#ill draw a semi immediate follow up to this later

[tealgoat]

Act 6 sure is something

[josefavomjaaga]

While several of his future colleagues were half-orphans or otherwise must have had a rather unhappy childhood, Auguste Frédéric Viesse de Marmont for once comes from a perfect background: only, dearly beloved son of a family of landed gentry. His father Nicolas-Edme had married the daughter of a wealthy Parisian civil servant, the spouses were very much in love with each other and would remain so throughout their lives. Auguste’s older sister died at the age of eight, and his parents doted on their surviving child all the more. His father in particular watched over everything, from Auguste’s first teeth to his education, and during his son's childhood illnesses, his father noted down every little thing in a diary (which still exists): Sweating, meals eaten, hoarseness and breathing and consistency of bowel movements.

Franck Favier in his book on Marmont cites a passage from this journal to show the timetable for young Auguste’s education:

Up at 7 a.m., then his prayers, cleaning his ears, washing his hands and mouth with a sponge, and all this within half an hour.

At half-past seven, practice of his violin.

At eight, breakfast; breakfast taking half an hour.

Recreation until 9 o'clock.

At 9 o'clock, ten verses by heart.

At half-past nine, first lesson in drawing circles and ovals.

At a quarter past ten, recreation until a quarter to eleven.

At a quarter to eleven, reading and hairdressing.

At half past eleven, geometry instruction until noon.

Recreation until half-past twelve and after his lunch until three-quarters past one.

At 2 o'clock, drawing instruction for heads…

(Translated from F. Favier, “Marmont. Le Maudit”)

Starting at the age of nine, there’s also a comprehensive physical training with running, jumping and marching. Papa Marmont hired teachers for his son’s early education before sending him to a collège where Auguste would befriend a rather unruly fellow student named Andoche Junot destined to become a lawyer, but already dreaming of soldiering and the glory of arms. A dream young Auguste soon shared. A little grumbling (he surely had not groomed this perfect son to see his talents wasted in the army!) Papa Marmont gave in to his son’s wishes, under the condition that Junior would join the artillery, where he at least had to use his head and even might learn a thing or two that would later prove useful outside the army, in real life… This new career path in the end led Marmont to meeting a certain Napoleon Bonaparte, in Dijon 1791.

Let’s fast-forward a little: Robespierre’s fall, Bonaparte imprisoned, Marmont and Junot planning to free him, Bonaparte in semi-disgrace, Papa Marmont feeding the trio, then 13 Vendémière, Marmont becoming aide-de-camp to general Bonaparte, following him to Italy…

It’s in autumn 1796 when Marmont, in triumph, brings to Paris some flags taken from the enemy. To mark the occasion, the ultra-rich Swiss banker Perrégaux gives a ball in his Paris residence, with the dashing young war hero at the centre of attention. Perrégaux’s daughter Hortense immediately falls in love. Hard.

Hortense (born in 1779) was yet another disciple of Madame Campan’s famous institute of future imperial brides, and a good friend of the other Hortense, Hortense de Berauharnais. (Call me biased all you want but there is a pattern there.) She was also intelligent, witty, strong-willed and her father's spoilt favourite. She proved this strength of will to her father, when the latter began to look for a husband for his daughter over the next few months (a husband who was not called "Marmont", obviously, because a simple soldier was not an appropriate match). Hortense however refused to even look at the candidates. In April 1797, she went so far as to lock herself up in her room for days … and of course she got her way in the end. By May 1797, Papa Perrégaux promised her she could have that nobody of a soldier if she insisted.

Marmont, as to him, had long returned to Italy and was blissfully unaware of the storm he had caused in one of the first families of Paris. As a matter of fact, in that same May 1797 Bonaparte gave him a furious telling-off, for Marmont had returned to headquarters twenty-four hours late. Twenty-four hours that he had apparently spent in the arms of some Venetian beauty. (In his memoirs Marmont claims that Napoleon in July of that year wanted to marry him to his sister Pauline, which seems to be an obvious lie as by the time Marmont claims the proposal was made, Pauline was already engaged to Leclerc.)

It’s only in April 1798 when Marmont and Mlle Perrégaux finally tie the knot. Of course, for Marmont these new family relations are a dream come true. His young wife brings him a million in dowry. Both spouses have beauty, wit and intelligence and are adored by tout Paris.

Difficulties start as soon as the young couple visits Marmont’s family estate in Châtillon-sur-Seine. Living in the province, with only a couple of old-fashioned landed gentry for company, clearly is not to Hortense’s likings. Particularly, as Marmont soon leaves her alone in this hillbilly family circle, in order to follow Napoleon to Egypt. Soon enough, Hortense returns to Paris and lives with her father again.

That’s where Marmont will find her on his return from Egypt, and for some time, all seems fine again (despite Papa and Maman Marmont being decidedly unhappy with that spoilt brat of a daughter-in-law). The couple moves into a house of their own, Marmont starts to show first signs of vanity and shows of his wealth in the style of a true nouveau riche, even somewhat alienating himself from his parents. Hortense, as to her, is often invited to Malmaison, much to Marmont’s chagrin – the new court forming there to him seems a bit too permissive in terms of morals. As a matter of fact, he even suspects the First Consul of having set his eyes on Madame Marmont!

Let’s fast-forward again as things start to turn ugly rather quickly in Marmont’s marriage: He has always been a favourite with the ladies, sees no reason to stop that, and his wife, not used to giving up on any of her whims, will soon start to have affairs of her own. Marmont suspects her of having affairs with Napoleon and with her father’s partner Laffitte.

On 10 December 1807, while Marmont is in Dalmatia, a boy named Jacques Alfred Valberg is born in Paris. Eight months later, an ADC of Marmont’s recognises him as his son, the mother in the papers being named as Marie Perdraux, living in rue de Hazard. - Considering that this boy will be the sole heir of Hortense Perregaux-Marmont’s fortune in 1857, certain suspicions may be allowed…

By the time Marmont receives his marshal’s baton, his marriage is long in shambles. And yet they can’t divorce, they are kept together by – money. Both have grown fond of luxury, both love to overspend, and Marmont’s family relations to the banker’s family are necessary for him to keeo up his life style. He has shares in many of his father-in-law’s business projects.

It’s only during the Restauration, when he has become the infamous »Duc de Raguse« that he will officially separate from his wife (but not divorce). She will live a couple of years longer than him, and it would be interesting to hear her thoughts on her husband’s famous memoirs. He does not treat her kindly in them.

[k-s-morgan]

Will’s vs. Hannibal’s Ways of Expressing Love

The fact that Hannibal loves Will and is in love with him is openly stated in the show several times. Will’s feelings, on the other hand, are more ambiguous, which is why some viewers often doubt whether Hannibal’s love is reciprocated. I think that exploring the ways these two men experience and react to love can explain the varying degrees of their openness about it.

I’ll put TLDR right here: Hannibal is more open about himself and his feelings, including love, hence he doesn’t have many challenges with admitting it. Will is closed off, stiff, and emotionally repressed, so he expresses his feelings in a much more subtle way.

Let’s start with Hannibal. Details about his past are scarce, but we know that he admits to loving two people throughout his life, his sister and Will.

E3 of S3.

*Bedelia: What your sister made you feel was beyond your conscious ability to control or predict … I would suggest what Will Graham makes you feel is not dissimilar. A force of mind and circumstance.*    

*Hannibal: Love.*

Undoubtedly, Hannibal’s love for Mischa was traumatic and unhealthy. He loved her so much that he ate a part of her body after she was killed, devastated by this loss. But it was still love that made him feel all the related emotions, so Hannibal has some experience with it. From what we know of him, he has a very broad mind. He despises limitations and overcomes them, and he is not ashamed of who he is. He isn’t embarrassed to cry in the opera or to be the first to stand up and applaud; he delights in stereotypically ‘feminine’ hobbies like cooking and clothes selection; he draws fan-art and openly expresses his admiration when it’s due. For this reason, Hannibal doesn’t have many problems with expressing love either.  

Upon meeting Will, he is immediately drawn to him. He sees him as his potential partner and decides he wants to try and build a family with him as early as E2 of S1. That’s when he starts planting the idea of Abigail being their shared daughter in Will’s mind. He does the same to Abigail, urging her to see him and Will as her parents, even giving her shrooms to evoke the desired associations (unsuccessfully since Will doesn’t come to dinner). So, Hannibal acknowledged his pull/infatuation with Will from the very start, and he acted on it right away.

It’s not 100% love at this point, but Hannibal still easily follows his emotions. He doesn’t stop to consider how strange it is to want a family with a man he just met; he doesn’t agonize over the idea of how his life has more risks now that he allows another human being to know him. When these feelings progress at the end of S1/start of S2, Hannibal is finally taken aback. While he never planned to leave Will in prison and it was a part of his plan, he still didn’t expect to miss him so much — he admits it to Bedelia, looking forlorn, in E1 of S2. He repeatedly pines for Will by sitting in front of his chair at the time of his supposed appointment, glancing at the clock despite knowing Will is not going to come. This is a shift to an actual love, but Hannibal still doesn’t fight it. On the contrary, he embraces it, and he spends the entire S2 doing repeatedly romantic gestures for Will. Namely:

1) Protects Abigail to reunite Will with her later.

2) Shares a part of himself he doesn’t seem to have ever shared with anyone else. He talks to Will about Mischa, reveals his views on murder and God, acknowledges he cared about Abigail, and shows vulnerability. He shares his teacup ritual with him, which is something precious and deeply personal.

3) He digs up fake Freddie’s corpse and decorates it as a way of courting Will (as directly said by Alana).  

4) He draws a fan-art of himself and Will as Achilles and Patroclus.

5) He is ready to abandon his well-established life in Baltimore and reputation to run away with Will. In Hannibal’s view, no one truly suspects him and there is no evidence against him, but Will is in danger. So he’s willing to discard everything he’s been building for 20 years for him.

Finally, he calls Will a loved one more or less directly in E13 of S2 (in fact, he implies that they both love each other).

*Hannibal: Do you know what an imago is, Will? … An imago is an image of a loved one buried in the unconscious, carried with us all our lives.*

*Will: An ideal.*

*Hannibal: The concept of an ideal... I have a concept of you, just as you have a concept of me.*

Will hurts him with his betrayal, and Hannibal still finds himself unable to kill him. He is openly crying in the finale, admitting how Will hurt him, breaks his (and his own) heart by killing Abigail, and flees to Europe to start a new life. But things don’t go as he hoped they would. Bedelia is not a worthy substitute, and Hannibal is increasingly slipping into a self-destructive state because of his love for Will. He kills Anthony, who was an improved copy of Will, and turns him into a Valentine heart for him. Again, this is a very explicit and open emotional action. Hannibal doesn’t hide his feelings. He’s an emotional wreck with Bedelia in E3, and as they are talking about Will, he admits he’s in love with him.

*Hannibal: You cannot control with respect to whom you fall in love.*

Bedelia points out his self-destructiveness.

*Bedelia: You're going to get caught. It's already been set into motion … I know exactly how I will be navigating my way out of whatever it is I’ve gotten myself into. Do you?*

After Hannibal keeps spiraling and kills Sogliato, she adds: *You're drawing them to you, aren't you? All of them.*  

Hannibal gets so self-destructive over Will that he lets Jack beat himself almost to death, not even attempting to fight him. The first words he says to Will after they reunite in E6 are:

*Hannibal: If I saw you every day forever, Will, I would remember this time.*

He’s a romantic. The courtship, the Valentine heart, the romance — Hannibal did have some struggles, but overall, he accepts these feelings and isn’t afraid to act on them.

When Will pulls a knife in E6, Hannibal classifies it as another betrayal. This is where he decides to kill and eat him in the hope to put an end to this misery (which is what he and Bedelia discussed back in E3). However, even blinded by another heartbreak, Hannibal tries to save Will at the same time. He knows the police are coming and he puts off the moment of sawing for as long as he can, first fussing over Will and his wound, then waiting for Jack, then doing everything slowly as hell.

