Acacius occupied. Torcall and his children could not risk staying there, not when the threat of death was hanging above them. If the Romans knew your sister had offspring, they would hunt them down.

Despite the adversity, you had been lucky in a sense. The highlanders had always been wary of strangers — outsiders brought tragedy with them, in the way of disease or war. The Caledonians had learnt to keep their distance, to be extremely cautious. So, when the General and his army arrived, no one spoke of your family, not even when questioned.

Your people, despite the differences that had them at each other’s throats some years back, were loyal to you. And it was their fealty what enabled your plan, what allowed you to pretend, to just be another servant girl.

So Torcall, his children and you had sought refuge in the skirts of town. Your uncail Aengus’ wife had welcomed you into her home.

The crannog was a circular hut with a straw roof, the walls made of mud, rocks, wood. There was only one big, round room, with an open hearth which kept the inside warm. The open shelving gathered some necessary clutter, but there were many things scattered around the place. There were only three beds lined up against the wall, which meant that you shared a bed with Iona and Torcall with his son. Your cousins had moved out to the small barn just a few feet away to make room for you.

It was cramped and very modest in comparison to the thick walls of your castle, but it was a roof over your heads. You were extremely grateful to her. Your heart still wept at the memory of telling her the demise of her husband.

“Soon we will, but in the meantime, we are keeping Bonnie and her sons company. And this place smells just fine. Are you sure it’s not you, you stinky little deamhan (demon)?”, you jested, pinching his nose and then tickling his ribs.

His laughter was a soothing balm on your aching, longing heart.

“Was everything as expected, Dominus?” His Roman servant asked, his head bowed to him.

Marcus patted the corners of his mouth with the rag on his lap and then nodded to Atticus. The food was somewhat decent, a venison stew with some root vegetables he could not identify. The bread, unsurprisingly, was a bit stale, so he had left it untouched.

The great hall was lugubrious, silence filling up the atmosphere. There were two other maids in the room, cowering in a corner with averted eyes. They only spoke a barbarian language he had no wish to learn. Communication with the natives was extremely difficult, as they seemed to be uneducated.

But there was one lass who knew how to speak Latin — you, Callie.

He wondered where you had gone. Marcus had not seen you since your encounter in his new-found bedchamber. It had been three days since then and with each passing one, he found himself searching the room for you. There was something about you that had reeled him in but was unsure of what it was. Maybe it was the eerie, magical aura that surrounded your fiery hair — or maybe it was the way you carried yourself, the way you had briefly but decisively held his gaze. The way you quickly retreated — unwillingly.

Marcus imperceptibly shook his head and waved his hand at Atticus, motioning for him to pour another cup of the bitter wine.

“Yes”, he simply replied, bringing the wooden chalice to his lips.

Atticus signalled the young women to come forward and they quickly cleared the table of dishes and cutlery. When he was alone with his servant, away from enemies’ ears, he signalled at Atticus, who quickly stepped forward.

“Fetch my commanders and bring them here. There are matters I need to discuss with them”, Marcus demanded of him.

His attendant curtsied and vanished from the great hall, leaving him alone.

Marcus was taking in every detail of the room, of the tapestries and their stories, when a scattering sound distracted him. He thought to hear a commotion, then a blasphemy. Curious, he stood up, stepped off the dais and sauntered towards the double doors. The door was slightly ajar, so he only had to push it for it to swing open.

There was nothing in the corridor except for a distinct scent. Rosemary and thyme with a hint of something unrecognisable, he identified. A smell that had loitered in his bedchamber once you left. Wrinkling his aquiline nose, he caught something in the corner of his eye. He turned to see how a shadow dissipated at the end of the corridor.

Furrowing his brows and in long strides, Marcus covered the distance, tracking the distinct aroma — like a lost man after the beckoning of a nymph, he followed. As he was about to turn the corner, he almost collided with Maximus, Valerius and Cassius.

“My lord,” Cassius was the first to talk, “we were on our way to you. You wished to see us?”

Marcus tried to conceal his confusion at the sight of the three men. With his head slightly tilted, he asked, “Did you encounter anyone on your way to me, Commander?”

Cassius slowly shook his head no, baffled by the question. “No, Dominus, no one. Were you expecting someone else?”

The General hmphed, taciturn. He needed to be cautious — if the tapestries were right, ungodly, mythical creatures lingered between the walls of the castle. Evil ones at that.

“Worry not”, Marcus rapidly dismissed. “Follow me, gentlemen.”

The four men sat at the rectangular table on the dais, Marcus’ fingers drumming on the wood as Maximus flattened a piece of parchment before him.

“These are some names that have been thrown around in the last few days, people who may act on their rebellious comments. Our spies have been trying their best to mix in with the townies, but they are tough nuts to crack. They are wary even of the people who speak their own language”, Maximus’ index finger slid down the list as he talked.

Marcus’ hand darted forward and pinched one corner of the parchment, pulling it towards him. His eyes scanned the unfamiliar names.

The barbarians did not use surnames, which spoke to their lack of sophistication. Instead, they used patronyms and the land where they were born, so the list made it difficult to identify individuals who might belong to the same family. Knowing what families were a menace would be a great advantage, one they did not have.

“There seems to be a recurrent name here”, Marcus paused, his fingertip pointing to the words scribbled in lead ink. “Seumas and Anndra of Dail an Eich (Dalneigh), sons of Aengus. Who is this Aengus?”, he questioned, looking up to the frowning faces.

“We are not sure, Dominus. As I said, the villagers are not talking much”, Cassius replied, his fingers intertwined, resting atop of the wooden table.

“Well, find out then. I don’t care how you get the information. Just get it”, Marcus’ back reclined against the chair he was sat on. He felt like they were wasting his time with trivial details. He needed more than that.

“You didn’t get Murdoch’s wife to talk, even when she was hanged half dead in a cage off the main tower, after being brutally tortured and whatever else you inflicted upon her, and you expect us to get names just like that?”, Valerius’ insolence spoke for him.

Marcus’ eyes lazily locked on his commander’s. He should have his ill-mannered tongue cut out for such disdainful arrogance. Valerius’ Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he forcefully swallowed, his eyes slightly widened, realising his impertinence.

Whispers flew around the town; his name being cursed from mouth to mouth. Marcus was not too worried about whatever rumours they could spread about him. They probably would be true — he was no saint.

But Marcus had not been the one who had ordered such distasteful death upon Mòrag, wife of Murdoch. Agricola did, with no respect for his name when he dropped it mid-sentence. Marcus did not even lay an eye on her, even less a hand.

Let them all think what they might. Marcus was used to being the scapegoat of the governor — when something went wrong, Agricola would blame him. And when something went right, he would just take credit for himself, the evil, power-thirsty rat.

He looked at Valerius dead in his eyes, one cocked brow showing his mild incredulity.

“Do you have something to say, Valerius? I hear a certain condemning tone in your words?”, his voice was flat, devoid of emotion, but the reality was there was a raging fire within him he could not make manifest.

“Absolutely not, my lord”, the man bowed his head to him, his knuckles white.

“Then be gone. All of you. Find those two men or I will have you hanged too.”

The resolution in his tone scared the seasoned warriors, who quickly said their goodbyes and hurriedly left the premises.

Marcus’ elbows sunk in the wooden table, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. He was angry, but amongst all, he was tired — tired of masking, of cleaning up after Agricola’s hideous actions, of power plays, of trickery, betrayal and deception. He was surrounded by it all.

At eight and forty, he was tired of war and conquest. He had seen it all, lived it all. If retirement would be an option, he would gladly take it. But he knew — he would wield a sword till the day he died in a godforsaken battlefield, till Pluto welcomed him with open arms. Rome would not have him any other way.

Marcus Acacius was truly exhausted.

So it was him who had your beautiful màthair tortured and hanged in a cage until she greeted death. Your blood boiled as your breath quickened. The rage flickered inside you like wild flames burning down an entire civilisation.

When the rangers announced your arrival to a few selected loyal men who had stayed behind, they got out at night to cut the ropes holding the cage your mother had been thrown in. They did not want you to see such act of savagery.

Your kinsmen had really tried to conceal how badly damaged your mother’s body was. Despite the heartache, you had been grateful that they had gone to the effort of making her somewhat presentable. But one look at her mangled body had been enough to understand what type of wickedness you were up against.

In the dead of night, you had buried Mòrag, the woman who so selflessly gave you life, in the outskirts of town. Just like her other children and husband, she would not rest under the family’s chambered cairns. Your family had been wiped out of history as if they were mere droplets in a vast ocean of human tragedy.

With one ear flat against the wooden door to the great hall, you unknowingly squinted your eyes, trying to listen to the rest of the conversation. If someone caught you eavesdropping, you would have a lot of explaining to do. But so far your spying was being productive — you would need to warn your cousins when you got home that night.

The faint sound of approaching footsteps made your heart jolt in your chest.

“Cac (shite)!”, you swore, frantically looking for a place to stow yourself away.

Picking up your skirt so you would not trip, you hid in a nearby garderobe. The cupboard smelt sweet and musty — barrels of wine decorated the whole height of the stone walls. The scent was so intense, you felt it soaking through your skin, appeasing the craze that had a tight grip on your mind. The darkness that surrounded you only accentuated your sense of smell. Could you get inebriated just with the sugary aroma of grape juice?

When the booted treads slowly faded away, you quietly pushed the door open, emerging back into the cold corridor — the contrasting temperature between the garderobe and the hallway gave you goosebumps. Palm flat against the wood and the other hand tightly gripping the iron pull handle, you gently shoved the door back into its frame, hoping to make no noise.

“What are you doing?”, a deep, masculine voice startled you, making you jump on the spot.