Everything changes in E7, when Hannibal faces the real risk of losing Will and comes to terms with the fact that a hope of life with him is better than life without him. So Hannibal carries Will home bridal-style, takes care of him, waits for him to wake up and writes formulas to reverse time. He directly tells Will that Will won, and that he, Hannibal, is at Will’s mercy.

*Hannibal: Your memory palace is building. It's full of new things. It shares some rooms with my own. I've discovered you there. Victorious.*

He gives himself up, sacrificing the freedom he’s been fighting for back in E2 finale, in the hope that one day, Will is going to come back to him. After this, Hannibal is all about Will, with all his heart. Throughout the second half of S3, he says things like, *“I gave you a child. You are family, Will. Was it good to see me?”*, etc. He agrees to risk his life by agreeing to Will’s plan, knowing he’s planning something but not knowing what and if he’d die in the process. In E13, Hannibal says:

*Hannibal: "No greater love hath man than to lay down his life for a friend"* and shields Will from the bullet. Later, he allows Will to push them both down, and he stays with him afterward.

Conclusion: Hannibal is very accepting of himself, so he doesn’t undergo severe challenges on the path to acknowledging what he feels for Will. He knows what love feels like because he felt it for Mischa before, so he embraces loving Will pretty quickly, even though he doesn’t know how to best approach it at times. That’s why we get direct and explicit confirmation of his feelings several times.

Now, on to Will.

Unlike with Hannibal, there is no evidence that Will has ever experienced love before (at least love for people). We know he had a father and was lonely as a child.

E4 of S1.

*Will: We were poor. I followed my father from the boat yards in Biloxi and Greenville to lake boats on Erie.*

*Hannibal: Always the new boy at school? Always the stranger?*

*Will: Always.*

His choice of words indicates that his relationship with his father wasn’t all that good (for instance, *I followed my father* instead of *My father and I had to…*). So, it doesn’t look like Will ever had meaningful connections. More than that, he says:

*Will: There’s something so foreign about family. Like an ill-fitting suit. Never connected to the concept.*

We can suggest that he doesn’t know what love is or how it feels like. From E1, we know he isolates himself because he hates himself for who he is: he understands he’s different, that there is darkness in him, but he desperately tries to subdue it and deny this fact. He’s rude, twitchy, and unhappy, but like Hannibal, he understands the extent of his loneliness only upon meeting him. That’s when he tries forming relationships with others.

Will’s relationships with Alana and Abigail are a good indication of his problems with love. He wants to be with Alana because he needs to feel normal. In 99% of cases, he remembers about her only when she comes to seek him out first. He kisses her for the first time at the moment of particular vulnerability, fearing that he’s finally losing his mind (in E8). When Hannibal calls him out on it, Will doesn’t deny it and semi-nods. He actually had to agree with it verbally according to the script.

*Will: I feel unstable.*

*Hannibal: That’s why you kissed her. A clutch for balance.*

*Will: Because I’m losing mine.*

So, it’s not that Will feels romantic love for Alana — he uses her because he desperately needs to feel like everyone else. Alana is a pretty, smart, normal woman who fits this goal perfectly. He doesn’t allow himself to be genuine with her unlike he does with Hannibal, to whom he opens up.

Will confesses to Hannibal that he loved killing Hobbs in E2, which got him down and made him panic. Hannibal supports him, and Will keeps coming back to him. He talks about everything important with Hannibal, opening parts of himself that he guards from everyone else. Will asks Hannibal to look after his dogs as early as E4 — he doesn’t have other friends, and he’s already focused on Hannibal. He buys into an idea of having a family with him and Abigail, which is amazing for Will, who has just said he could never relate to the concept of family.

When Will buys a gift for Abigail in the same E4 and freaks out, Hannibal asks him:

*Hannibal: Feeling paternal, Will?*

Will’s reaction is instant and defensive:

*Will: Aren’t you?*

Hannibal easily says “yes”, which disarms Will. This is a great contrast between them: Hannibal isn’t afraid to talk and acknowledge his feelings while Will is embarrassed of them and shies away from them. In fact, this is a repeat of their conversation in E2.

*Hannibal: You saved Abigail Hobbs' life. You also orphaned her. It comes with certain emotional obligations.*

*Will: You were there. You saved her life, too. Do you feel obligated?*

Again, Will deflects. He’s wary of emotions, especially of admitting them out loud.

Will shows a hint of romantic interest in Hannibal in E7. He brings him a bottle of wine out of blue, but unfortunately, he stumbles upon the party Hannibal is preparing. Hannibal invites him to stay, but Will says he won’t be good company. He’s shy and awkward, smiling nervously and dropping his gaze in embarrassment. Then we have this lovely line:

*Will: I’ve got a date with the Chesapeake Ripper.*

So, in S1, Will makes considerable emotional progress. He realizes he wants a family after all, and while he makes several half-hearted attempts to court Alana, he’s mostly focused on Hannibal and Abigail. He opens himself up to Hannibal, receives official guardianship over Abigail with him, arguably flirts with Hannibal (like in the wine scene above), and covers up murder to protect their family. But then Hannibal betrays him. Will doesn’t know his reasons yet, but this betrayal plunged him into darkness, bitterness, and new stage of emotional repression. It’s worth mentioning another point of Abigail here: in the end, Will doesn’t know her. He spoke to her only several times, and even fewer times were genuine. He loves the idea of her, and this idea was introduced by Hannibal, not by Abigail’s presence. It’s Hannibal who forced Will to confront his need to love and be loved.  

In S2, Will is incredibly conflicted. He acknowledges to Hannibal that he hurt him, tries to kill him via Matthew, but when he recognizes that Hannibal wants him as a friend (as spoken in E7), his attitude changes. Will doesn’t plan to forgive him, he’s still angry at Hannibal for killing Abigail (which is his biggest conflict, as evident from his talks with Hannibal himself and Freddie), but now, he can’t bring himself to harm or betray Hannibal.

He gets his first chance in E7, after being released from prison. He threatens Hannibal with a gun and has a perfect chance to make him pay, but he doesn’t. Instead, he conspires with Jack and decides to cultivate co-dependency, creating an environment where only he “and the fish exist” (E8). What does Will do to start? He makes himself physically attractive, grooming and dressing prettily. It’s a seduction on all levels, and Will plans to use emotions to hurt Hannibal back. At the same time, Will admits to being confused over what he feels for Hannibal.

E8 of S2.

*Will: I envy you your hate. Makes it much easier when you know how to feel.*

E9 of S2 (talking about trying to kill Hannibal with Margot).

*Margot: Did he have it coming?*

*Will: What do you think?*

*Margot: I can't say that I know.*

*Will: Neither can I.*

He spends the rest of the season lying to both Hannibal and Jack, unsure whose side to choose, too lost in his own feelings to make sense of them. At the same time, he has a dream where Hannibal calls him beloved in E9. It shows that Will contemplates the idea of love in relation to Hannibal. In E10, Will tries to fantasize about Alana as he’s having sex with Margot. However, he sees the image of Wendigo near the fireplace, Wendigo who he’s used to associating with Hannibal. Two interesting things (copied from my other meta): first, Will actually sees Hannibal’s room and consequently, he sees himself in it (or he sees their rooms united). Second, he sees the Wendigo near Hannibal’s fireplace. Fireplace has many meanings, including passion, sexuality, home, family, and resurrection. It emphasizes the sexual and romantic subtext of this uniquely shot scene, where people destined to be together have sex with the wrong partners. Will’s vision begins to contract, focusing on Wendigo: he is having an orgasm at this very moment, imagining the Wendigo’s face very close, approaching him. Still through the misty eyes, he tries to focus on Alana again, but his gaze moves up to Wendigo above her, as if he can’t help himself. He and Hannibal reach orgasm first, with Alana and Margot following them. So, Will dragged Hannibal into his sex fantasy. It’s both symbolic and physical: he tried to imagine Alana just like he tried to have a relationship with her before, in S1, out of his desire to be normal. But his attention is inevitably drawn to Hannibal, who’s his “real deal”.

Based on this scene, it’s underlined once again how Will struggles with emotions. Even in the safety of his own mind, in his own fantasy, he tries to think of Alana but still ends up with Hannibal. Will is always fighting himself and who he is. He refuses to accept his darkness just as he refuses to admit he loves Hannibal. It’s the essence of who he is, denial is his second name.

Among the important moments, there are Will’s words to Hannibal:

*Will: You are right. We are just alike. You are as alone as I am. And we are both alone without each other.*

So, Will accepts the bond with Hannibal, and at this stage, he even has the courage to voice some of his emotional thoughts. His progress is slow, but it’s there.

In E11, Will has a nightmare. He sees a burning corpse of ‘Freddie’ in a wheelchair, a symbol of his betrayal of Hannibal, and he hears his own increasing screaming. It’s easy to interpret, knowing the context: Will feels guilty for lying to Hannibal.

When Margot loses her child, Will feels renewed anger at Hannibal. He fantasizes about killing him and gets to realize his fantasy with Mason’s help in E12. But at the last moment, Will changes his mind and chooses Hannibal. He does the same thing in E13 by calling him. When he sees him, he doesn’t even try to point a gun at him: he asks why he didn’t leave as he was supposed to, and he even leans forward to accept the knife, accept the punishment for betrayal.

So, Will chooses Hannibal over Abigail, for whom he wanted justice; over his and Margot’s child, for whom he wanted revenge; over Jack and Alana, who were his only semblance of friends; over his own confusion and desire to be normal. For someone as emotionally stunted as Will, it’s huge. It proves that he loves Hannibal and is willing to compromise all other relationships he has formed as well his own beliefs for him (while Will is dark, he tries to fight it because he doesn’t think people like them are normal). Is it romantic? Will’s dream with the word “beloved” and his sex fantasy, as well as his acceptance of the idea that he and Hannibal were Abigail’s fathers (which makes them partners) imply that yes, romantic feeling is a part of it.

Hannibal’s romantic feelings became explicit in S3, and so did Will’s. But since Hannibal is more open and self-accepting, his were discussed out loud while Will’s were mostly portrayed silently, implied, and alluded to.

Will builds a boat to sail and find Hannibal, which is pretty romantic by itself. He spends his time in Hannibal’s house, in the kitchen where their bloody break-up happened, imagining Abigail near him. When Alana comes to find him, he asks her to leave. He’s cold and indifferent toward her — she’s not what he wants, and he’s not interested in even friendship with her. All he wants is to mourn his lost family with Hannibal and Abigail. Again, Hannibal is Will’s priority.

Will imagines his perfect world as the one where he and Hannibal killed Jack together. This scene is intercut with his Mizumono memories, namely, with Hannibal's face that emerges every time he moves yet another part of the engine. This is a vivid demonstration of Will trying to repair what is now broken. When Jack asks him why he called him, Will is indifferent and genuine:

*Will: I wasn't decided when I called him. I just called him. I deliberated while the phone rang. I decided when I heard his voice … I told him to leave. I wanted him to run … Because he was my friend. And because I wanted to run away with him.*

That’s a big admission for Will. This is the first time he openly acknowledges Hannibal as his friend in front of another person. Chilton calls Will and Hannibal’s interactions a “flirtation” in this episode, which once again points us in the romantic direction.

The entire E2 of S3 is dedicated to Will’s love for Hannibal, where he argues about it with himself in the form of imaginary Abigail. This is another proof of Will’s problem with emotions in general and emotions for Hannibal in particular. He can’t just think to himself as normal people do — no, he can’t admit how much he loves Hannibal this. Instead, he imagines Abigail and talks to himself through her to make it easier. He berates himself for lying.

*Will/Abigail: We were all supposed to leave together. He made a place for us. Why did you lie to him? He gave you a chance to take it all back, and you just kept lying.*

Will is reverent about Hannibal; he keeps talking about him over and over again.

*Will: This isn't Hannibal, it's just where he begins. Beyond this, far and complex, light and dark, is the vast structure of his mind. A thousand rooms, miles of corridors. Everything he remembers, wonderfully and fearfully reconstructed.*

Will goes as far as lies at the place where Hannibal’s Valentine heart for him was, reconstructing this image and trying to feel close to him. The heart comes to life the moment Will touches it, which is romantic. Will says:

*Will: A valentine written on a broken man … I do feel closer to Hannibal here. God only knows where I would be without him … He left us his broken heart … He misses us.*

He looks on the verge of tears, so Hannibal’s gift touched him. Will is overcome by emotions. At this very moment, his more frightened side suggests that Hannibal is also playing with him.