A set of warm, firm arms wrapped around you as you stumbled with your feet. They enveloped you so steadfastly, your body involuntarily relaxed against the person behind you. Leaning back, your back met the cold touch of metal.

Swallowing a profanity that would bring a repenting clergyman down to his knees, you turned around, in the arms that held you tight, to face the embodiment of hate. Your hate.

Marcus Acacius was standing, all righteous and proud, intimately close to you. He was wearing an impeccable white armour with golden details. Two flaxen griffins adorned the center of the plackart, their claws wrapping around a floral design. Linen straps, snug around his hips, fell from his waist, covering the fauld and the tasset underneath.

Marcus’ body was a fountain of warmth, even with all the layers enfolding his frame. His arms, although tense around you, did not feel suffocating — in fact, they were almost coddling you into a state of ataraxia as your brain quietened. His hug exuded a sense of security you had not felt in years — as if nothing nor no one could ever harm you as long as you stayed in Marcus’ embrace.

You traced the topography of his plackart with your fingers, your palms resting against the alloy, as your eyes peeked up —he was considerably taller than you— and were met with the fervour of two brown irises. Their gravity pulled you in for an eternal second. With your face near his, you picked up on the tired bearing on his face, the wrinkles around his eyes, the hard press of his lips. A kempt but patchy beard coated his jawline, and salt and peppered hair curled at the nape of his thick, muscular neck — a stray silver lock caressing his forehead, asking to be tucked away.

Your fingertips suddenly itched with longing, your eyes slightly widened, and your mouth partially parted. And then you came back to reality with the full force of your conscience yapping at you. What the hell? You had to control the contortion of your face so your disappointment would not be evident. It’s because I want to slap him so bad, was your afterthought.

Something changed in his expression — Marcus suddenly let you go, leaving you cold again. As if it was a rehearsed move, you both took a step back, breaking the electric contact that snapped between your bodies.

You now realised his clean image was a shocking contrast to how you first met him. Covered in mud, blood and sweat, his untamed expression as he dispatched your father still haunted you at night. And that was how you had to remember him. Sinking his gladius in your father’s belly. And nothing else.

“Well?”, the General insisted after clearing his throat, his eyebrows knitting together as he folded his arms.

You rapidly lowered your gaze when you realised you had been looking at him too intently, too directly. A maid would have fainted at the audacity you had just shown him. But you were no maid — albeit he was not privy of such detail for obvious reasons.

You hoped he didn’t notice, although you could feel his eyes studying you eagerly.

“I— I was looking for wine, Dominus.” You faked the stammering in an attempt to convey innocence. “Cormag, the cook, wants a very specific wine to accompany your supper, Dux Meus (My General/Leader). I was making sure we had it.”

“And what wine is that, if I dare ask?”, he pressed with a steely voice.

Thalla gu taigh na galla (go to hell), you thought, browsing your brain for a quick reply.

“It’s a fine wine imported from Carmo, my lord.” Your father had been a wine enthusiast, so you knew some places he had his wine shipped from. Not that it really meant anything to you, anyway.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his arms falling to his sides, his threatening posture softening.

“Carmo? In the Baetic region of Hispania?”, Marcus’ incredulous voice made you glance up at him through your long eyelashes.

You nodded, your fingers laced at your front as you bowed your head again, showing a deference you didn’t really feel towards him. And you prayed there was at least a few drops left of said wine in one of the barrels, or you would be in trouble come dinner.

“That’s one of my favourites”, he let slip and you instantly knew he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

Feigning bravery, you fanned your eyelashes back at him, a half-smile softening your lips. The General almost looked mortified at the fact of letting a stranger know about his likes. You could see it in his eyes — the brief moment of asking himself, “What have I just said?” Although he seemed all stoic and unattainable, he was just a man. Just like any other.

“Is that so?” You did not wait for a reply you knew would never come. “I’ll try and remember that, Dominus, to make sure we never run out.”

He was a hard man to read, you would give him that. His expression didn’t flinch, as if your words had gone over his head. The only sign he had actually listened was a subtle tic on his jaw.

You just needed to drop some hints here and there, let him brew. If you were too obvious with your intentions, Marcus would become suspicious. You knew nothing about the man except he was a cold-blooded murderer, but perceived he was observant. Probably too observant.

“If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I wish to retire now so I can attend to my tasks.” Asking for permission was not something that came naturally to you, but it was a trained response you had learnt from your late husband.

“Take your leave then”, he granted, his hands hiding on his back.

You curtsied. “Thank you, Dux Meus.”

Marcus turned on his heels in a swift whoosh, the sword swaying in front of him, his fingers gripping the handle tight. He intuited his opponent’s next move before it happened, so he bent his knees and ducked his head right under the swing of Maximus’ gladius. With a wild, toothy smile, Marcus pulled back, weighing the blade on his left hand.

“So predictable”, he teased the commander, who was an old friend of his.

If one could have friends in the midst of war, that was. Their friendship easily transformed depending on the circumstances — in war matters, Maximus knew to respect Marcus above everything else. Outside of that, they just were two friends with a long history behind them.

“I’m being gentle, lord General. We have spectators, I don’t want to embarrass you. I know your ego is as fragile as a rose’s petal”, Maximus chaffed, a grin taking over his mouth as they circled each other like two lions on the gladiator’s pit.

Marcus’ tunnel vision had him so tuned in on his friend’s advances, he had not realised that a small group of people had gathered around the makeshift arena. Feeling a sudden heaviness weighing him down, Marcus combed the gathered faces in one sweep.

Until his eyes locked in on yours. He saw a glimpse of wonder metamorphosing into surprise in your emerald greens — then you quickly withdrew your eyes from his at the realisation of getting caught staring.

There was something about you that drew him in — something mysterious, uncanny, but also strangely enticing. Exciting. Your eyes spoke of mischief, of adventure, of the unknown. Of something eerie, almost witchy. The flickering, iridescent fire within them had him under a spell for a brief moment.

Marcus vividly remembered holding you against his chest, your soft curves perfectly moulding to his hard edges. Even through the armour, he had felt the heat your body irradiated, the way it seeped through to envelop him, soothe him. For a moment, having you between his arms felt just right. And that thought had unsettled him gravely, letting go of you as such wild, unnerving concept sank in — his mind point-blank rejecting the notion.

Despite his inner refusal, how you looked back at him would plague him. For days and nights on end.

Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus watched as Maximus inched forward, the sword aiming at his open flank. Just in the nick of time, the General’s steel deflected the attack.

“Getting distracted? That’s unusual of you, Marcus”, the commander jeered at him, closing in.

Marcus scoffed at his words, bluffing. But the reality was that Maximus had hit the nail in the head. Not that he was going to acknowledge it in public anyway. If he was to successfully bring Maximus down, he needed to focus on the task at hand and not think about a green-eyed nymph.

Studying his adversary’s body language, his feet dragged on the sand. Maximus was on edge, tense, too focused on his sword, so Marcus wagered a distraction would tip the scales in his favour. Maintaining eye contact, he slowly knelt, the fingers of his non-occupied right hand extended, palm down. Maximus’ brows wrinkled when he saw Marcus getting a fistful of sand and the General knew he had the diversion he was looking for.

With Maximus focused on his right hand, too worried with a cloud of sand that would get in his eyes, Marcus took the chance, quickly stood up and swung his heavy sword against his rival’s left loin. Maximus did not have time to prepare for the impact and so dropped to the ground.

Marcus smiled with sufficiency, straightening out his aching back, and offered a hand to his old friend.

With a grunt, Maximus accepted his gesture and got up, palming Marcus’ back soundly.

“You treacherous man, making me believe you were going to blind me”, he quipped as they both started to walk out of the circle people had formed around them.

“There is no treachery in the art of war”, Marcus replied, patting his friend’s back in playful jest.

A loud snort made Marcus look around him. He had no time to fully study your face, but he could swear you had made that disapproving noise before turning on your heels and trotting off.

Confusion and a smidge of curiosity settled in him — what had he done to gain your dissent when a minute ago awe darkened your eyes? The sudden change in your attitude left a lingering question in the back of his head as he and Maximus ushered towards the barracks in the northwest corner of the bailey.

“But you shouldn’t be serving, mo bhean-uasal (my lady)”, whispered the young lass, her hands twisting in her lap with nervousness.

“Shush, Brighid, lower your tone.” Anxiously you checked out your surroundings, ensuring you were alone. You were relieved to know you were. “You cannae refer to me like that. I’m just Callie now, remember?”

Upon your arrival to Inbhir Nis, Torcall and your father’s retinue —now yours, you guessed— had made everyone aware that the Romans thought you dead and hence, concealing your identity was of utmost importance. A slip of a tongue and you would be hanging in a cage too. Every passing day you feared someone might forget and show you deference publicly — but you had to trust that no one would run off at the mouth and rat you out.

“Duilich (sorry), mo bh— Callie. I—I promise I didn’t mean to”, she profusely apologised, her big wide eyes begging for your pardon. The wee lass could not stop fidgeting.

“I know, I know”, you tried to calm her down, placing your hand on her forearm. “But please, I need to take your place tonight.”

“Cormag will fire me for not turning up. I cannae afford that, my family depends on me.” Her pleading plucked some fast beats out of your heart.

“Don’t fret about it, lass. I’ll speak to that old crank of a man, he owes me. You’ll get paid, awright? He’ll be fine with it, I promise.” You gently squeezed her forearm, so your words would sink in.

Her eyes broadened in understanding. Before the girl could think about her actions, she jolted forward, her arms wrapping around your shoulders. You could only smile at her relief and let out a soft cackle when Brighid lumbered back, mortified.

“I’m so sorry, do Ghras (Your Grace).” Her excitement was so palpable the poor girl didn’t notice the second blunder.

“BRIGHID!”, a raspy threat left your tongue as you jerked her closer to you by the elbow. “For the love of Morrìgan, do watch your mouth!”

The young servant covered her mouth with both hands, her eyes speaking of self-reproach as it dawned on her. “I’ll have it sewn”, she muttered with great remorse.

The guilt splayed across her heart-shaped face brought a smirk to your lips. “Off you go now, before your runny tongue gets me into trouble.”

Brighid scurried away towards the barbican, and you hurried along to the kitchens. You followed the tangled web of corridors and passages thoughtlessly — you had played hide and seek countless times with your siblings between the stone walls, there was no nook nor cranny you were not familiar with.

The air got denser as you approached, the thick smoke of the open hearth filling your lungs. Repressing a cough, you entered the galley as good ol’ Cormag was shouting orders at the helping lads. The head cook had an aging face, creases around his grey eyes and bulbous nose, and a thick bush of white hair — hair strands shooting in every direction, almost comically. He was short and round around the belly, living proof of his good, delicious cooking.

“Keep fanning the fire, ye lazy ass! Don’t you see it’s going to die out? Faster, stronger! Aren’t you supposed to be young and full of life?!”, Cormag had wrapped his thick fingers around the brittle wrists of the lad, forcing his feeble arms up and down, fingers tight around a thin plank of wood. “Tiugainn (come on), with more enthusiasm, ye numpty!”

“Do you really think that’s how you motivate the young lads to do a good job, Cormag?” You questioned his teaching approach, with folded arms and a cocked brow.

An oath escaped his mouth as the cook turned around, his face downcast at your reprimand. “Callie!”

Thank the gods someone remembered how to approach you now. It came easier to Cormag though, considering that he was almost like family to you. The old man had seen you grow, having served your father since before you were even born. He was there, on the background, to wave you goodbye every time you had to return to Am Baile Ùr. And each time you came back, he had a full plate of haggis with a side of neeps and tatties waiting for you.

“No wonder your apprentices quit so fast if you treat them like that, Cormag. Have you no manners?” You kidded — the man had the filthiest mouth of the shire.

“I was raised by an ogre, young lady, of course I don’t”, he jokingly replied, cleaning his dirty hands on the apron tied around his round belly.

“Aye, and Nessie was your pet. I’ve heard that story before awright. I am still to see proof of such claims though.” Unfolding your arms you approached him, immediately going in for a bear hug.

Cormag palmed your back enthusiastically and you circled his stout frame, sinking in the comfort of his presence. In the blink of an eye, you were a five-year-old crybaby being consoled by a younger Cormag because there were no more mutton pies left that you could shove down your tiny mouth.

“I heard you were back, fear beag (little one). Wondered when you’d come visit this old git.” With a last squeeze, he took a step back, his hands placed on your shoulders. “Know you’ve probably heard this a thousand times now, but I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

His whisper was loaded with a heavy affection that shot your heart down to your stomach. Pressing your lips to stop your face from contorting at the memory of being alone in this world, you nodded, almost frantically, and sniffed. His eyes were a reflection of yours — the friendship between your athair and Cormag had been a staple in your life for as long as you could remember.

“But let’s not get all teary now!”, his demeanour changed as he rubbed your shoulders before taking a step back. “Got something for you.”

He turned around to rummage through a rattan basket on one of the counters. Cormag exclaimed an enthusiastic “Ha!” when he got his hands on what he was looking for. Then he presented his discovery to you with a flourish that made you crow.

When you saw the peachy plum on the palm of his hand, you almost squealed. “Plums!” You quickly snatched it, afraid he would take it away.

“I arranged for these to be brought from Fachabair (Fochabers). The cook who serves the clan chief there is an old friend of mine.”

“But Cormag, plums are not in season yet!” You marvelled at the sight, munching on the delicious fruit eagerly. Your eyes almost rolled to the back of your head.

“I know.” He winked at you mysteriously, but you didn’t press the matter if it meant you could get your hands on some more plums.

“I did come to you with a favour to ask”, you batted your eyelashes at him, anticipating his disapproval.

He looked at you, inquisitorial — it was his turn to fold arms at the chest. Cormag snapped his tongue as if to say, “do go on”.

“I already convinced Brighid so you cannae be mad at her. In fact, I promised her you wouldn’t.” You grinned at him, his face already puckering with exasperation. “I’m taking her place tonight as a serving maid.”

“Have you lost your damn mind, lass? Nay, I’m not having it”, he quickly dismissed you, grunting.

“I’m not asking for permission. I need to be there, I—” Just in time, you remembered that the two lads were still running around the fireplace, trying to keep the flames alive. “I’ll fill you in later, but I have to be there, there’s no discussion about it.”

“What? Serving that Roman scoundrel? There’s more royal blood in you than there is in him.” He was more offended than you were.

You laughed, patting his forearm. The old man already hated the Romans more than you did, and that was difficult to accomplish.

“Aye, and that’s not the worst bit, Cormag”, you teased him, because you knew he would lose his mind with rage.

“Enlighten me”, he said between gritted teeth.

“We are serving the Corma wine tonight with supper”, you pursed your lips, watching his reaction.

His round face turned all shades of red, and his nostrils flared. If it was physically possible, his ears would be steaming too, like a ceramic pot with boiling water over the open fire.

“NAY, OVER MY DEAD FUCKING BODY!”, he exploded, shaking his arms over his head in disbelief, and you burst into laughter. Cormag was too expressive. “Ah, no, NO. We are not wasting such finery on that murderous cunt!”

You blinked rapidly at him to appease his fury, but his rage just gleamed brighter.

“Well… I kinda told him we would. You winnae make me look like a liar, right, Cormag?”, you muttered, as if you were a child who had committed the grave felony of stealing a sweet off the counter.

“You did WHAT?!”, he snorted angrily.

“Tìoraidh (bye)!”, you effusively waved him goodbye as you bit into the plum, sprinting off and ducking when you heard the wooden spoon flying by your ear.

“Trobhad (come here)!”, but you had already turned the corner into the hallway.

Why he was so taut, he did not fully understand. Marcus’ body was in high alert, and he had his suspicions about the cause.

You were just a woman like any other. Sure, your green eyes flickered like hellfire, your red hair was so bright it looked like you were up in flames, your upturned nose covered in freckles twitched adorably, and the skin on your hands was unusually soft — but that was it, really.

So you were nothing out of the ordinary, he kept telling himself. But it was hard to keep to that line of thought when your breast would brush against his shoulder every time you approached to clear the table from empty plates, when your velvety fingers would briefly caress the back of his hand while reaching for his cutlery, or when you would talk too close to his ear, a tingling sensation on the back of his neck almost making him shiver uncomfortably.

Marcus did not know if you were doing it on purpose or not — your face had an innocent look to it that was hard to read for him. The most prudent thing would be to ignore it all — ignore you. Surely you were only being suggestive in his imagination. And he still had the feeling something had upset you that afternoon when you stormed off after his training session.

“How’s the wine, Dux Meus?”, your sweet voice trickled from your plush lips like honey.

The way you kept referring to him as Dux Meus unsettled him. The first time you had said it during your encounter in the corridor, it caused certain havoc in his mind — and body.

Although it was appropriate for his title, no one really referred to him like that. My leader, my general, my god. It was the last connotation what made him feel… uneasy, for lack of a better word. It just sounded too intimate, the way it would pour from your oval-shaped mouth.

Marcus blamed it on Latin not being your first language. If you knew how seductively it rolled from your lips, he was sure you would stop addressing him like that straight away. Which meant he should correct you, tell you to just stick to Dominus.

But for whatever inexplicable reason, he did not.

“It’s as tasty and earthy as I remember it.” He replied, his fingers wrapping around the chalice with more strength than what was necessary.

You smiled at him, one of your hands gently placed on his right shoulder giving him a subtle squeeze.

“I’m glad to hear it, my lord”, you mumbled, Marcus’ eyes following the movement of your hand when you broke contact.

You inched forward over his shoulder to grab the glass jug and refill his cup, gifting him with the sight of your generous cleavage — your breasts almost spilling over the neckline of the dark blue, linen dress that so tightly wrapped around your hourglass figure.

Marcus had to swallow hard, tension suddenly building up on his groin. Was he getting hard just by the mere touch of a woman? He sucked in his breath while forcing himself to look forward, not down.

He just nodded in reply, unable to find his voice. If he had talked, he would have just groaned in frustration. Marcus had to readjust his posture as he saw you walking away, your waist evocatively swaying sideways with every step you took.

“I’m sure the wine is not the only tasty thing around here.”

Maximus’ whispered jest forced Marcus to look in his direction, turning to his left. They, along with the other commanders and a few other people of importance, were sat on the table on the dais, facing the crowd. Other tables were scattered around the great hall, where some legionnaires were enjoying a meal and a drink, sharing a joke and bursting in laughter.

“I don’t follow”, he grunted, feigning ignorance, before taking a sip.

“Oh, you do follow. At least your eyes do.” Maximus mocked him while Marcus just sneered at him, eyes squinting. “No one would blame you though. We are far away in an unknown land, and we all have needs to satisfy. I myself am considering getting laid tonight.”

 “I did not doubt you would.” Men like Maximus had no consideration for their wives.

Neither does Livia, the intrusive thought wiggled its way through his mind. Despite the lack of passion in bed with his spouse, Marcus had been a faithful husband. While others looked for warmth in the folds of a pleasure woman after a battle, the General would tend to his wounds and rest, focusing on what next skirmish lied ahead.

And while he had been loyal although there was never love between them, Livia had been fucking the “love of her life”, as she had referred to the man stuffing her cunt full during his long absences. Marcus was yet to know his name. What he would do with that information, he did not know.

Thinking of his perfidious wife had an extinguishing effect on him. The strain against his subligaculum (underwear) had softened.