*Will: Hannibal follows several trains of thought at once without distraction from any, and one of the trains is always for his own amusement.*

We know it’s not the case, especially here, but Will has trust issues and a low self-esteem. He’s worried that Hannibal’s feelings for him aren’t as strong as he thinks they are, which is why he’s not sure how to react himself. He asks himself, *“You still want to go with him?”* and replies, *“Yes.” He wonders about what life they’d have if they left.

*Will: What if no one died? What if we all left together? Like we were supposed to. After he served the lamb. Where would we have gone? … In some other world.*

Pazzi comes and tells Will that he hopes they’ll catch Hannibal together.

*Will: What makes you think I want to catch him?*

Later, Pazzi says:

*Pazzi: He let you know him. He sent you his heart.*

E2 ends with Will scaring Pazzi and telling him, *“You don’t know whose side I’m on.* Then he tells Hannibal he forgives him, which is also a huge step in his direction.

This entire episode proves that yes, Will loves Hannibal. Considering how he isn’t awkward from receiving a Valentine or hearing that Hannibal gave him his heart, Will shares the romantic aspect of Hannibal’s feelings for him. He regrets not running away with him and their daughter, he places himself on the floor where the heart was to feel closer to him — this is such a rich romantic subtext that it’s practically text. Especially for Will, who remains so conflicted and emotionally restrained all the time.

Will’s attitude changes after seeing Chiyoh. He becomes more bitter. Considering how dark he is in these scenes and how he constantly compares himself and Chiyoh, he likely sees her as someone Hannibal was supposed to love but easily abandoned. It makes Will draw the parallels between them, and he starts to doubt that Hannibal loves him, that his “broken heart” has any authentic meaning. That’s where he starts thinking about killing Hannibal again. He still says:

*Will: I’ve never known myself as well as I know myself when I’m with him.*

This line also speaks volumes. Hannibal gave Will a precious gift of understanding himself; he showed that he could accept him, and Will is drawn to it. Will admits the depth of their connection to yet another person. Then he makes a firefly from Chiyoh’s prisoner, a tribute that is clearly done with Hannibal in his mind, considering the style and the central topic.

Chiyoh sees right through Will’s emotional constipation. She implies that he should “kiss” Hannibal rather than keep being “violent”:

*Chiyoh: I told you, there are means of influence other than violence.*

She kisses Will then, thus showing him what others means exist. He doesn’t get it, though, since he responds to her kiss despite not feeling anything for her, and she pushes him off the train, likely admitting he’s a hopeless case.

Meeting Jack, Will tells him that a part of him will always want to leave with Hannibal. This is yet another declaration from him. Will isn’t scared of the consequences — he speaks of his feelings openly now. It’s a great development of his character.

But the feeling of doubt about Hannibal likely resurfaces further after Will sees that Hannibal replaced him and Abigail with Bedelia in E6 (hence his hatred for her since that moment). He mocks her alibi and then leaves to reunite with Hannibal. The following moment was deleted, but it still discloses some of Will’s romantic feelings:

*Will: I looked up at the night sky there. Orion above the horizon and, near it, Jupiter. I wondered if you could see it, too. I wondered if our stars were the same.*

From the words that did get into the episode:

*Will: You and I have begun to blur ... We're conjoined. Curious if either of us can survive separation.*

Will doesn’t just admit the bond between them, he elevates it the level of soulmates, implying they are one and the same. It’s also a declaration of love in his language. But love doesn’t stop Will from being vindictive, hurt, and angry, so after meetings with Chiyoh and Bedelia that affected his perception, he pulls out a knife as he and Hannibal are walking together.

There is a brain-sawing disaster after this and E7, where Will looks done and tired from the madness and his constant attempts to figure Hannibal out. He does bite Cordell before looking at Hannibal, seeking his approval; he uses “we” pronouns when speaking about Hannibal with Alana. One example:

*Will: You helped Mason Verger find us.*

So, he still sees himself and Hannibal as a team, but he’s still tired and bitter, so after everything is over, he hurts Hannibal by saying he doesn’t share his appetite and by attacking him emotionally.

*Will: I miss my dogs. I'm not going to miss you. I'm not going to find you. I'm not going to look for you. I don't want to know where you are or what you do. I don't want to think about you anymore.*

This is all personal and emotional. It sounds like a break-up, which is exactly how Bryan Fuller and others referred to it. When Hannibal leaves and Jacks arrives, Will puts on his glasses, an indication that he’s hiding again.

Fast-forward 3 years. Will is married now, but from the very start, we see that this marriage isn’t all people usually expect it to be. The first scene shows the family apart. Molly and Walter have gone fishing, which is something Will loves. He had dreams about teaching Abigail how to fish, but he doesn’t go to do that with his family, preferring to stay alone instead. It’s the first hint that his heart isn’t in this relationship, that he’s too hung up on the past to move forward and make new happy memories.

Jack came to drag him to Dragon’s case, and Will makes it look like he’s reluctant. At the same time, he doesn’t send Jack away, even though we know from the past that he has no qualms being frank when he wants to. More than that, he asks him not to show pics to Molly, but when they have dinner, Will deliberately leaves the house with Walter, leaving Jack and Molly together. At night, when Molly’s asleep, he crawls out of bed and goes to read Hannibal’s letter. He doesn’t tell the truth to Molly about himself and his dark urges, about everything he has done – Molly clearly has no idea who he truly is, considering how she jokes about his ‘criminal mind’ in later episodes and how Will immediately closes himself off from her. He never initiates physical touches with her; he doesn’t return her “I love you”, which is an even bigger indication of his lack of commitment. Will is emotionally stiff with Molly for the most part, and the only times he laughs with her or shows any emotion is when they are talking about superficial stuff in the former case and when he’s furious after Francis’ attack in the latter one. Other than that, there is no closeness or honesty.

Another point of Will’s inability to express or even give his love to someone is in his scene with Walter in E11. This child, his step-son, has just been attacked by a serial killer with his mother. His mother was hurt and they barely escaped. Will doesn’t hug him or offer him paternal emotional comfort; he’s very awkward. All he says is, “You're both safe here,” which is something an officer might say but not a father. Will was much more emotional in his fantasies about Abigail.

This is what Will says about Walter’s reaction to Jack:

*Will: He read about me in a Freddie Lounds article. I had to justify myself to an eleven year old.*

He’s resentful and not emotional. He doesn’t say, “I had to justify myself to my son!” – he distances himself from him. Will is cold. He has expressed his feelings for Hannibal at this point in rather poetic ways, but he can’t be bothered to do this for his wife and his son.

He treats Hannibal in a very reserved fashion too, in comparison to how he acted 3 years ago. However: first, there is the fact that he came to visit him in the first place. Will didn’t need his help, we saw very clearly how he managed to easily reconstruct the crime scene the night before. It proved that his mindset is in a good shape, so he didn’t need Hannibal’s assistance. But it’s Hannibal he requested to see right away.

Will distances himself from him by calling him “Doctor Lecter” and insisting that he’s more comfortable the less personal they are. His eyes glisten, though, and he can’t look away from Hannibal. The impersonal approach doesn’t last very long, too, and soon, they are talking like they always did. Hannibal accuses Will of marrying for false reasons.

*Hannibal: How did you choose yours? Readymade wife and child to serve your needs. A stepson or daughter. A stepson absolves you of any biological blame. You know better than to breed. Can't pass on those terrible traits you fear the most.*

Will doesn’t bother to deny it, though any man would have been offended, particularly if he truly loved his family. In Will’s case, from the experience and all the precedents, silence = agreement.

In E10, Will seeks Bedelia out. He acts catty and jealous, targeting her personal connection with Hannibal.

*Will: You didn't lose yourself, Bedelia, you just crawled so far up his ass you couldn't be bothered.* - personal, targeted against Bedelia's attachment to Hannibal.

*Will: You hitched your star to a man commonly known as a monster. You're the Bride of Frankenstein.* - personal, attack with romantic connotation. Bedelia catches up on it and mocks him:

*Bedelia: We've both been his bride. Have you been to see him?*

*Will: Yes.*

*Bedelia: Haven't learned anything, have you? Or did you just miss him that much?*

*Will: Have you been to see him?* - personal again. Will wants to know if Bedelia is keeping contact with Hannibal.

*Bedelia: I've seen enough of him. I was with him behind the veil. You were always on the other side.*

*Will: Something we should talk about.* - again, personal. It's all personal, which is why Bryan and Hugh called them Hannibal's jealous bitchy exes. Will is palpably jealous and he shows his resentment to Bedelia openly.

Later, we have some more romantic references.

*Bedelia: My relationship with Hannibal is not as passionate as yours. You are here visiting old flame. Is your wife aware of how intimately you and Hannibal know each other? … Your experience of Hannibal’s attention is so profoundly harmful yet so irresistible, it undermines your ability to think rationally.*

So, there is romantic text, parallels between Hannibal and Will’s wife, and Will doesn’t deny any of this again. He keeps coming to Bedelia because she’s the only person he can talk about Hannibal to without being watched.

After Hannibal sends Francis after Molly and Walter, Will spends about a minute being angry with him. Then he accuses Hannibal of staging a competition between him and Francis. It is startling: Will spent months, years mourning the loss of Abigail who he didn’t even really know personally, yet he forgets the gravity of what happened to his wife and won very quickly. He leaves Molly and Walter and tells Bedelia that they are finished. One traumatic event, and Will left. It coincides with something very important that happened here: after this, Will finally figures out Hannibal is truly in love with him. So he goes to Bedelia to discuss it with her.

*Will: Is Hannibal in love with me?*

*Bedelia: Could he daily feel a stab of hunger for you, and find nourishment at the very sight of you? Yes. But do you ache for him?*

Will is predictably silent. Obviously, if the answer was no, he would have said no. But he struggles because like we established, he has issues with expressing emotions. He only managed to start referring to Hannibal as his friend openly in this season, opening up about some of his feelings, but he’s not ready to go this far. It would be absolutely out of character for Will to say, “Yes, you know, I’m in love with him! Thanks for helping me see it.” Every confession Will makes is preceded by struggles and heartbreak. But he’s going to reply to Bedelia’s question, only not explicitly-verbally.

Will sets up Chilton and then comes to allegedly say good-bye to Hannibal. He lies several times in their conversation (about Chilton and Molly with Walter), so all his words are automatically suspicious. Regardless, he destroys Hannibal emotionally and walks away. Personally, I believe he was already planning to break him out, so he was playing it up for cameras and also taking a chance to hurt Hannibal for everything again. But whatever his plan was, what happens next is that Will conspires with Francis against Jack, Alana, and the FBI. They agree to break Hannibal out together. Will lies to Jack and then gets to ask Hannibal for help. He’s being flirty and manipulative in this scene.

*Will: I need you, Hannibal … You're our best shot, Hannibal. Please.*

He’s smirking, he leans close to Hannibal, he sends him a flirty look from under his eyelashes. Will is thoroughly enjoying himself, and he does it best when he has some excuse to hide behind.

Later, he lies to Jack and Alana again, leaks info to Francis (who nearly killed his wife and son), and gets many officers killed by proxy. He tells Bedelia the truth that he doesn’t “intend Hannibal to be caught a second time.” He also implies that he’s going to let him go free, which is why Bedelia should pack her bags.

*Bedelia: Can't live with him. Can't live without him. Is that what this is?*

This time, Will agrees, although in his way.

*Will: I guess this is my Becoming.*

For Will, Becoming was always connected to his feelings for Hannibal because accepting himself and his darkness meant being free to escape with Hannibal.

*Bedelia: You found religion. Nothing more dangerous than that.*

In E3, it was stated that love is a God (you can find more here https://www.reddit.com/r/HannibalTV/comments/7w54dg/lovegodreligion_s3_parallels/), so it’s possible to say that religion = love in this context. It certainly makes sense. Will is accepting himself and his emotions, and the trigger was establishing for sure that Hannibal is in love with him.