“You’re too tense, Marcus. You need to relax, have some fun. I bet you two denarii that she will fuck the stress out of you expertly, I can tell.” Maximus pressed maliciously, conscious of how uncomfortable the conversation would make Marcus feel.

“Just shut up, will you?”, Marcus snapped back, tired of his friend’s quips, and downing the drink in his cup.

Maximus laughed it off and turned to talk to Cassius when you sauntered towards the table again, stopping right behind him.

“More wine, Dux Meus?”, you asked, infusing your honeyed voice with a sweet touch of flirtation.

You bent over his shoulder again, hand lazily looking for the wine jug in front of him. His hazel eyes fell on your bosom again and your nipples involuntarily hardened at the desire you saw in him — you were sure he noticed them peeking through the thin fabric.

In your attempts to arouse him, your body was betraying you, getting warm in all the wrong places. As much as you wanted to be immune to your own provocative games, you were not. But it wasn’t him who made you wet with lust, you told yourself. It was your own actions, nothing else. The long game.

But Marcus quickly tamed his expression, grinding his jaw and looking away.

“No, I’m okay”, he rejected your offer, hovering his hand over the chalice so you would not pour more.

You forced your lips into a flat line. You needed the man to let go of his defences. Having him drunk would help with that. But not tonight, apparently.

You nodded.

“Of course, Dominus.” You placed the jug back down on the table, your left breast brushing his right shoulder again.

You bit down your bottom lip, your free fingers curling on the back of his chair. It’s just the game, you thought to yourself again, your core slick and hot.

Slowly you retreated to the kitchens, fully aware of Marcus’ eyes feasting on your body. You smiled to yourself — he might be a taut General, but he was just a man.

A deceitful man at that, who thought there was no treachery in the art of war. Was that how he defeated your father? With deception? You had been too far to see and hear how the fight between your father and Marcus had unfolded, but having been witness to how the General distracted his opponent that afternoon, you wondered if he had followed similar tactics with Murdoch. If your father’s demise was just a byproduct of Marcus’ boldness.

The memory of Marcus being your father’s executioner put out the liquid fire in your crotch. And rightly so.

It wasn’t long before the Romans started to vanish from the great hall, retreating to the barracks or to town, maybe looking for the comfort only a woman could offer.

When you walked back out to clear the last plates, you saw the General leaving the room. Alone. Where he intended to go you did not know, but you had to make sure he was not considering joining the men in town — if he was to choose a woman to enliven his bed, he should pick you.

“Isla, I’ll be back in a minute.” The lass gave you a puzzled look as the bits you had gathered previously clattered against the wooden table when you let go of them.

You hurried forward to meet him as he swung the double doors open, the cold breeze of the corridor filtering into the great hall.

“Dux Meus, wait please”, you interjected in the hopes he would stop walking.

Indeed, he did. His whole body stiffened, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. You were not sure what to make of that reaction — exasperation or frustration. You hoped for the second, especially the good kind of frustration.

As soon as you reached him, you placed a daring hand on his forearm — an unusual surge of energy sparked at the contact between your skins, giving you goosebumps. You quickly retrieved your hand with certain surprise, the tingling sensation evaporating right after.

“I trust everything was good?”, you queried, tilting your head to one side.

“Yes. Now I’ll retire to my bedchambers. Bonum noctis (good night)”, his words dragged for a second, “Callie.”

There it was again, your name falling from his lips as if it belonged to him. It angered and pleased you equally. If he pronounced it like that on purpose you did not know, but it surely felt like it.

Before you could come up with an answer, he trudged to his right and you took a step forward.

“That is not the way to the main bedchamber, my lord. You should follow this other corridor instead”, you pointed to the left.

He paused and turned around to face you. A lingering question danced in his pupils, but whatever it was, he did not say out loud. Instead, he nodded.

“I am aware. However, I have taken a different bedroom.” He did not give you an explanation, but you could have a good guess. Your father always complained his bed was like a blanket of spikey rocks. “I am now lodged in the second tower, the room in the top floor.”

You tamed your face into nothingness, but internally you flinched at his reply. He was sleeping in your room, in your bed. The thought of him naked with your bedlinen draped around his waist and thick legs made you gush. Fuck.

This was unknown territory to you — although you had been married for ten years, you had not known pleasure in the bedchamber. Iain just chased his own release, using you in disgusting ways, proving you that you were the problem, not him — that your womb was barren. You had been told by your friends that fucking was enjoyable for both parties, but you were yet to discover that. Maybe the dampness your legs harboured was a start?

“I see”, you curtsied, fingers laced on your back, looking up at him through your long eyelashes.

“How come you speak Latin?” His question blurted out, catching you completely off guard.

Marcus had a nick for inconvenience, forcing you to come up with lies on the spot. Luckily you were astute and creative.

“My late father was a scrivener to Murdoch. He taught me how to speak Latin, as it was his favourite language.”

“He passed?” You simply nodded. “I trust you still have family around though?”

You shook your head no. You killed them all, ye cunt. But you could not express your hatred out loud. Although when the time came, you would. Aye, you definitely would.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” For a second you believed him, his tone almost sorrowful.

“It was a long time ago.” You lied through your teeth, shrugging. “I’ll leave you to your rest now. Oidhche mhath (good night), Marcus.”

You heard a loud sigh being drawn into his lungs, possibly because of your cheekiness — calling him by his first name was a very bold move on your part. Maybe too bold.

Before he could reprimand you for your audacity, you scuttled back into the great hall, a sufficient grin tugging at your lips.

@orcasoul @immyowndefender @sjc7542 @fairiebabey

@thepalaceofmelanie @harriedandharassed @whoaitspascal87

@verybigvag @jessthebaker @ivoryandflame @missadangel @pepperstories

[rebeccalouisaferguson]

Rebecca Ferguson sits across from me before her photo shoot with The Envelope. Her sandy blond hair is loosely tied back and she’s wearing an oversize comfy flannel shirt with dark trousers. Between us, two laptops — a virtual setting — but the accomplished actor makes it feel as though you are in the room with her. The same can be said for Juliette Nichols, the emotionally conflicted character she portrays in the gripping Apple TV+ dystopian drama “Silo,” where civilization has migrated to a massive underground bunker.

“Her vulnerability was the most important moments for me because the strengths of the character are uninteresting — they are already shaped,” she says. “What I found interesting is why she is uncomfortable with people, why is she scared when people are too close.”

Ferguson, who also serves as an executive producer of “Silo,” found her answer in Juliette’s heartbreaking childhood. At 13, she loses her mother and younger brother before running away from her father (Iain Glen) to the down deep of the bunker to apprentice in the mechanical department. “I studied a lot of grief and trauma because she loses her mom at an early age. When we understand this character, she is very lonely,” says the Swedish native. “Her trauma, it’s nearly claustrophobic and weighs you down, which I tried to embody in her when people get too close. It’s like this injection of fear.”

Juliette’s discomfort around others is put in the spotlight when she’s plucked by the powers that be to fill the role of sheriff following the death of the former top officer (David Oyelowo). She accepts, on the condition that she can fix the failing generator down below before something catastrophic occurs. The sequence that unfolds in the third episode, directed by Morten Tyldum, is a master class in edge-of-your-seat drama that culminates in a character-defining moment — one that sees Juliette standing alone in thought after the successful repair. “There is so much layered in that moment. All these juxtapositions of ‘I need to fix this, but if I fix this, it means I will also have to leave my people, and if I hadn’t fixed it everyone could have died.’ And all the trauma she’s gone through, it’s all compartmentalized into a moment of now what?” 

Sheriff Juliette steps in wanting to find the truth behind the death of her boyfriend, George Wilkins, an unsanctioned anthropologist of ancient artifacts — such as a Pez dispenser. “The contrast was so important to find,” Ferguson says of the series showing them in happy times in flashbacks. “For me, it was important to find the quirks and the fear. She is worried about him going on his extravagant journeys because she’s afraid to lose him. There’s this child in her, a vulnerability; her hair is different, her clothes are different, there’s a softness. The dynamics are so real — we practiced them a lot. Those scenes are the moments that defibrillate another feeling where you can slow your heart rate and you can fall in love with two people.”

As Juliette investigates George’s death, labeled a suicide though she suspects otherwise, she begins to uncover bigger mysteries within the silo and its leadership. “What I love about this show is that the audience is figuring it out with the character,” Ferguson says. “There are secrets and astronomical complexities in this world, but you’re getting to unravel them one-on-one with a character who is trying to solve one murder that leads into bigger questions and bigger lies. That’s what’s so exciting.”

When the pressure of the new uniform begins to mount, Juliette contemplates returning home to the depths of mechanical. But longtime friend Walker (Harriet Walter) persuades her otherwise, saying, “Love had you doing the right thing and now anger is making you give up.” Ferguson remembers first reading the scene and thinking it was too sentimental. “Something can read differently on the page, but then we sat down and someone said this is one of the most pivotal, most important moments for Juliette’s journey. It’s the change in realizing this is not a story just for her selfish needs. This is a moment where it’s about the bigger picture. It’s about doing the right thing. It’s really a beautiful and powerful moment for her.”

When asked if she thought of Juliette as a savior, Ferguson demurs, saying, “I don’t think I was supposed to look at her that way. It would have made her a hero in her journey and that’s not interesting. She doesn’t start off as a hero. She’s powerful and a bit of a badass, but she has vulnerabilities, grief and fear. That’s what’s interesting. Juliette is constantly faced with hinders, and every time she solves something, another hinder, it’s like building a bridge and it falls and you have to build another one and another one. She doesn’t give up.”