Will and Hannibal drive to the cliff house. When Hannibal asks Will if he intends to save himself by killing them both (Hannibal and Francis), Will replies:

*Will: I don't know if I can save myself. And maybe that's just fine.*

This is the first time he confesses that he might be incapable of killing Hannibal. Predictably, when Francis comes, Will can’t handle seeing Hannibal killed, so he reaches for his gun.

Will and Hannibal work as a unit and protect each other. Hannibal is shot, nearly strangled, thrown onto the ground, and he is still weakly holding on Francis' leg to prevent him from going after Will, even though it leaves him in an open and vulnerable position — Francis does kick him in the face with his other leg. There is fierce determination on Will's face as he stands up despite the pain and runs to save Hannibal. They act in synch, consummating their relationship.

Then, Will admires how blood looks on his hand and repeats Hannibal’s words:

*Will: It really does look black in the moonlight.*

He remembers the words Hannibal said to him weeks ago in one of their endless interactions. A bit earlier, he perfectly recalled the words Hannibal told him *years* ago, back in the middle of S2.

*Will: I understand that “blood and breath are only elements undergoing change to fuel your Radiance." Hannibal said those words. To me.*

So, Will remembers everything Hannibal told him. He stores these memories. It’s a small but still important proof how important Hannibal is for him.

At the cliff, Will finally accepts the truth.

*Hannibal: See. This is all I ever wanted for you, Will. For both of us.*

We know what Hannibal wanted: a Murder Husband. What does Will say to this?

*Will: It’s beautiful.*

This is a loud “yes” to Bedelia’s question about his feelings. Will acknowledges, accepts, and admires them. He doesn’t feel awkward, as he would if he knew Hannibal is in love with him but didn’t feel the same. No, he reaches forward to embrace him, and such physical contact from Will is mind-blowing because he almost never does it. He clings to Hannibal, puts his head on his shoulder, touches him as if he wants to melt with him. Then he gives the fate a chance to stop both of them or to set them free. They fall into the ocean under the Love Crime song, another romantic element.

Water symbolizes reborn, and post-credits scene indicates that Will and Hannibal have paid a visit to Bedelia and are in the process of eating her while she’s hiding the fork to stab one of them as he approaches. The deleted epilogue to the series shows that they are in perfect harmony now.

**Conclusion**: Will has passed through a long, painful journey. He went from hiding from emotions and deflecting to not denying and carefully acknowledging them. We don’t hear words “love” or “in love” from him in relation to Hannibal because Will is not that kind of person. He doesn’t use these words freely, and for him, every small emotional step is a struggle. He tried to deceive himself and other numerous times; he tied to deny the truth and manipulate his own mind, but with each season, his feelings for Hannibal became more and more explicit. Will reaching out for physical contact, Will saying “It’s beautiful” are his way of saying, “I ached for you. I love you.”

This is a story of mutual love and obsession, about soulmates, about unique type of connection that few people share. It’s not about Hannibal falling in love and Will not feeling the same. Their feelings are equally strong, but they express them differently, particularly as Will’s are tied to the acceptance of his own darkness.

[nanoland]

Title: Besyd the scarcety of bread amowngst us

Fandom: Supernatural 

Pairing: Crowley/Dean Winchester

Summary: In which Dean asks a question.

Warnings: Crowley being Extremely traumatized and kind of oblivious to that fact + SPN demons being SPN demons (i.e. remorseless bodysnatchers) + Dean being his casually misogynistic self + graphic descriptions of starvation + exhibitionism (sorta?) + sexually explicit content because this was MEANT to be straightforward smut and then Crowley happened, the prick.

Also on AO3!

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“So how come you aren’t a hot chick?”

The glass stills an inch from Crowley’s pale lips. “I humbly beg your pardon?”

It’s late. The bar’s quiet. He doesn’t need Dean to repeat himself. Just a moment to decide on a response.

Well on the way to utterly shit-faced, Dean gestures vaguely, meaninglessly. “You offer people stuff. Then, ten years later, you drag ‘em to Hell. And – and they know that’s what’s gonna happen if they make a deal with you. Which means that you gotta be real fuckin’ persuasive. Which you are. Grade A Bullshit Artist and don’t I know it. But... uh, what was I gonna… yeah, wouldn’t it be easier, right, just way easier if you were a hot chick?”

Crowley can tell he’s not done, so he keeps his silver tongue behind his faintly yellowed teeth for the moment.

While Dean is usually delightful company, in his surly, macho way, this evening there’s an uncommonly obnoxious edge to everything he says. That almost certainly means his insecurities over what he’s been letting Crowley do to his arse lately are acting up.

Understandable. Still annoying.

So Crowley’s more than willing to let his favourite human dig himself a wee bit deeper before pouring boiling tar into the pit.

After quickly throwing back the last of his drink, Dean goes on: “Now, I didn’t go to some dickslurp business school. I ain’t that brand of asshole. But I’ve seen enough beer ads in my time to have an idea of how marketing works. You got something you want people to buy? Fastest way is to get a hot chick in a bikini to hold it up. Because guys have most of the money in this shitty world of ours and guys think with their dicks. I know I do. So why did you decide to possess someone who looks like a balding, middle-aged banker going through a stressful divorce? That ain’t enticing. That ain’t capturing anyone’s interest. Y’know?”

“Mm,” says Crowley, and stands up.

“Fuck’re you doing?” Dean slurs, watching him take off his tie.

“Ever heard of the Seven Ill Years, Squirrel?”

“Nope. Seriously, what’re you doing?”

Draping his overcoat over the back of his chair along with his tie, Crowley sets about taking off his jacket. “‘The Seven Ill Years’ refers to a particularly shitty time in early modern Scotland; the 1690s.”

He tugs off his costly leather shoes and places them side-by-side under his chair. “I was in my… early thirties at the time, I think. Thirty-two? Maybe thirty-one. Whatever.”

Dean is gaping now. He’s never seen Crowley without his outer layers, much less the growing slice of exposed chest as Crowley unbuttons his shirt.

“For a lot of complicated reasons relating to oceanic thermohaline circulation, solar activity, and a few ill-timed volcanos, the weather turned rotten. These days, it’s called the Little Ice Age. Us pigshit stupid peasants who lived through it didn’t know anything about all that. All we knew was that it was freezing bloody cold and the crops kept dying.”

“Dude,” Dean hisses, red-faced as Crowley sets his shirt alongside his jacket and overcoat. “Stop it! We’re going to be thrown out!”

“No. Look around. Is anyone paying attention to us? Precisely. We’re invisible to them at the moment, Squirrel. One of my little tricks.”

“Oh. Okay, that’s good. But that’s still not an excuse to take your fucking pants off in public oh my God oh my God!”

They’re expensive pants and Crowley takes care to fold them before putting them down. “To cut a long story short; famine struck. And famine, it’s…”

Crowley pauses, thinking, ignoring Dean’s pathetic attempts not to gawk at his dick.

“It’s hard to describe famine to someone who hasn’t lived through one,” he says eventually. “Language – English, at least – isn’t equipped to convey what it feels like to be so hungry you’ll try to boil and eat someone else’s shoes. Then someone else’s children. Then your own children. There are no words for it. Or, if in some distant corner of our monstrous universe there are, then they’re words that would drive a human raving mad to speak them.”

Naked now but for his black socks, Crowley scratches his stubble. “Sometimes I think that’s why I got on so well in Hell.”

He sits back in his chair. Folds his legs. Taps his fingers on the side of his empty glass. “Don’t get me wrong; having someone cut open your lungs, fill them with scorpions, and sew them up again isn’t fun. But – how can I put this? – you can process it. You can grapple with it. You know why you’re suffering; because you’re in Hell, and that’s what Hell is for. It makes sense. What doesn’t make sense is going about your everyday life and watching all the people around you – the baker, the priest, the prettiest girl in the village – go about theirs while they turn into walking skeletons. And knowing they didn’t do anything to deserve it. Couldn’t have done anything to deserve it, because no crime, no matter how vile, warrants that kind of punishment.”

Dean says nothing.

After a moment, Crowley pulls himself from the dark, sucking well of memory to add, “Anyway, to answer your question; I don’t want to be a hot chick because a. I’m a man and b. hot chicks are skinny, and I will cheerfully burn this world to the ground before I endure living in a hungry body ever again.”

He glances down at his unclothed meat suit and smiles proudly, running a hand up one of its thick thighs. “Also – y’know – I personally think this long-deceased lad of mine is sexy as Hell.”

Gazing at his shoulder, Dean says roughly, “Didn’t know you had tattoos.”

“Oh. Those. Yeah. Can’t stand them. Worst decision the stupid bastard ever made.”

“I think they’re kinda cool.”

“Do you? Well, you do have incredibly bad taste so perhaps that’s not surprising. Now, are you going to get over here and put that erection to good use?”

Oh, bless him; he’s adorable when he squirms.

“Here?” Dean asks, eyes wide.

“Here.”

He says it like a challenge, for Dean can never resist one of those. Immediately, those wide eyes become narrow and determined.

The boy stands. Looms over Crowley, who casually flicks both their glasses to the floor and moves to sit on the cool wooden table. It’s clean, more or less, thanks to Dean (for once) agreeing to follow Crowley to a semi-respectable establishment.

“These hands,” Crowley murmurs, running them across Dean’s broad chest, “don’t have a single callous or scar. See? Soft as butter. Not a single day’s honest work, either of them.”

Dean swallows. Leans in to kiss him, hesitant and gentle.

Contrary to popular belief, Crowley likes gentle. Or, more accurately, Crowley likes being pampered.

He goes on: “And these legs…”

A groan escapes Dean’s lips as one presses up against his crotch.

“…these legs haven’t walked more than ten miles, collectively, since I moved in. No muscles. No blisters on the undersides of their feet. Not so much as a splinter.”

“Jesus,” Dean mumbles, drawing him in and latching onto his neck.

“And this stomach is never empty. Never even close. Never once forced to digest anything that isn’t purely, perfectly delicious. I treat my meat suits better than most people treat their family heirlooms.”

“Crowley. Fuck.”

He squeezes Dean’s arse and growls, “Because this is my reward, Dean. I won this. This softness, this safety. This nurtured, nourished flesh. I endured the seventeenth century and all humanity’s horrors. Endured my mother. Endured Hell. Built myself a reputation and a kingdom. All for this. And isn’t it wonderful? Say that it is, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean moans, even though he can’t understand a word; Crowley slipped into Gaelic a while ago.

(The things Crowley wants to tell Dean and the things Crowley wants Dean to know are categories that rarely overlap.)

Crowley takes Dean’s leaking cock in hand.

“Say I’m beautiful.”

Dean’s knees buckle as he whimpers, so Crowley wraps an arm around his narrow, underfed waist.

“Say you love me.”

Dean comes in his palm, gasping and cursing.

“Say you love me more than anyone else.”

“I’m guessing that was all Scottish dirty talk?” says Dean when he has his breath back. “You were – what? Calling me your bitch?”

Crowley smirks, licks the sweat off Dean’s jaw, and gives his backside a pat before reaching for his clothes. “None of your business. Go get me another drink, would you? Ta.”

 the end

NOTES: The title is taken from a quote found in Karen Cullen’s ‘Famine in Scotland: the ‘Ill Years’ of the 1690s’ (you can find extracts via googlebooks). Yes, canonically Crowley WOULD have been about thirty when this happened. Just in case his origin story wasn’t horrific enough wheee :D

[kaimactrash]

Okay first and foremost: if this flag is wrong lemme know! I have been googling but obviously, it can only go so far in trustablity since pages can be boosted.Anyway, heres my crew of lesbian OCs,

realise I have very few gay men ocs bc I've been in a real drawing fems mood lately, but theres a few there

info below on the ocs

other than Lith none of these women were born on earth, or even lived on it, so they don't have the exact same gender and physical sex rules we do, so this is more the closest term that fits all of my ladies who love ladies&enbees.up in the top left we have Lottie, she's not really into sex that much, but shes all about the romance, shes a very loving person, but deeply scared from several events leaving her with intense PTSD. She's a Frenrar native would was recruited as a demon, she was much more anthro as a human, but lost some of it on the transition to demon. She starts her story being rescued, while greatful, within a few months of world trecking she realised that this isn't what she wants to do anymore, she decides to hang out at Valentino, Skye, and Pipers traveling bar, called The Turkeys Tail. There she studies endlessly to solve a few magic issues on Franrar with the help of Valentino, it takes time but she ends up being the demon to be able to break the Elders curse, in the form of cuffs binding all lower (Hokey) demons, which prevents them running of flying away. She's a pacifist & would really like if there were no wars going on, but since she can't stop them herself, she tries to do so with her experiments. She's growing a lot as i write her and get to know her which is cool, I love when you can just almost hear a character coming together in your mind. all the inspo! Sorry for the ramble! it's good to get this stuff down when I'm in brain storming mind! Across from Lottie, top right, is lith! If you've followed me for years you know lith a bit, she was once a middle aged woman from earth, she made the transition over to demon at the end of a long fight with respiritory illness. Shes very busy lady being one of the two first primary protagonists, while she has some time to adjust to demon life, it didn't come with its own issues, and she ws soon through into a resistance for a place she arrived in not that long ago, she works it out over time. She also works out her sexuality, as a human, she pretty much burried her sexuality but the freedom of a while new world, one filled with many more queer people like her, haha.below her the giant elder Galo stands, due to her bullish attitude and hard headed focus, she struggles with this and the power battles in the Demon realm, often failing to see the wider issue as rilo refocuses her everytime she get close to figuring them out. Shes a bit new so a little under developed but shes going to be apearing quite a lot at the start of the story, then return later, so I'll have some time to get to know her. that tiny lil green triclops like thing, is Shihosu, my most precious and special baby, I wanna protect her even thou i'm the one writting the conflict in her world. She actually dies before she even apears, but shes brough back by octo ( the gold and purple octomaid lady.) and this essentially makes her speicies see her as some blessed chosen one, she has a big repuatation and after seeing and hearing other members of her speices die, she goes on the hunt for octo to find out why she was chosen...she has plenty of fun nights out during  this, so she has a good life work balance.   Shihosu is checking out Elviras butt. Elvira is basically an effigy brought to life by her father Emesh, She's a romantic at heart and can't help but coo and awe at any acts of love. Her father is very over protective and it takes a long time for her to be given true free reign of her life, shes thousands of years old by that point, so she gets out and finds the area outside her home is a semi-apocolyptic waste land filled with strange speicies and creatures, she quick decides she has left because she's to help. Her father is actually aware that he was to let her go off on her own as soon as she'd ask. He was inspired to create her while tripping hard, and the voice told him how to make her, and why he should....*mystery music.*Lastly we have the aforementioned Octo, and her wife, Beefy. By the time we meet them, they've been married a few years and they are obnoxiously in love. Beefy was earth child some how snatched onto Frenrar, she doesn'y know who did it, why, or even how, even though she meets others like her over time, none of them seem to know who did this, and no one on frenrar seems to know who could even do that. She was found in a box in the woods, no older than a year, and the Fleetfoots, a rabbit like spieces with multiple varients across frenrar, the spieces are known for strength, mentally and phsyically, hardiness, and determination, which ended up feeling perfect for Beefy, until Octovar arrived, Not immediately though. Octo was there over a summer at her father request, as she had gained a reputation for making scenes at big public royal family events, so as it is so oftem the rebelious princess is sent off out of daddys way, while he does his old boring bussiness. Beefy spent a lot of her time building and training physically, and Octovar would often be around. She's very curious as someone who lives mostly in the sea, being so far from the ocean, the lifestyles felt completely alien to one another. Over time awkward stares and little comments evolved in to longing looks and full on flirting. Always very opinionated, Octovar opened up to beefy about why she was here, why she was fighting them, and why she needed to leave before her father came back to collect her, Beefy agreed and talked about a Fleetfoot called Piper who had been here, but left after a visit from a powerful mage, beefy had kept contact via letters, so was now aware, Piper was an active member of the resistance. Beefy said her goodbyes, their culture never saw one set of parents, everyone raised everyone basically, so it was scary, but the elders reccomended beefy go try it out, reminding her, her burrow will always be there for her when or if she ever comes back.While we meet them at wives I'm 100% planning a prequel comic on them from meeting each other, to when they meet lith landon and the crew.OOf woops sorry these are meant to be silly cute lil pieces but I get all focused on lore! I'm still planningon doing more even though pride is over, I'm planning on doing one with gay men, then aro/ace. I may also do one with other mspec idnetities, but I do not have many ocs in those categories, YET! I will defo have more as more characters are created, I gotta make a whole planet of people. so theres gonna be variety.I may try and put all my trans characters together for a trans flag, but i may use the art I already made of them! Happy pride Lesbains*! (*and all the groups simailir or under that lable)        

[dredreadsdrawing]

Oc-Tober Day 16: Palette

my tablet annoys me but i continue to draw with it :,o oof. 

I used this Palette day for my other beloved DnD oc. Reir the bastard half-elf rogue from a prestigious elf-mafia lolol. Thank goodness I had already wrote her backstory in a word dock like, in February XD Augh writing one bigass story is enough for today. Here it is: 

Reir is a half-elf. She was born from the daughter of the biggest elf-run criminal organization, and a poor young farmer. Whilst on the run, her mother was injured and almost died, but Reir’s father found and saved her. They fell in love while she recovered, but she was picked up quickly by her brother and taken back to their city base.

She missed the farm and countryside, so she’d sneak to visit her love secretly for years. When her father and brother found out, they freaked. A lowly, much younger human was no worthy life-companion for their rose. After losing Reir’s grandmother, they became incredibly overprotective of her because of her, and this situation was no exception. They put her under house-arrest and threatened the farmer with violence.

After years of tolerating their suffocating doting, she couldn’t handle any more. She broke out and ran to him. He agreed to running away with her, to start over somewhere else. Things were going well along their travels, until they hit an impasse and were ambushed. Her love was killed in front of her eyes. She was taken back to be a bird in their cage, her will to fight now extinguished.

A month later, her pregnancy was diagnosed. Her brother was the only one to find out along with her, and before he could report it to his father, she pleaded to keep it a secret. She wanted to keep the child; she had a new reason to live. He gave in and helped her hide it from their father, unknowingly assisting her in her last attempt to escape as well.

She ran away again, planning to get her child away from their overbearing crime life, but she had waited for too long to put her plan into play. She started giving birth mid-way into her travel, stuck somewhere alone with no help for miles. By the time her family found her, her brother forced to tell his father the secret, she was dead, her child wrapped around her arms and kicking fussily.

Her father was in despair. He punished her brother severely, blaming him for her death, while also dropping the baby to be his responsibility. He refused her legitimacy. He had plans to expand their territory and claims, but died soon after the incident, rumors floating that he took his life from the grief. Now the brother was alone as the head of the family, stuck with a baby without a family name.

He planned to abandon her to an orphanage, thought there was no place for a child in his life. But her likeness to her mother outweighed her likeness to her father, and he couldn’t go through. He ended up dumping her to two of his subordinates; a half-orc and another half-elf. She was to live in seclusion at the top floor of their base.

He was an absent father figure to her. He’d visit rarely and briefly just to overlook her education. He saw the job of raising her as a lower priority, put his duties as the leader of the organization above all else. To quiet her every time she acted out of line, he would punish her the same way his father would his sister; he’d lock her in a quiet, dark room. Instead of taking the punishment meekly and learning to be good, she took it as a challenge and rebelled from everything he threw at her.

She grew picking up the worst habits. If she wanted something, she’d no longer ask for it. Stealing was easier and more fun. If she wanted to know what others were doing, she’d simply follow them; she trained herself to be quiet and stealthy. Because she was constantly thrown into the room, she learned to hide things in her clothing and body, to pick locks, to adjust to the darkness quickly and to climb from ledges half an inch thick. As a child, she was a nuisance. As a teenager, she was a menace. As a newly fledged adult, she was an outright criminal working outside of her uncle’s interests and solely for her own.

When she became of age, she thought he would finally induct her into the gang, but that day never came. He assured her she would never be a part of them and gave her a list of reasons why. She took it ‘in slide’; if he didn’t want her, it was his loss. She went crazy with her crimes, never thinking of the consequences, or of the mess she’d leave behind. She could always run back to the comfort of the organization’s name even when she wasn’t a part of it.

She was giving their business a bad reputation. If he couldn’t control his own brat, how could he keep his subordinates in check? Contacts began pulling back, the city law enforcement was asking for bigger bribes, everything was going to shit. Her uncle was done covering for her, and he gave her a final threat. He told her no more tricks, no more stunts, no more getting out of the house. She would be a good girl, or she would be disowned completely. He wasn’t playing around. She nodded along, but rationalized his anger as stemming from her debt. So she just needed to pay everything back huh? As soon as he left, she planned her biggest scam.

She stole millions from the mayor, not knowing he was already under the gang’s thumb. She stored the money in the organization’s vault, and proudly paraded her deed. She was called to her uncle’s office, and she prepared herself for her induction. She dressed in her finest, prepared a beaming smile. She opened the door, going into a speech about how it was finally time for her to make her grand entrance, but one look at her uncle’s face shut her up. She smiled awkwardly, trying to get a rise out of him. What, no hug? A high five? Her uncle raised his hand. Excited, she made to move towards him, but was immediately knocked out by henchmen behind her.

Without a word of farewell, she was shipped far away, dumped across the world with a two day stay at an inn, a dagger, and a bag of coins. She woke up confused and without even a note of explanation. She was alone, and cut off.

 Extra info:

The half-orc and half-elf truly love her and treat her like their daughter. Her difficult relationship with her uncle was the root of her bad behaviorism though, and they felt powerless as they watched her fall into more and more hopeless tries for his attention. When she was shipped, they were heartbroken. They were never told of her final threat or how it happened, they were simply fired from their job as ‘nannies’, and reinstated in grunt work. They hold a grudge against her uncle and fully plan on escaping the organization to look for her.

To further explain her bad behavior from her uncle’s perspective: Her mother was a model-obedient girl type. She was an angel who always did what she was told (until she fell in love.) She had been kind, patient, and loving; the perfect sister and the perfect woman in her uncle’s eyes. Her daughter though, was the worst. She was a brat, rebellious, selfish, overconfident, and had zero regard for others.

Her nannies could see where all of these negative properties stemmed from as she grew. She became rebellious as a form of getting his attention, she’s self-centered because she was never taught to work in a team and never even had any friends, and she’s overconfident because she’s learned a lot from what she considers the best criminals. However, her uncle never spent much time with her at all. He never truly got to know her, and never had one on one conversations with her about herself. He was only ever around long enough to see the bad, never stuck around to figure out the good.

She was extremely caring towards her two father figures, the half-orc and half-elf. She’s clever and an extremely quick-learner; gifted in everything she put her mind to. She was determined to the point of being naïve; she always believed even when she pretended she didn’t need it, that her uncle would open up and accept her one day if she did a job big enough. She’s also super optimistic. She never lets anyone or anything bring her down, and has never let herself get depressed. She’s smart enough to get through anything; her overconfidence always shone through.

I’m uh, making some quick stuff for oc-tober lol. im sooooooooo behind :,o but i managed to get semi-caught up..... tomorrow ill have to do today’s theme lol Im jsut abit too depressed today :(

[sethrine-writes]

Devil-sitter May Cry, Ch. 4

Pairing: Dante x F!Reader, Vergil x F!Reader (Undecided)

Words:  1844

Warning:  Cuteness, Defensive/protective Nero, Demon attack

Story Summary: Low on cash and desperate for a job, you reply to a flyer for a babysitting position. Little did you know that the opportunity to watch over two special boys would bring your life so much mayhem and adventure…and, perhaps, a chance at a family of your own.

A/N: First day continues, and with some unexpected excitement at the end!

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Chapter 4 - First Day Surprises

The rest of the morning went by rather smoothly.