[mx-piggy]

(i'm drunk and i keep thinking about Casualty. cw for suicide)

at the risk of sounding awful, Rash's suicide attempt is my favourite Casualty moment in a while. seeing Rash finally ready to let go of his anger towards Rida, and give up, was so powerful to see. i felt genuine tension as he pinned that note to the door. what made it so impactful for me was Tariq. him wandering around the silent house, without the expected quiet violin score, and realising something's wrong, finally finding the note and bracing himself as he goes into the bedroom, and that shot of Rash's feet sticking out with the rest of him hidden behind the bed. then, Tariq and Iain trying to save him with such desperation. then Tariq's heartbroken, despondent look for the rest of the episode. i've adored Tariq since his introduction, particularly for how sweet and positive he is, so seeing him so broken was so impactful and oddly satisfying (from a storytelling perspective). then, Rida's complete devastation is the icing on the cake. again, i love her (she's one of my favourites) but i'm a sucker for seeing characters suffer. it was rough and angsty but i loved every moment of it, because it was dripping with emotion and compassion for these characters. i think the last time i felt so gripped by Casualty, during the episode and the days that followed, was Switzerland. it's been a while since i've been this excited for a new episode of Casualty.

[leprosycock]

do u have any fav book recs!???? love ur literary mind and would love to know if u have any good must reads sorry this is random

thank you!! i don't read nearly as often as i should but i have a lot of books that i love:

the furry trap by josh simmons is a wildly weird, disgusting, and obscene piece of work that i've loved for years. it's satirical and deranged and very darkly funny and his style is so unique. it's a collection of eleven short comics and some standalone illustrations. my favorites are cock bone, christmas eve, and demonwood, but none of them are bad. at least in my opinion. a lot of people think it's just edgy for edgy's sake, but even if it is, it's still really fucking good. i always find that criticism to be so funny because it's only ever flung at media with any kind of sex and violence and taboos in it.

tender is the flesh by agustina bazterrica is one that a lot of people are familiar with, but it's far from overrated. it's about a world in which cannibalism is legal and humans are bred, bought, and sold for meat. a very lonely, broken, divorced blue-collar man begins to form a bond with a specimen despite any physical contact with her being expressly forbidden. it's twisted and stomach-churning and intimate and i love it.

poison for breakfast by lemony snicket is insanely funny and tender and witty and entertaining. it's essentially an unreliable autobiography that follows strings of consciousness and memories and musings as he panics after getting a note under his door that tells him he had poison for breakfast. it's short and sweet and there are so many wonderful poignant lines throughout it that made me close the book for a second and think for a while.

the wasp factory by iain banks is awesome and it's about a sixteen year old boy named frank with a very fragile older brother who's been sent to a psych ward. frank is ruthlessly violent and unstable and he takes all his anger and frustration and bloodlust out on helpless animals, either human or non. it has a really interesting ambiance to it that traps you in both this violent teenager's headspace and this murky, unsettling little scottish village and things just get worse and worse until you realize you can't get out. highly recommend!

someone who will love you in all your damaged glory by raphael bob-waksberg is a fantastic collection of surreal/sci-fi-based stories that have one foot firmly grounded in realism and very human relationships. it's very vulnerable and tender and tragic and romantic. this is the same author who created bojack horseman, so if you're into that show's brand of drama, you'll really love this

i hope you find me: the love poems of craigslist's missed connections by alan feuer is one of my most favorite little coffee table books ever. it's what it says on the tin: dozens of posts from the missed connections section of craigslist are compiled and wrangled into individual poems and it's really fascinating and it makes my heart ache to see all these very real little individual cases of lost love. i think it's really important to study real people just as much as stories that people can craft.

i luv halloween by benjamin roman and keith giffen is a HIGHLY underrated, EXTREMELY early 00s trilogy about zombies, aliens, and a group of really shitty, violent, obnoxious children who get stuck in the midst of global panic around halloween. it's super edgy and indulgent and gory and gross and childish and it's a whole lotta fun. i go crazy for the art style and the general mindless self indulgence of it all

memories of my melancholy whores (memoria de mis putas tristes) by gabriel garcia marquez is a really lovely and flowery novelette about a ninety year old man who's on his deathbed and he believes that true love will help him feel alive again. he manages to find it in a very young prostitute and reflects on what sets her apart from the others. a lot of people call it the spanish lolita, but it's wildly different. really the only similarities are falling in love with a young girl and realizing she's different than you envisioned her to be at first. it's not for everyone, but i think marquez's prose is beautiful. pretty much everything in his bibliography is worth checking out, he's a genius

holy robots by vasilina orlova is a stunning collection of poetry and it uses the ideas of humans falling in love with and forming lives with machines that try very hard to be human but can't quite do it to illustrate real-world relationship struggles. it also delves into other themes of nature and pure romance as it goes along. it's a quick read and it's so worth checking out, i love it to death

arkham asylum: a serious house on serious earth by grant morrison and dave mckean is a standalone batman comic that's VERY worth reading even if you only have a passive knowledge of batman. it's a beautiful piece of work all on its own. the art style is absolutely fucking gorgeous and it's unlike anything i've ever seen. essentially, the inmates at arkham have overtaken the asylum and batman has to sacrifice himself in order to save the hostages. thus, he subjects himself to brutal psychological torture at the hands of the criminals he's put in the asylum himself and he wastes away little by little. it's good!! it's so good!!!!!

stray toasters by bill sienkiewicz is one of the most intense, gorgeous, twisted, and surreal experiences i've ever had while reading a graphic novel. it might take you a couple of reads for it to really sink in because it's not at all straightforward, but it's a fucking masterpiece of art and writing and it really influenced a lot of my own work and the way i tend to approach art. essentially, it's about a lonely, burnt-out detective who gets released from a psych ward to hunt down a serial killer who's mutilating housewives and young children. it's insanely difficult to find physical copies of, so i would personally just read it online.

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

"The Lord waits so long in His graciousness that people think He cannot judge, but when He does come in judgment, it is so decisive that it seems as if He cannot show mercy. For this is not the sudden anger of an irritable temper, easily inflamed but equally easily pacified. This is deliberate, measure wrath, following a full investigation of the facts. There can be no last-minute appeals or reprieves, for there is no higher court to whom appeal can be made, and no pertinent facts have been overlooked in reaching the verdict. So it was with Sodom and Gomorrah, and so it shall be at the end of history [see Luke 17:28-30]." — Iain Duguid

[lonelier-version-of-you]

I wanted to write this in a separate post because I'm so angry and upset about it:

Teddy going back to passivity and people-pleasing is a very worrying thing and I hate that Casualty is seemingly portraying it as positive growth.

It's been a problem for a few weeks now, but it hit me really hard last night. I knew the show would go there because on the rare occasions Teddy has had agency recently, it's been agency in doing something completely OOC - going to fight club, hitting Jacob (not that Casualty remembers that happened), punching Tyler - that is, fundamentally, an excuse to villainise him and treat him like he shouldn't have agency. I knew Teddy would be "redeemed" through giving up any hope of agency and letting everyone else control his life.

And now he has. He's just doing whatever Iain or Jodie or Jan or whoever want. He's doing things like thanking Iain, who has treated him horrendously, for merely not throwing him to the wolves upon his return to work.

Even with Jodie, it felt like he was offering for her to stay with him only for her sake. Maybe him making the offer at all means he'd be okay with it - but when he reacted as passively to Iain as he did, I don't know that I can believe that without more reason to think it's okay with him: it felt less like "I'm up for you moving in, if you're up for it too maybe we should do it!" and more like "If you're up for moving in we should do it, don't ask me what I feel, why would what I feel matter". I'm not saying he didn't seem okay with it, but he downplayed his own feelings so much that if he weren't okay with it... no one would have been able to tell.

That's not a good thing. It's one thing to want to help and another to think his own feelings should be disregarded entirely.

Teddy is acting exactly like who Hayley, and Gaynor before her, would want him to be: passively receptive to whatever other people tell him to do or feel. Existing to do what they want without a thought to himself.

A lot of Teddy's character development has been about learning how to say no, after years with an abusive mother who encouraged him to disregard his needs and wants for her. Now he's losing that ability to say no again, and that's meant to be a good thing. That's so horribly insensitive on the show's part that I don't even know what to say.

I can hardly think of a single action Teddy took for his own sake.

That's disturbing. It's upsetting. It screams "trauma response". But because it doesn't inconvenience others like the random anger issues did, because it's a "nice" trauma response, it's being depicted as apparently a good thing.

Gaynor would be proud.

True growth for Teddy would look like balance: not the extreme of the fight club, nor this people-pleasing mindset. It would look like making healthy, mutual decisions where both his feelings and the other person's are in consideration (or when the decision will only affect him, to get to make it for himself, with advice if it's wanted). It would look like him getting to experience both positive and negative emotions without being judged for them. It would look like him having self-worth beyond what he can do for others, basically.

It wouldn't look like this. And I really hope Casualty is ultimately going to show that Teddy's passive people-pleasing is an unhealthy extreme. But I don't have faith in it to do that. (I doubt any of this is coherent but I needed to talk about it.)

[will-noble-owns-my-ass]

"We're Just Friends." ("Or Are You More?") VI || Iain x Amy

(Not my GIF)

Two weeks later Amy was in the kitchen making breakfast for the two of them as Iain made his way down the stairs.

"Good morning love."

"Oh hey! Morning. Sleep well?" He smiled and wrapped his arms around her as she leaned against him "Are we both working today?"

"Uh yeah I think so, I'm in this afternoon."

"Do you want a lift?"

"Only if your in too. I don't want to put you out."

"Yeah, I'm in this aft, till like 9:30."

"Cool okay. Yes please if you wouldn't mind driving me in?"