After cleaning up breakfast, you made your way upstairs and found the boys' shared bedroom where a fully dressed V was helping a flailing Nero fix his inside-out shirt. V was laughing the whole time and telling his cousin to be still as he attempted to pull the shirt over his head, of which somehow had gotten stuck in a way only an unsupervised child could manage.

As soon as Nero's head breached the opening, he sucked in an exaggerated breath as if he had been suffocating the whole time and fell over dramatically, forcing V into another fit of giggles that also had him on the floor.

The following games the boys played using their imaginations had very similar effects, with Nero playing eager dramatics that would lead V into either laughter or equally as dramatic monologues. There were pirates and space stations, a dragon on the moon, six-eyed skeletons belonging to a race of demons who went extinct "a bajillion years ago" trying to become cowboy outlaws, and so on.

The imagination of a child was endless, it seemed, and their playing made for quite the entertaining morning.

Lunch was an easy fix of pb&j sandwiches and a side of grapes. Much to your relief, V ate rather well, nearly finishing his half-sandwich and all but three grapes, of which Nero was happy to finish off for him.

When asked, yet again, if you were going to eat, too, you had to assure a very concerned looking V that you had something in your bag that you would eat later. Granted, it was just a protein bar, and after your quick and meager breakfast that morning, it definitely wouldn't be enough to fully curb your hunger. It felt impolite to partake in whatever they had in the fridge, however, so it would have to do.

Playtime resumed outside with chalk drawings for all of an hour before you began to notice V's sluggishness, despite his best efforts to keep up with Nero's near ceaseless energy. You suggested some quiet time in the main room -living room, or maybe it was considered an office?- and had no trouble getting V to climb up next to you on the worn leather sofa with a pillow.

Two minutes of stillness, and V was out like a light.

Keeping Nero entertained while his cousin napped was surprisingly easy, though you had a feeling this was a normal enough routine that he knew how to play quietly on his own so as not to disturb his cousin. Giving him a snack and asking him all sorts of imaginative questions while he nibbled on more grapes and cheese crackers occupied the next half hour.

When V joined you both in the kitchen with bleary eyes and the cutest little pout, you offered him a snack, as well, though all he was interested in was a small cup of juice.

Nero was more than eager to get back to their play, though with a little prompting from you, he was a bit more patient and waited for V to wake up fully. It didn't take too long for him to perk back up and ease into their make-believe world yet again, and you were subjected once more to their antics for a while longer.

At one point, the phone on the desk began to ring. You shushed the boys down just a bit as you answered with the business' name, just as Dante had instructed you to, and jotted down some details that seemed important from the possible client on the other end. When you finished, you turned back around to find a peculiar sight.

"A cat?"

The boys were both cooing at and petting a sleek black cat that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, its tail swaying in an inviting way as it sashayed back and forth between them. There had been no mention of a pet, no signs of treats or toys or a litter box of any sort - no signs of a cat in the shop at all, and yet, there it was.

Your mind immediately wandered to V and his allergies, suddenly concerned that he would have a flair-up. Vergil hadn't mentioned any allergies to animals, but it was still something you were wary of.

"Where did this little guy come from?" you questioned lightly as you came closer, though mindful in not scaring off the feline, lest it was hard to catch.

"She's a girl," Nero corrected quickly with a little glare and a miffed tone.

"Be nice, she didn't know," V scolded with a gentle tone, earning a puffy-cheeked pout from his cousin.

"Thank you for telling me," you told Nero, anyway, before turning your attention back to V as you crouched down. "I didn't know you guys had a cat. I haven't seen her around all day, and your dads didn't mention her at all."

"Shadow's special," V semi-whispered behind his cupped hand as if guarding his words like a secret.

"She likes to go off and play other places," Nero supplied, reaching for the cat's tail and giving a gentle tug that had Shadow swishing the sleek appendage about just a tad faster, not aggravated, just acknowledging.

"But she always comes back to us," V affirmed, immediately cooing at Shadow as she rubbed her head against his arm. "Papa says he found her one day on a mission, and they have a bond, now."

"Oh, that's very sweet," you crooned, smiling as you continued to watch the boys pet over the cat.

You paid especially close attention to V and his breathing, though even after a solid five minutes within constant contact of the feline, he seemed to be doing just fine. It gave you some relief, especially knowing that even Nero would have said something if V were to have had some sort of ill reaction. If you had learned one thing already, it was that Nero was highly protective of V in any and all aspects.

"Miss, I'm thirsty," V spoke up suddenly, those vibrant green eyes of his looking to you imploringly. "Can I have some water, please?"

You smiled and asked if Nero wanted something, too, before standing and making your way into the kitchen. The fridge didn't have one of those ice makers in it, though you remembered there being a filtered pitcher of water on the top shelf beside the milk, of which you made full use of.

Returning from the kitchen, your smile fell instantly as a look of absolute horror settled across your features and seeped into your very being. The cup of water slipped right through your fingers, clattering to the floor and garnering the attention of the creature that was hovering over Nero's prone form, its teeth bared.

"D-Don't move," you spoke out firmly to the boys, trying to will your voice from shaking as your mind caught up to the unexpected turn of events.

Were the boys hurt? How did that thing get in?

The large creature, almost resembling that of a black panther, must have taken your talking as invitation to continue whatever it was doing beforehand, a low rumble of a growl coming from its throat as it turned back to a struggling Nero.

“Hey! Hey, hey, hey, no!” you shouted, taking a few hurried steps closer in panic.

A hefty growl left the creature as it finally turned its full attention to you, the noise vibrating the air and causing your stomach to drop. It stepped away from Nero as it began to prowl its way toward you with purpose, fur shifting and lighting up with flashes of red runes within the pitch blackness as it advanced.

A demon, then? 

Your instincts were telling you to get out of there, that you were in immediate, and rather obvious, danger. You were also highly aware of the two little boys whose lives were infinitely more important, and despite the fear that had your knees damn near collapsing in on themselves as you slowly backed up, you had to at least try and lead the creature away with the hope that the boys’ fathers would be home soon to save them, should you perish.

"That's it, come pick on me, you big, sharp furball," you muttered beneath your breath, eyes darting to the boys for a quick second.

Nero was sitting up, thankfully, looking rather confused but otherwise unmarred, and V was-

"V, no, stay back!" you shouted while throwing your hand up, stopping the boy from advancing any closer, those bright green eyes of his big and concerned.

Everything happened so fast, after that.

There was growling, a short, clipped roar, a scream leaving your lips as the creature leapt towards you. You met the floor rather hard, though it was to be expected when a demonic feline was two seconds away from tearing out your jugular.

Your eyes closed tightly, hands and fingers tangled in impossibly dark fur out of instinct to protect yourself. The creature loomed closer, a large paw pressing into your shoulder, hot breaths washing over your cheek as it leaned in-

And gave a warm, rough pass of its tongue over your cheek.

The sound that left your lips was most decidedly a whimper, though your body was still in the fight-or-flight mode when another lick was given to your face, the pass much longer and even going into your hair.

The panic slowly ebbed into confused wonder as a low rumbling sound started up from the creature, not a growl, but more akin to a purr that was so deep it nearly vibrated your bones.

And then the demon made itself comfortable and laid upon you, forcing a rush of air from your lungs you hadn't realized you were holding. You struggled to gasp a breath in at the sheer heft of the creature doing its very best at crushing your lungs as well as all your other body parts, absentmindedly letting out a very confused, very distressed noise at yet another turn of events you hadn’t seen coming.

What in the actual hell was going on?

"-dow! Shadow, that was very rude!"

At the sound of V’s angry little voice, you opened your eyes, blinking several times as you hesitantly looked up.

Several pairs of eyes were looking down at you, and it took a moment for you to register that Nero and V both were being held by their respective fathers. They must have just gotten home, perhaps right as the creature attacked you.

"Looks like you met the cat," Dante spoke suddenly, grin wide on his face.

Vergil's eyes cut to his brother with a glare, much more heated than the one V was giving to the demon feline that had made you its bed. Nero was pouting again, looking more put-upon than he had earlier, and Dante was every bit amused at your predicament.

You met the cat...

Wait.

Wait!

The cat was the demon the whole time?!

------

Tag List:  @v-vic, @astridstark13

[thecleverdame]

Sleepy Hollow - Chapter Eight

Series Master List

Pairings: Sam x Reader, mentions of Dean x Jo

Summary: In 1799, specialized police constables Sam and Dean Winchester are sent from New York City to a small town called Sleepy Hollow to investigate a series of murders. Approached by the town’s council, the Winchesters discover the local residents believe that the murders are the work of a deadly Hessian horseman whose head has been mysteriously chopped off. With help from the beautiful Y/N Van Tassel, Sam Winchester’s investigation takes him further through the dark wood where more murders have been occurring. What Sam does not realize is that the mysterious Horseman is being controlled by someone in a sinister plot to kill the most suitable men in the village.

Warnings: Canon-level violence, murder, smut, horror, gore and a little fluff for good measure.

Words: 40k

Beta:  ilikaicalie

This series is completed. You can read it on my Patreon for a monthly pledge of 2.50. This pledge includes early access to all my stories and Patreon exclusive content.  >> CLICK HERE <<

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Western Woods

No one, indeed. Sam, Dean and Young Masbath ride alone, their horses loaded up for the expedition. The three ride through the dark and gnarled woods keeping a watchful eye.

“The Van Garretts, the Widow Winship, Jonathan Masbath, and now Magistrate Philipse...something must connect them. Can you think of anything Young Masbath?” Sam asks.

“We had no dealings with the magistrate that I know of.” The boy shrugs. “And the widow?” Dean pulls his horse beside him. “Your father knew her?”

“Everyone knew Widow Winship,” he confirms.   “In a manner of speaking I trust.” Sam glances to Dean.

“She would bring old Mr. Van Garrett a basket of eggs every week.” A crow screeches in the distance and all three riders nearly jump in their saddle.

“Did your father have dealings with the Van Garretts?” Sam inquires.

Young Masbath look between the brothers. “He worked for them, we lived in the coach house.”

“You didn’t think to mention this?” Dean presses. “It’s nothing, there were many servants. All dismissed now, of course...But there was something that happened one night, a week before the murder. An argument upstairs between father and son, and my father was later sent for by Mr. Van Garrett.” Sam nods, “An argument between father and son?” “After which, the elder Van Garrett summoned his servant, my father.”

“Stop.” Dean snaps, putting his hand up. “Listen.” “I hear nothing.” Young Masbath looks around.

“Nor do I, no birds, no crickets.” Sam keeps his eyes on the horizon, fingers grazing over the grip of his pistol.

“Everything has gone quiet,” Dean notes. “We need to keep moving.”

“This way,” Sam nods. They reach a hill crest, stopping to take stock of the surroundings. Below there is a cave with a rock archway over two ill-fitting doors that look to be coming off the hinges. Above is a chimney, smoke pouring out into the gray sky. “This is a bad idea.” Young Masbath pulls his horse back several steps.

“Bad ideas are what we do best.” Sam grins, dismounting his horse. “He’s right. Don’t be scared, boy. You’re safe with us.” Dean jumps to the ground, helping Young Masbath down.

They tie their horses to a tree and head toward the cave, stalking carefully on the approach.

“Do we...knock?” Sam whispers, looking at his brother.

Dean shrugs, hand on the butt of his pistol. “Sure.” Sam taps on the door twice, and it flops to and fro, clearly ajar.

Looking back at his two companions, Sam raises his eyebrows and ducks down to prowl inside. The walls are covered with skins and skeletons. Sam freezes when he spots her, across the cave is an old crone, facing away from them, motionless. Everything about her is gray, from her hair to her rotting skin. They all share a look as Sam clears his throat lightly. “Pardon our intrusion…”

There’s no response, so Sam edges forward.

“Are you from the Hollow?” Her voice is broken, fractured sounds only held together by the rasping of her throat. “In a way,” Dean affirms, leaving Young Masbath behind him to join Sam. Dean taps his brother’s arm, bringing his attention to the table beside them. It’s littered with gourd bowls of dead insects, dried leaves, acorns, knives, scissors, and yellowed bones. “I would like to say,” Sam inches closer. “We make no assumptions about your occupation, rather, your ways witch-which are nothing new to us. To each their own.” The Crone places something on a table beside her, a dead bird, a bright red cardinal. Sam begins to back away, but Dean stops him. “Do you know of the Horseman, ma'am? The Hessian?” Dean finds his voice.