"Oh Amy love. If I minded I wouldn't have mentioned it." She laughed "Okay, okay." She looked towards the door as a key turned in the lock. She stepped away from Iain quickly and he moved to put on the kettle as he shot her a questioning look.

"Cal has a key. I don't know what he's doing. Normally he phones me. He must be trying to surprise me." He nodded

"Amy, I'm not mad at you. It's okay. It makes sense that he has a key to your house." He said softly as the kitchen door opened.

"Hey Amy!" She turned to face him smiling softly "Hey Cal. Good holiday?"

"Great holiday. Thanks. Missed you though." He hugged her

"Cal you were gone two weeks." She hugged him back

"Yeah, but still." he looked over the top of her head "Oh hey Iain."

"Hey Cal." he waved "Tea?"

"Uh... Yeah... Thanks... What?"

She looked at him "What's up?"

"Why is Iain here? Did you take on some housemates while I was away?"

"No. It's just Iain." She looked past her brother at her boyfriend "Time to tell him?" Iain nodded "I don't think we have any other option here love."

Cal looked really confused

"Okay Cal... Listen.. we have... moved in together."

"Well yeah.... Housemates .."

"No. Listen to what I am telling you. We have moved in together. We have been together for a while now and we decided that we wanted to live together. So we are."

"Why didn't you tell me?" he said quietly

"I didn't tell you because Iain means a lot to me and I know what you can get like. I don't know I guess I didn't want to tell you until we... got somewhere and we could show you that it wouldn't fall apart so you wouldn't worry about me. That and I didn't want you to shout at him or angry at either of us really. We're happy. Please be happy for us."

A barrage of emotions crossed her brothers face then. Anger, realisation and acceptance." He nodded "If your happy of course." She smiled "Thank you."

"Amy. I'm your brother. All I want is for you to be happy and looked after."

"Which I am."

"I promise I'm looking after her."

"You better be."

"He is Cal. I'm happy. I promise."

He nodded again "Okay, I'll trust you. Hey, Can I borrow a book?" She laughed softly "Uh yeah which one?"

"Uh.. I finished The Hobbit on holiday."

"Oh, so you want The Fellowship of the Ring?"

"Yes please."

"Uh yeah go ahead. It's on the bookshelf in the lounge I think. Just have a look."

"Cheers Lia. I will put The Hobbit back while I'm at it."

"Yeah okay. Hey have ye eaten yet?"

"I haven't no."

"Do you want anything?"

"Ah no. It's okay I don't wanna put you out."

"Cal I'm already making myself and Iain breakfast. It's not a bother to put on extra for you. Go and find your book."

"Okay. Okay."

She laughed as he made his way into the living room.

"Honestly, I don't know what he'd do without me. I swear I tried to teach him to cook while I was in the flat. God knows what he's been eating since I've lived here. Ethan doesn't often help him so. I'm pretty sure he eats in restaurants most of the time. I tried to teach him but he just never took it in."

Iain laughed "He'll be fine Amy."

"Maybe so." she smiled as he handed her her cup of tea "Thanks."

"Uh hey Iain?" Cal called "Can I have a word?"

She laughed. "That was nice while it lasted." She rana hand through her hair "Please don't run." He laughed as he made his way down the hallway into the living room "Your stuck with me!" he called as he walked into the living room. "What's up?"

"What. The. Hell. Is. This?"

He grinned "I think you'll find that's the book you wanted Cal." Cal shot him a look, opened the book in his hand and pulled out the engagement ring that was nestled there. There were emeralds and diamonds set into the shape of a flower and it's leaves into a gold band.

"I meant. What. Is. This?"

"Ah.. now that Caleb, is called an engagement ring." he moved over to the book shelf and went through Amy's book collection until he found the copy of The Fellowship of the Ring that Cal could actually read.

"There. You want this one. Please put that back. It's meant to be something special. Look, I know she's your sister and you want what's best for her. But I want you to know. I love her with all my heart and I just want what's best for her. I'm here and I'm here to stay. I'm not going anywhere."

Cal thought about it, placing the ring back in the book. "Don't you dare hurt her. You hear me?"

"Loud and clear, I promise. I'm going nowhere." He took the copy from Cal and slipped it onto his shelf as Cal took Amy's copy from him

"Don't tell her" Iain said quietly

"Not a word." Cal flipped through the book

"Lads! Breakfast!" Amy called as they walked back into the kitchen laughing as Amy turned from the dining room table as they all sat together to eat. "Ah, ye found it! That's my favourite book. Please don't damage it."

"Ah is it? That's interesting." He smiled and shot Cal a look as he took Amy's hand under the table.

Cal smiled and responded "It shall be returned to you in the best condition possible."

"Why does that sound like I should expect it back with damage?"

"Relax Amy. If it comes back damaged I'll replace it." Iain said gently

"Nah. If he damages it he can pay."

"Alright fine. God you guys are made for each other." Cal laughed and ate as he watched them together. Glad that his sister had found her happiness.

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added ❤️)

@goodboybadrep-ooc

[fitzsimmonsdaughter]

FITZ AND WARD IN S2EP3

oh my god. I had forgotten about this scene but it is amazing.

As always, Iain's acting was phenomenal. I think this scene is one of the best examples of his utterly incredible talent- the moment he sees Ward for the first time? Brilliant. He is speechless, he is paralysed, overwhelmed by emotion AND THEN WARD SPEAKS. And a new wave hits him, he cannot control himself and he is having flashbacks now, he can't look at Ward he is in PAIN. And the audacity of the writers to make that pivotal line:

'I imagine you've got a lot to say to me.'

WHY? Why do they want to destroy us? No Ward, he doesn't have a lot to say to you, you dropped him into the middle of the ocean leaving him oxygen deprived and giving him lasting brain damage, affecting his speech. The rage that fills me when I hear that sentence... I hate Grant Ward with every fibre of my being.

But Brett portrays him so well, the way he is trying to manipulate Fitz even now- 'I was trying to save you' NO YOU WERE NOT, trying to make himself the hero, trying to convince Fitz that, actually, he saved their lives. Ward's character is so interesting to me and I will definitely be analysing him further at some point but I love Fitz too much to think of anything but his pain in this scene.

Looking back with my knowledge of the show now, this scene is also one of the earliest hints at the darkness inside Fitz, and the roots of The Doctor. I think this is one of the only things that Fitz does out of pure hatred and anger without believing it is the right thing to do. And let's face it, it's pretty dark- I'm amazed they hinted at what Fitz could be capable of so early on. All the more reason to hate Ward- his betrayal was a turning point in Fitz's life and it is heartbreaking to watch how it affects him.

[1lovepeace]

Moonfam's Unresolved Conflict and Trauma

With Season 5: Ocean of The Dragon Prince expected to be released this year, I'm really looking forward to it, mainly because of the huge potential for the possible moonfam plot with Rayla and how they will address the conflict and trauma with her and her family. I'm strongly confident that Ethari will be in S5 and beyond.

I highly theorize that the reason for this is that while I'm excited about the long-awaited Moonfam Reunion and Reconciliation, this is where all the struggles, conflicts, and trauma with the Moonfam could become very intense and super heavy, especially with all the distance and fragmentation in their family.

A few years ago, during an interview with the writers Devon and Iain, it was confirmed that Ethari 100% regrets doing the ghosting spell on Rayla, suffering from all the guilt, regret and sorrow that he's carried for the last two years. Once he is reunited with Rayla, I can absolutely envision him having a massive, heartbreaking, overwhelming, emotional breakdown. There will definitely be many tears and humongous apologies, but both Rayla and Ethari will have the hardest, emotional yet honest, truthful, and sincerest conversations with each other about the last two years.

I think Rayla will definitely have a hard time forgiving Ethari and have different levels of mixed emotions, such as anger, resentment, and doubt, rightfully so, because Runaan and Ethari technically abandoned, failed, and wronged her, unintentionally, of course. But I think she will in the end. Being confronted by this and having to acknowledge it is gonna be extremely hurtful and deeply painful for both of them.

This'll be very hard on Rayla and Ethari. The same goes for Runaan, but they are necessary in order for them to begin healing and repairing their family. During these conversations, Ethari will finally be able to express how incredibly remorseful and deeply apologetic he is for what he did, showing Rayla how much he truly regrets it and how much he wants her in his life again, unpacking and liberating a monumental load of emotional baggage. This is why I wanna see both of them just embracing each other in a long, silent, wordless, and emotional hug.

All of this will be crucial and critical for Rayla to have these discussions and conversations with all of her family, especially with Runaan. They both are gonna have an enormous, profound, fair share of guilt, regret, and sorrow, specifically from Runaan, for what happened on the mission. From realizing the truth about Rayla's parents and having nothing but his thoughts to reflect and contemplate on, it has, undoubtedly, devastated and scarred him, thinking about those last heartbreaking interactions between him and Rayla on the mission. For he has humongous apologies to make, enormous repairing his relationships with his family, clarifying his behaviors, explaining his actions, etc.

Don't get me wrong, I adore them, but I don't want the show to let Runaan off the hook for how he wronged Rayla in S1 or let Ethari off the hook for unfairly ghosting Rayla, they deserve to be held accountable for their actions. I also feel that Callum is gonna have a humongous earful to say to Runaan and Ethari, not holding back the anger and disdain towards both of them, feeling they betrayed and wronged Rayla, and that because of them she lost everything she had left. They will have a lot of repairing to do with their daughter and not only working towards earning her trust again but, more importantly, her forgiveness.

There will be so much crying and such heavy emotions in these conversations, where both Ethari and Runaan admit to Rayla how horribly and miserably they failed, disappointed wronged her as her fathers, that she deserves better from them, that they have enormous guilt and tremendous regrets for what they've done, pouring out all their heart and soul into every apology, telling her how much they truly and deeply love her and that they sincerely want her in their lives again. How much it has been hurting and torturing them ever since. All the monumental load of emotional baggages and trauma must be acknowledged and resolved for all three of them, but this will be crucial for them to reconcile, heal, and repair their family together.

The conflict and angst with Callum, Rayla, Ethari, Runaan, and her parents are gonna be really interesting. The bad blood between Callum, Ezran, and Runaan for killing their father, King Harrow, is gonna be heavy. There are so many things left unsaid and unresolved, and I can't wait to see how they will address all these issues. I wanna see the moonfam reconciliation so much, and I have confidence that they will do it justice. It'll absolutely be worth the wait. I'm super nervous yet optimistic and excited for the next upcoming seasons. Let's Go Season 5.

[panelshowsource]

anon wot do you meeeeeean hehe when dara does the buzzer it means get off the stage your turn is over! hehe

a buzz for good measure 🫡

here anon i did the world’s lowest budget photoshop just for you

hooonestly there are probably 3 gens — pre-2005, 2005–2012ish, 2013ish onwards — but for the sake of most people reading this it’s more like before and after ~2012. not that we’re being super pedantic about this, but if i say old gen then at least you know what’s going on in my head! sue and julian are both definitely old gen and i can’t WAITTT for that! apart from simon and definitely miles, we all want to see ed byrne, right?? gangly bastard i just love him

i am really surprised how many people said kiell was their overall favourite from the series, even though he was obviously a lot of fun. i have a serious aversion to...genuine anger. on taskmaster, at least? some frustration is okay (speaking of which omg i was just rewatching bridget x alex moments and it’s fucking HILARIOUS to me what she brings out in alex that literally no one else has, and i’m terrified of 1) her power and 2) alex’s tiny “for fuck’s sake”s)), and i obviously don’t mind bantz, but ed and greg and all of the contestants re-inforcing how annoyed kiell was at the trickery and scoring ambiguity was somewhat of a turn-off for me. there’s a spectrum of what i’d call uncool anger on the show ranging from iain stirling on the most offensive end to, like, josh widdicombe on the whiny, frustrated end? and kiell was certainly no iain and that’s not his overall comedic persona anyways, so it wasn’t that i came to dislike him, only that he couldn’t surmount the others to be one of my faves from the series. this is something that only i seemed to feel about fern, as well, when she genuinely whined about certain elements of the tasks or just used that, what greg called, “reverted to a 15-year-old complaining” voice that only i seemed to find pretty unfunny, but i disgress—

—ANYWAYS, i find that i like everyone on every series more the second or third time i watch it through, and i found both kiell and mae even more charming after watching it again! i was just thinking, wouldn’t it have been even more madness is kiell and jenny were on a team alone without mae to ground them in any way? LMAO...gives me a chuckle to imagine it... the team of 3 did feel just a hair too random this series, but i don’t think i would have changed frankie x ivo even though both jenny x kiell and oldies vs young’uns both would have been a little better overall. also it was so cute when kiell would totally body a task and then just give that :)!! i could see how much fun alex had with him and not quite knowing where he was going to go with things, and i think the contestants’ dynamics with alex are really underrated aspects of what make them great on the show. i do hope kiell looks back fondly at the whole experience :’)

omg that’s so exciting 🤩 i hope you have so much fun! did you begin from the first series? the first ~5 are some of the very best ever, so you’ll start on a real high!

[bastardtrait]

at some point, it dawned on Iain that Toby not only had him, but he also had two fierce aunties that loved his son just as much as he did. and that did much to keep the hurt and anger at bay. I have nowhere else to say so I'll just toss it out there that Iain, Naomi and Taryn have had at least two threesomes atp. as best friends do y'know.

transcript:

[SFX: Phone ringing; picking up] NAOMI: Hey, prick. You gonna answer me today, or would you rather I find you and twist your fucking balls off first? ANGELO, on the phone: … [SFX: Hang-up tone] NAOMI: (growl) Fucker!

TARYN: You are fucking scary when you need to be, babe. NAOMI, aside: I can't help it! He doesn't see what he's done! TARYN: Trust me, love, I've seen it. He knows what he's done. (sigh) And still, all of it wouldn't be enough to make him come back. NAOMI, aside: It just…it makes me so goddamn mad.

IAIN, whispering: She's trying to call Angelo again, isn't she? TARYN: She actually got him, but he hung up. I'm surprised you're not anywhere near as mad as she is, babe. IAIN: Are you kidding me? Not when I have this little stinky stinker to deal with! TOBY: (coos happily)

[riverstardis]

series 32 episode 25:

ooh that transition was cool, with the kid going from young to a teenager, but how did they keep his facial features the same? maybe they used siblings? or just cgi?

oh this ep was written by jon sen!

"them days aren't behind me yet, samantha" "oh they will be if you call me samantha again" damn, sam's so fit, especially when she's threatening iain

ahh alicia's off to her dad's 60th after her shift, or she's planning to be

aww ethan thanking alicia for last night and also saying how he doesn't want it to be awkward at work because now he's her boss and she's like "boss? okay yeah, strictly professional within these four walls, but outside you're all mine"🥺🥺🥺 ethan doesn't look completely hopeless for the first time in a while

glen doesn't like that charlotte's surname is miller not thomas? well maybe if you were around and hadn't left robyn at the alter mate

elle asks ethan why her patients are being moved out of cdu but he didn't know about it but he does know that connie's in for chemo so he goes to speak to her and yep management asked her opinion and she gave the order🙃

"the problem with you, ethan, is that the job requires tough decisions and you're petrified of upsetting anyone" real

"i try to respect my colleagues" "no, you just want to make friends, don't you? a little pat on the back at the end of the shift, you're in the wrong job" HUH???? connie are you not the one who put him in the job in the first place??????? is she directing anger at him because she's still embarrassed about The Kiss in london? cause he was there for her for so long and now she's just turned on him??? it's now that she doesn't need his help anymore i guess

ethan looks like he's about to cry :(

glen's signing charlotte up to nursery or something under the name 'charlotte thomas'??? bro you can't just change her name like that???

alicia asks noel and louise what they're looking at and they say there's a load of comments on rage in resus begging for another post and alicia's like "it's a hard gig running this place" and noel says sarcastically "yeah, and he makes it look so easy doesn't he" and laughs right as ethan comes up behind him😭 poor ethan :( at least alicia's trying to stick up for him

elle's patient has a swastika tattoo :/

the hospital's finance managers paying ethan a visit to say the ed's overspent on their budget :/

ethan telling alicia to hold off on ordering blood for a patient because if they can get her to theatre fast enough they can get keller to pay for the blood. alicia asks what if she crashes but he says he HAS to make savings and she's his patient so it's his decision and she gives in like "you're the boss" and he's like "yes, i am, so why does everyone keep questioning my decisions!" :( and alicia goes and orders the blood anyway😭

wait wasn't saving on blood the topic of his cost-cutting proposal in s28?? the one that cal stole? huh that's funny i wonder if they remembered that when they wrote this

"it's gonna cost this department thousands!" "who cares?!" "i do! alicia, that is my job!"😭😭😭

"i have to make this budget work, okay? because if i don't, the board are gonna get rid of me *clicks* like that. i'm not a failure. every other part of my life might be a car crash but i am not gonna fail at this."😥😥😥😥 aw alicia's face when he says that😭 and he looks like he's gonna cry again :(( you see!! why would they not address his mental health after this???????? alicia goes "nobody thinks that" and he gives her a disbelieving 'really?' look and she goes "well at least, nobody that matters. you are amazing at what you do."🥺

ethan's eyes are back to looking depressed again :( the tiny glimpse of possible happiness at the beginning was incredibly short lived

"the situation's a lot worse than i thought. all my ideas to save money, it's not enough. mrs beauchamp said i couldn't handle this" "well then prove her wrong! do what you need to do, ethan, and no matter what that is, i will be right behind you" lies! ethan believes her and goes to speak to serena campbell. i assume she was the ceo at the time?

robyn and glen are engaged. again.

ethan's closing down the cdu and also cancelling all the staff's leave

alicia had leave booked for her dad's party and tries to talk to him and he's like "you said you would back me whatever i did" and she's like "well yeah but..." and she tries to take his hand but he pulls away and reminds her that he's her boss and "when we're here, i tell you what to do and you do it" and she's like "ethan, this isn't you talking" and he goes "it is now." ... yup. that about sums it up🙃 oh he carries on "it has to be." while looking about to cry again :(

noel going "yknow i would love to know what rage in resus thinks about all this then" and alicia goes "so would i" under her breath😭😭

i wonder if she would've actually stopped the blog on her own accord if not for this new development?

[softersinned-arc]

@balldwin said: [ HAIR ]: sender slowly reaches out to catch a loose strand of the receiver’s hair and tuck it gently and securely back behind their ear, letting their touch linger afterwards.

He can feel her eyes on him in the dark.

He always seems aware of her in a way that would, from someone else, make her feel surveilled; from him, it simply suggests that he is merely degrees away from omniscience. A more impressionable mind might have made him a new god, but Astoria is, at the moment, taking too much vicious pleasure in the promise of her damnation to cede control of her soul to anyone else.

Something about him suggests that he may take it all the same. She is not so unhappy with the thought as she would have imagined she would be.

Tonight he stands in the gardens below where she sits and he tips his head back as his guest leaves, eyes finding hers through the black of night. For several long moments they are silent and still, and then in the space of one breath to another he's gone, and she can hear the door close from three floors away. It is out of courtesy for her that Baldwin walks slowly and allows himself to be heard—it gives her time, should she wish it, to cover herself more, or prepare for another person's arrival. Were she still a warmblood she would be cold, perhaps even modest, but he has seen her half-mad and hunched over her prey, dripping blood and gore, and she has little enough shame where he is concerned. Her bare feet press firmly against the railing beneath her, and the night's steady breeze lifts the hem of her nightgown a fraction of an inch before letting it settle against her calves again.