The Crone draws her finger across her neck. “That'll be him, miss.” The elder Winchester snickers.

Around her neck is a cord on which is threaded a carved stone, a mystic bauble, they both notice. The Crone stands tall and faces them, pointing to Sam.

“You, follow me.” She curls her finger. “Get out, child,” she instructs Young Masbath. “Keep away. No matter what you hear, keep away.” Sam looks back to Dean who’s standing his ground. “She wants you, not me.” The crone takes a candle and heads deeper into the cave and Sam follows her through the passage,terrified and bent under the low ceiling. “Um, what might he hear that he must keep away from?” “Sit here,” she instructs. Sam sits on a crooked stool. The Crone kneels with her back to him, grasping two metal cuffs with chains attached, sliding them onto her wrists, testing them. “He rides to the Hollow and back. I hear him. I smell the blood on him,” she grits.

“Do you,” he stops trying to find the right question. “We’re here to find him, to make him stop.”

“You want to see into the netherworld? I can show you.”

She gathers straw in a pile on the floor, then bowls, putting grass and powder on the pile, fussing over it. Then takes a jar from a table. “What are you doing?” Sam watches intently, he’s scared but even more entranced. This is old magic he didn’t believe existed in these modern times.

The Crone shakes one jar, pulling the lid off and upends it. A baby bat squirms, dazed. The Crone grips the bat using a knife to cut off its head, soaking the straw with blood. “Do not move or speak. When the other comes, I will hold him.” She explains calmly and Sam bows his head in confirmation. Using her candle, the Crone lights the straw pile. “The Other?” He asks softly.

“Silence,” she hisses, bending over to inhale the smoke. “He comes now.” The Crone slumps forward to the floor, suddenly immobile with her back to Sam. Wind howls through a hole somewhere in the wall of the cave. Sam looks around, uncertain. “Excuse me...ma'am?” The Crone remains motionless. The wind intensifies, candles blow out. Sam inches closer... “Do you hear me?” he asks again, a bit louder this time.

The Crone jumps erect, spinning - a half-human, half-demon creature, black clawed hands reaching out to Sam. He cries out, leaping backward. The chain on the restraining cuffs around its hands goes taut, yanking the creature back. Sam knocks over a table of bones, hits the floor. The creature is chained, but still wants Sam. It shrieks. Its face still seethes from transformation. “You seek the warrior bathed in blood, the Headless Horseman.” Sam scrambles to his feet as the creature claws the rock floor, yearning. “Follow the Indian trail to where the sun dies. Follow to the Tree of the Dead.”  The creature yanks, testing the chains. Behind, the bolt holding the chains slips, the wall cracking. “Climb down to the Horseman's resting place. Do you hear?” Sam nods, quaking, aghast. He glances back, wishing Dean were here to witness this horrific display. The chain bolt gives more,  it’s coming loose. Sam flees toward the door. The creature howls, leaping when the chain bolt breaks. Sam shouts as he's tackled to the floor. But when he looks up it’s only the crone lying on him. She’s returned to her human form, semi-conscious as Sam shoves her off him and to the floor. Sam sprints out from the cave, past Dean and Young Masbath. “We are leaving.”

“What happened?” Dean asks, watching Sam mount his horse.

“We are leaving, now.” Sam offers no room for dissent.

“Stop and talk to me, brother.” Dean claps a hand on Sam’s saddle horn.

“I cannot pretend to understand what’s happening in this place. But a spirit spoke to me.” Sam’s face is ashen. Dean stares at him a moment longer, then wordlessly mounts his own horse.

Sam, Dean, and Young Masbath ride side by side. "Take the Indian trail...to the Tree of the Dead.” Sam repeats, scanning the trees around him. “How will we recognize it?” Young Masbath asks. “Without difficulty, I rather fear,” Dean snorts.

“And climb down to the Horseman's resting place, she said.” Sam recites for the tenth time, as the repetition will hold the words in his memory.

“His camp?” Dean wonders out loud. “His grave.” Sam’s sure of it.

Somewhere in the woods is a snapping branch that breaks the silence. The three look back.

“There’s someone out there.” Dean listens, eyes fluttering closed as he tilts his head toward the sound.

“We need a better vantage point.” Sam searches their surrounds. “Up there.”

They charge up the hill, halting the horses, the constables dismounting. Sam and Dean hand off the reins to Young Masbath and draw their guns.

“Ride on,” Dean whispers to the boy, who obeys immediately. The Winchesters wade into forest growth, backtracking the route they just took. Moving through the underbrush, keeping low. There’s the snort of a horse and they look to each in unspoken communication. They come up behind a figure in a gray cloak on horseback. Dean nods at Sam, both men raising their pistols, cocking the hammers. “Halt and turn! There are pistols aimed.” Sam’s voice booms through the forest.

The figure stops, pushes off the cloak hood. “It is me.” You can feel your heart thumping in your chest, looking at the two men who have their weapons trained on you.

“Y/N,” Sam lowers his gun. “We might have killed you. Why are you here?”

“Because no one else would go with you,” you answer honestly, watching the wonderful, faint smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. He’s heartened by your presence.

“I am now twice the man.” Sam reaches out, taking your hand, helping you off your steed. The feel of his hand on yours makes your cheeks flush.

Dean sighs averting his gaze, looking toward the tree line. “It is your white magic.” Sam grins, one hand curling around your waist.

Your eyes meet and he leans closer, unphased by his brother who stands only feet away.

“Pardon my intrusion…” Young Masbath steps out of the woods.

“Oh please,” Dean smiles, patting the boy's shoulder. “No one has ever had more perfect timing my young man.”

“I think you'd better come and look at this, constables.” You follow the boy, Sam reaching behind to take your hand, a gesture that doesn’t go unnoticed by his brother. Your fingers thread between his, a thrilling reminder of how large every part of him seems to be. The four of you come into a clearing, slowing your pace to look up at the monstrously huge Tree of the Dead at the center of the clearing. Its branches reach far and wide, knotted and gross, like agony captured in wood sculpture. “The Tree of the Dead,” Dean mutters, awestruck. “It does announce itself,” you whisper in confirmation, transfixed by the arboreal terror before you.

Without looking back Sam gives your hand a squeeze, before relinquishing his hold. He crosses a line beyond which grass and weeds will not grow. The three of you follow. Sam stares up into the endless, dead canopy of branches. There's a vertical wound in the bark, like a terrible suture, now healed and scarred. Sam reaches out, finger sinking into the mushy scar, picking at its scabs till sap begins to run. Red sap. Sam coats his fingers and brings them to his nose, sniffing. “Blood.” He looks to Dean.

“The tree bleeds? How can it be?” you ask, stepping forward to look at the evidence.

Dean turns back to the horses, pulling two hand axes from the saddlebags. “What is it?” Young Masbath looks on, shaking in fright.

“Move back.” Sam locks eyes with you, sending a thrill of excitement down your spine, despite this perilous situation. At the trunk, Dean hands Sam an ax, thumping the flat end of it against the suture. It sounds hollow. They look to each other, and in accord they begin to chop. Dean sinks in first, pulling away loose bark. The tree drips more blood and a sickening goo. Sam uses both hands on the ax to hack at the festering suture. “What are you doing?” You stand on your toes, trying to look around the men.

“Just...keep where you are.” Sam instructs, fixated on the task at hand.

Young Masbath moves closer as the men keep chopping. Dean grips a large, loose flap, trying to pull it away. It's not easy. Sam joins him and they both struggle. You follow Young Masbath's slow advance. Both men give a menacing heave and the flap suddenly gives, revealing a blood-soaked, wide-eyed, gape-mouthed human head. Sam recoils, Dean covers his mouth. Behind them, you stifle a scream, clasping both hands over your mouth. Sam cocks his head, getting a closer look. It is Philipse’s head, hanging off the trunk flap, held by roots grown around and into the flesh. Four other severed, decaying heads are held by ingrown roots within the dewy innards. One of the heads is Jonathan Masbath's. Before Young Masbath sees it, you hide his face, drawing him to you as he buries his head in your arms.

“My God,” you stammer, fear and confusion twisting in your belly. “He tries to take the heads back with him, but they will not pass,” Sam thinks out loud.

“We must leave this place,” you call out, gaining the attention of both men.

Sam looks to the branches towering above. ”This is a gateway, between two worlds.” Dean studies the ground, circling the trunk, around the other side he gets to his knees. There he’s found the Horseman’s sword, a grave marker, jutting up from the ground, rusted twenty years' worth, gripped by the tree trunk and vines. Sam joins his brother, touching the ground with blood-stained fingers. “Climb down to the Horseman’s resting place.”

“Bring the shovels,” Dean calls out. Both men look up to the sight of you holding the boy, looking on in horror. “Forgive me.” Dean backtracks. Young Masbath courageously recovers himself, wiping his eyes and nose on the back of his sleeve. “Yes, sir, the shovels. Two shovels and the rifle, I suggest.” The sun is setting as you watch them dig by lantern light. Young Masbath is crouched, rifle across his knees. He watches the tree, looking up at the swarm of bats in the high branches. Sam and Dean both stand in a shallow grave. “This ground has been disturbed, the soil is loose.” Sam looks from his brother to you, throwing down his shovel. You and Young Masbath come to the edge of the grave. Sam pulls at thick burlap cloth covered heavy with dirt, straining as it comes away. Sam drops the burlap, looking down, disbelieving. “Dean, look!” The roots have gripped the Horseman’s bones and tattered uniform. The skeleton is all there, except the skull. “The skull is gone. What does it mean?” You scowl, looking away from the putrid sight. Sam jumps out from the grave. “It means, my dear Miss Van Tassel, it means...yes! What exactly does it mean? It definitely means something, only time will tell! But I sense that we are very close to the answer here.” Both Winchesters are both so caught up in the bones in front of them that they seem oblivious to the ground undulating beneath their feet. “Sam!” you shriek as he turns to look you. You grab Young Masbath, backing away as the roots in the grave come alive, entwining around the remains.

“Something is happening,” Dean draws Sam’s attention to the twisted tree behind them. The vertical suture seethes, pulling inward, sucking Philipse’s head back in and closing, bubbling at the edges. “Run!” Sam bounds over the grave, with Dean at his heels. He grabs you without slowing. Two big hands curl around your waist, plucking you off the ground as he heads for cover on the other side of the clearing.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, you can look behind him, the tree swelling and pulsing, the leaking scar moments from bursting open. Once Sam passes the bucking horses, he slips into the tree line, setting you down and moving to the forefront, putting himself between you and impending terror. There’s a rumbling coming from the tree as you peek around Sam to watch the spectacle. The wound bursts wide open, spitting smoldering cinders into the air.

From the open portal a glow brightens, and without warning, The Headless Horseman on his mighty steed, Daredevil, explodes into existence. The horse’s hooves hit the ground running, the ground shaking as horse and rider ride away, bolts of lightning striking the earth behind them. “Did you see that!” Sam shouts to Dean, both men look strangely excited for having just witnessed such a horrifying event.

“We have to go!” Dean responds, both of them already running toward their horses.

“Go straight home!” Sam calls back to you and Young Masbath. “Don’t stop for anything!” You call after him but there’s no stopping the Winchesters as they give chase, horses rearing up on two legs before speeding away in hot pursuit. Trees are silhouetted against the sky.

As the horseman’s hoofbeats grow faster, branches bending like arms and fingers yearning to touch. As the horseman roars past, and in turn, the trees relax. The Horseman rides fast with Sam and Dean behind him. There’s no keeping up and they slow, trying to decide what route he’s taken. “There!” Dean points to the distance, the sky is lit up. There’s a fire. The old crone’s cave is vomiting flames when they arrive. Embers swirling in the night air, the men dismount, heading closer to the cave as Dean slips on a blood covered rock, landing very close to the crone’s headless body. Dean recoils, crawling away, looking at the carnage in disbelief.