"So," he says by way of greeting, and he walks through the room to the balcony where she sits, "you have recovered from—earlier?"

His delicacy, though unnecessary, is appreciated all the same. Astoria waits until he is standing beside her at the railing, his hands set against the stone several inches from where she's laid her feet, before she looks at him. She leans forward, winds her arms around her legs, tightens her hand around the handkerchief she's holding.

To call it a surprise would have been an understatement. She would have imagined he was dead by now—she saw him last fifty years before, and he was only a year or two younger than her, and human. And he had never had enough sense to hold his tongue when he should have, nor enough cowardice to shy away from the urge towards self-sacrifice in the name of patriotism or, worse still, the right thing. And he had seen her, called out her name in disbelief, crossed the wide street to reach her and take her arm with surprising strength for a man of his age.

It was funny, in its own way: once, she had imagined they would spend their lives together, and today, she had spent years without thinking of him once. Far enough from her that she hadn't realized he was still there, Baldwin had paused in surprise at the intrusion, and when Iain Blackwood's wizened hand gripped her arm, his nostrils had flared with a sudden anger. "Astoria," Iain repeated, and when she looked at him she wore a pleasant but confused expression, and she gently detached his hand from her arm.

If she looked closely she could see it then, that beneath the years and the laughter lines, he was the same man who had once told her that, if they simply waited long enough, he could divorce his wife and take her instead—one of the few advantages of Henry's bouts of evangelism, he'd insisted, and fuck the Pope and God Himself, too, but he would have her for his wife. Astoria had laughed at that and told him not to speak nonsense, and that week, Celia told him she was carrying his child, and there was no more talk of marriage. Now, he stared at her in wonder, disbelief, while Astoria patted his hand warmly.

"I'm terribly sorry." She spoke with a perfect English accent, indistinguishable from the native Londoners she had met while she and Baldwin were in the city. "But I think you have mistaken me for someone else."

He shook his head. "Astoria Grim," he insisted adamantly. "I know you."

To deny any connection would have made him doubt her further. She shook her head and squeezed his hand. "My great-aunt died when my father was a boy. He always said I looked like her." And she laughed sympathetically, though her stomach was churning, and she felt rather as though she might be sick, as the son that Iain had crept away from rushed to catch up to them. "Did you know her?"

It felt wrong, to lie to him, but it seemed to work. Iain took a step back, looking dazed, as his son caught his arm again. The Astoria that he remembered would have been his age. She would have spoken with the melodic lilt of her Swedish grandfather's influence. She would never have turned him away. "I did," he answered, and he offered a vague apology before he covered his son's hand with his own and turned away from them.

She waited until they were out of sight to let herself feel it. Now, there is nothing to feel, though she runs her thumb over the fabric of the handkerchief, folded over her index finger, and she looks up at Baldwin and lets the corner of her mouth quirk upward into a crooked smile. "I have," she confirms, and Baldwin looks pointedly at the handkerchief she's holding.

"What is that?" he asks, though he already knows, and Astoria turns her hand and opens it obediently, holding the cloth in her palm. Quietly, she lets out an embarrassed little laugh, and she stretches his hand out for him to reach. When he plucks the handkerchief from her grasp, she clears her throat, eyes flickering away from him.

"I'm sorry. I should have asked."

Once they were gone, she had closed her eyes, taken in several deep breaths, but the sheer number of people in the crowded street did nothing to soothe her frayed nerves. From where he stood Baldwin could, no doubt, have seen just how she was beginning to lose control, and it doesn't surprise her that he saw what followed: that she had pulled the handkerchief from where she kept it tucked inside her sleeve and lifted it to her nose, and she breathed in the scent there instead, faint though it was.

"Did it help?" Baldwin asks in the present, and Astoria clears her throat again, cheeks coloring a gentle pink. From what she's seen, it's rare for a wearh to blush, but she always seems to manage it when his eyes are on her.

"It did." She speaks quietly, but she speaks the truth: the moment she'd breathed in his scent of woodfire and leather she had felt safe again, and steady on her own feet. The fear was gone, and when she opened her eyes they were no longer swimming—and she felt, as she so often did at his side, like herself again. She looks at her knees, afraid that if she meets his searching gaze he'll be able to uncover the secrets she has yet to even tell herself.

She knows what this is, or she knows enough: five years with him and they are rarely apart. He has been an excellent teacher and guide, and more patient with her than she would ever have imagined he could be. He does not seem to resent her presence, or that she still cannot hunt entirely on her own, and certainly not without supervision if she does not mean to kill. On the rare occasions that she sleeps, she dreams of him. His scent is her anchor to the world, and her heart, damaged and cold as it is, seems to be utterly, entirely his. How inconvenient, and, at once, how wonderful, to know that her ability to fall so absurdly in love had not died with the rest of her. That to be away from him makes her feel as though there is a knife slipped between her ribs is no doubt the result of being caged so long; who could expect her to come out of it sane? But at its core, she knows what it is, just as she knows that whatever she felt decades ago for the man she saw today, it has not prepared her for this.

Inconvenient, to say the least; she cannot talk herself out of it and so she simply ignores it as often as she can, though in moments like these she wonders if he can smell it on her. Baldwin only watches her, silent in a way that she's learned by now means he wants her to continue without having to be asked, and Astoria lets out a petulant little sigh, though she's smiling (albeit guiltily) when she looks at him again. "Had you been looking for that?" she asks, though she knows that's not the information he's waiting to hear.

"Yes. I had expected an error by our staff, though perhaps I should have anticipated a bit of theft."

"That does seem like an oversight on your part," she says, quite sincerely, though she laughs a moment later and shakes her head. "It's the only one I've taken. I doubted you'd miss it. It helps keep me—" Her voice trails off for a moment, and she reaches back for something to do with her hands. Impatiently, she gathers her braided hair and begins combing it out, fingers working through the tangles there.

Even in the dark she sees Baldwin's gaze shift, settling for a moment on a particular red curl hanging from her finger. It is perhaps the second or third time he's seen her hair loose, and he seems to understand the gravity of such a vulnerability with him—but she has no use for modesty or shame with him, and with his attention diverted she pushes forward. "It keeps me from getting overwhelmed. Usually, you're there, and that helps, but when you're not—it's a poor substitute but it's useful all the same. One scent I know well keeps me from going mad when presented with a thousand."

"I see." He drags his gaze from her hair back to her face, and she feels suddenly and terribly (wonderfully) exposed.

"It reminds me that I am not where I have been. And that as long as I'm with you, I am safe." That seems to surprise him, though she can't be sure, as she looks at his hands after only a moment of meeting his eyes. "Even after years, I'm not quite used to it. I trust you—" And here she laughs again and looks back at him. "—God help me, I trust you with my life and my freedom alike. The reminder that it's you looking after me is a welcome one."

Baldwin grins, suddenly, and she feels all the air being knocked out of her lungs at the sight of it. "Quite a change from the certainty I'd let Father Hubbard drink from you," he points out after a moment, and it prompts yet another laugh. Quickly, so quickly she thinks she imagined it, she could swear she sees him close his eyes as if to savor the sound of her laugh.

"Well, you see, I've learned the truth about you."

"Have you, now?"

"Mm." She leans forward as much as she can without losing her balance on the railing. "You like me."

He chuckles, and the rich rumble of his voice is a song. "Maybe, for the moment, you're of more use to me alive." But he's still grinning, and she can recognize his tone as—teasing. How magnificent, that he'll tease her like that, that he knows her well enough to be certain she'll take it as it's meant. How beautiful, that he seems to enjoy making her laugh.

"Oh, I certainly am, but it's still true. You like me. And you won't let anyone harm me, even myself. It's alright," she adds, and she settles back against the wall with a smug little smile. "I like you, too."

"Do you, now?"

"Very much. There is not another soul in this world who's taken care of me like you have."

The confession is unexpected. Baldwin's expression seems to soften, though perhaps it's the low light.

"When I need to remember that I am alive, and still myself, I think of you." She looks out over the gardens again, but she's drawn back to him, the beautiful line of his jaw in the dark. "Cuore mio. You are my sanity and my safety." His eyebrows raise at the Italian, and she laughs low in her throat. "That's what you are, isn't it? If you had turned us away that day, I would be dead, or mad. That I am still myself, that I still exist at all, is because of you." And if I were to be separated from you now, I'm not certain I would know how to remain myself. She swings her legs around and shifts so that her feet are on the stone floor of the balcony, and she looks up at Baldwin and smiles. "Will you take me out? I'd like to hunt."

For a long, long moment, he is silent, watching her. Slowly, as though he was reaching out to soothe a frightened animal, he reaches for her, and he tips her chin up, brushes that same errant curl he'd been watching before behind her ear, as if to grant himself an unimpeded view of her face. His fingers brush against her cheek, and his expression seems almost tender, but he says nothing. After a beat, he drags his finger along her jaw before he lowers his hand.

"Do you want to dress, first?" he asks, and she stands, shaking her head.

"If anyone sees me, they'll assume I'm some restless spirit," she says with a little laugh, and she tries not to think about how gentle his touch was against her skin, or how badly she wanted to lean into it, or that she feels oddly, impossibly cold now that he's released her. (She glides across the floor quickly enough that she has to wait for him at the door. She does not see him lift the handkerchief, still in his hand, to his nose and breathe her in.)

She wakes the next morning after an hour or two of sound sleep, soothed by having drunk her fill mere hours before. When she opens her eyes the first thing she sees is an unfamiliar scrap of fabric on the bed beside her—and when she breathes in his scent on the cloth it is almost as if he is there with her.