The corpse lies near the cave entrance. The jagged skin of the neck wound still bleeds. The ground and dead leaves around the corpse are thick with blood.  Sam walks back to the crone,  her headless neck has been cut and the carved Bauble is missing. They hear a Horse neighing in the trees, and the sound of the horse crashing through the undergrowth. They can hear him departing but can see nothing.

[whenimaunicorn]

Can I have #25 - "I'm sorry I'm not what you prayed for" with Finan?

This prompt is just perfect for a Caribbean Era of Piracy AU!!

It could have been beautiful. The waves rolled gently intothe shore, the water a striking, crystal-clear green in the shallows thatsoftly transitioned to a deeper and deeper blue as I looked out into the seemingly-endlesssea. It looked so peaceful now, but I had learned that I could not trust thatcalm. The horizon stretched flat and clear in every direction I looked, today. Wispsof white clouds formed islands up in the sky, but nothing interrupted thedeeper blue of the ocean that surrounded me on all sides.

I had spent the first day walking the perimeter of the beach.I had hoped to reach a settlement of some kind, if I just walked the coast farenough. Someone who could tell me where that terrible storm had left mestranded. But when I reached the wreckage of my own ship again by mid-afternoon,I realized the island I had washed up upon was extremely small, and entirelydeserted.

It would be two weeks before Father might receive word thatmy ship had not reached Kingston. Perhaps the merchants with whom he had bookedmy passage would be missed a little sooner, or perhaps no one expected themurgently enough to care when they did not arrive on time.

I expected no attempt at rescue from my intended husband.

I had discovered only one measure of hope on this desertedisland. Halfway around the other side, a trickling stream of blessed freshwater led me up to a crude shed so dilapidated that I almost missed it. Itsweathered wood was wrapped almost completely in vines, the planks faded by thesalt air to the point of decomposition. There was no telling how recently anyliving soul had touched it. Inside, I found what appeared to be a sailor’ssupply dump – hard tack, casks of rum, coiled ropes and boxes of ammunition.

I waited near it the whole second day, pilfering a little ofthe dry and unsatisfying food, and watching to see if whoever had stored ithere would return.

I did fear who the owners might turn out to be. I had littlechoice, however, but to rely on any living soul that might come across me, andcould only hope for Christian clemency. And yet, I would have to keep my witsabout me. I had been told that unsavory privateers, or outright lawlesspirates, often used tiny islands like these when they needed to make secret landfalls.

I oiled up and loaded one of the pistols I found in thatshack, and took to carrying it at my waist.

It was hard to decide where my best chance of rescue lay –near the wreckage of my ship on the north coast, or at the mysterious supplydrop on the east end. I spend several days hiking back and forth between themboth, watching the sea and splitting my chances.

Near my shipwreck, I had arranged a few planks and branchesinto the word “help” on the beach, and hung the tattered remnants of ourBritish flag from an overhanging tree. I prayed for a naval vessel, or anotherhonest merchant, to pass by close enough to see it, and to launch a search forme if they did not find me sitting by the shore.

Near the supply shack, I was more cautious. I would need toassess the character of any potential rescuers that returned to the island atthat location. I constructed for myself a comfortable little platform on anoutcrop near the stream, from which to watch for any human approach. My chosenlocation caught the breeze just enough to keep the worst of the insects off ofme, and I screened it in with branches after I climbed up each day. I intendedto be able to watch any visitors to this shed for a good long while beforedeciding how to make my presence known to them.

I was drowsing in the afternoon heat almost a week laterwhen I finally heard the stirring of another living soul. The sound of bootscrunching on fallen leaves along the bank of the little stream caused me topull my recumbent body softly forward and peer between the leaves that screenedmy position.

I saw a lone man, of average height, whose complexion toldme he likely hailed from one of the northern countries of Europe. His hair wasdark and thick, the inch-long shock of it standing almost straight up from hisforehead. His full beard was trimmed just below his chin, but it was looking alittle ill-kempt. He did not wear a uniform, but rather a dark thread-bare coatand worn brown boots. In contrast to the carelessness of the rest of hisappearance, the sword at his hip was polished and gleaming. The handle of apistol poked through the gap of his open jacket as he moved.

My rescuer was not to be a soldier, then, as I had prayedfor. The man now hiking up the riverbed beneath my hiding-place might at bestbe a privateer, part of a semi-disgraced crew willing to fight for the Crown inexchange for gold. Or his allegiance could be to the Spanish, which would makethings less easy for me, but not as difficult as my life was about to be ifthis man was a full-on pirate. Then my only chance at getting home might be atransom, in which case I could only pray that I not end up too mistreated beforemy release.

I still had the pistol at my hip. Circumstances mightrequire me to put myself at this man’s mercy, but I did have some measure ofleverage with which to protect myself.

I watched him enter the little shed, striding directly up toit as if he knew exactly what he expected to find there. My heart jumped intomy throat as he disappeared inside. This was my best chance to get the drop onhim, and approach from a position of strength.

I slipped down from my perch as silently as I could manage. Myhand was on the butt of the pistol tucked into my belt, but I decided not to appearto the man with it already pointed at his face. Best to begin with an appeal tohis mercy, in case he was in actuality of a decent sort.

The stranger emerged from the dark doorway of the shed justas I was in sight of the threshold. His eyes widened, and he froze with a sackslung over one shoulder.

“Good day, sir,” I called to him, loud and clear, with astronger voice than I expected to hear out of my fast-pumping lungs. This wassurely the most foolhardy thing I had ever done in my life. But I could seelittle other choice, if I wished to avoid dying of exposure and starvation.

The man seemed to recover his confidence quickly, a shrewdgaze assessing my person as he stepped out into the light, lowering his sack tothe ground as he did. What did he see? My brown braid was loose and unwashed, wispsof sticky hairs clung to my forehead and my once-porcelain skin was surelyruddy from the sun and exertion. My dress was of good quality, but stained, shreddedat the hem and with a nasty tear through one sleeve where it had caught on abranch my first day. Hopefully, he did not immediately notice my pilferedpistol.  

We were now less than ten feet away from each other, and ifI wasn’t careful he’d end up able to draw a weapon on me faster than I couldget mine ready. I would have to think fast. “Good day to you, young lady,” werehis first words, returning my pleasantry. The lilt to his low voice identifiedhim quite clearly as an Irishman. Which did not help me much in determining hisloyalties. “The sight of a fair woman like yourself is certainly an unexpecteddelight. But can I ask what circumstances cause you to find yourself on anisland I had always assumed to be deserted?”

There was nothing to be gained in dissembling. “My shipcaught a storm at sea.” I wrung my hands, and looked demurely down at them tocheck how close the gesture had brought them to the handle of my gun. I squeezedone of my nails between finger and thumb, trying to look nervous anddespairing. “I am afraid I was the only survivor.” I looked up at him frombeneath my lashes. “I prayed for rescue every day. Some decent, Christian manto return me safely to my home.”

His countenance did not quite soften in the way that I hadhoped. If anything, he looked just a little sick. “Such a terrible trial you’vehad. Please, come with me. I’ll get ye back to my ship. My mates and I can takecare of you.”

He took a step toward me, but there was something thatunsettled me in his demeanor. His movements were jerky, like he felt conflictedsomehow in his chosen course of action. I stepped back, fast, and my fingersfound a grip on my pistol. The pistol that, as far as I knew, was actually his.

The stranger’s eyes followed the movement of my hand. Hewent still, and slowly spread his empty hands wide. “You gonna use that, lass?”

This was my only chance to claim the advantage. “I-I am not certain,”I bleated, feigning a feminine weakness, and drew it anyway.

The man before me barely flinched. “I understand,” he saidgently, lifting his hands farther away from his own weapons. “You don’t knowme.”

“I can’t trust you,” I said, dropping the lost maiden act,letting him see the real strength of my soul. “I need you, though.”

“Aye?” the man asked, voice going sharper too. “And what isit ye need me for?”

I tilted my head. “I have no other way off this island.” Wasthat not obvious?

“Sure you don’t,” the man scoffed, an edge of bitterness nowharshening his tone.

I pressed my brows together. “Of course I do not? As I justexplained—”

“Yes, yes,” the man interrupted, shaking his empty hands irritablyat me. “Shipwreck, only survivor, all that rubbish. Perfect way to get Finanthe Agile to let his guard down, throwing a beautiful and helpless maiden inhis path.” He shook his head as I struggled to process what he was saying tome. “You really do look a Lady. Hold yourself like one, too. He must have goneto the most expensive brothel in Port Royal for ye. How much did you cost him,by the way?”

“I beg your pardon?” I sputtered. Was he implying I was animposter, and a whore, at that? “Who on earth are you talking about?”

The man apparently called Finan let an irreverent smilecrack his face. “That foul, barnacle-encrusted arseling Haeston, of course. Thinkinghe could catch us in an ambush. But Uhtred’s much too clever to fall for a ploylike this.”

I was holding the pistol with both hands, arms locked in astraight line aimed at Finan’s chest. But I could see they were starting towobble. “It’s not like that,” I said, an edge of pleading creeping into myvoice. “I don’t know who any of those people are. I had passage on a merchantvessel. I’m the Governor’s daughter.” His face said he believed nothing I wassaying, but I kept talking anyway. “I’m not lying. The ship and I washed up onthe north shore of the island; I can take you there, and show you.”

“Darlin’,” Finan drawled, “if you’re just an innocent victimhere, then why are ye holding a gun to my head?”

I almost screamed in frustration. “Because for all I know,you are one of these terrible pirates yourself.”

He cocked his head, indulgent. “And if that were to be thecase, just what, then, was yer plan?”

I flicked the pistol toward the beach in an imperiousgesture, trying to look calm and in charge. “I need you to take me to yourship. Entirely unmolested.”

He actually laughed at me, though I thought I detected alittle sympathy in his condescension. “And what do you think would happen next?If I am one of these pirates that you fear, and you end up surrounded by ‘em,alone in the middle of the ocean? You think you can sleep with that pistolstill steady in yer hand?”

I wanted to break right there, but held strong. “Then all Ican hope,” I said, masking the hitch in my voice with a quick swallow, “is thateven pirates are God-fearing men, with enough Christian decency to help out agood woman in need.”

“You keep assuming we are Christian,” a new voice saidunexpectedly, from behind my left ear. I whirled, pistol and all, toward thesound, and caught a brief sight of a young man having crept up behind me. Thestrange look of him was disorienting enough: half his head was shaved, showingan outlandish tattoo adorning his scalp, and his eyes were blackened around thelids. I think I screamed at the sight of him. Before I could gather my wits,one of his bare arms came at me, and he knocked me to the ground.

The impact to my head made my vision go dark. I felt theyoung man climb on top of me, holding me down; heard the crunch of Finan’sboots as he came closer and crouched down beside me. “I’m sorry I’m not whatyou prayed for,” he said softly, and then rough hands bound my wrists.

 * * *

 “I found nothing in the jungle, between the shipwreck andhere,” the strange-looking young man said as he rowed the little boat I now foundmyself in, out to the large vessel anchored in the bay. His back was to me, andhis tone suggested he was trying to be quiet, but the sound was not too low formy ears to pick up even over the rush of the sea breeze.

My thoughts raced, picking over the implications of hiswords. So he had been scouting, while Finan spoke with me. Which meant Finan hadalready known about my shipwreck while I was pleading with him for help. Why,then, would he be so skeptical?

The boy with the evil look about him seemed to share my opinion.“No evidence of anyone else on this island. Do you still think she is a trick?”

Finan looked over the rower’s head at me, seated in anundignified bundle on the floor at the prow of the rowboat. I could have fit onthe board next to Finan, but he didn’t seem to trust me enough for that. Mypistol was now tucked into his belt, beside his own. “We can’t be certain,Sihtric.” He heaved a heavy sigh, and looked away, toward the ship ahead of us.“But she might—” the breeze gusted, taking away a few of his words “—who shesays she is.”

Sihtric shook his head. “A strange coincidence, then. Butwho can claim to know the minds of the gods?”

Finan’s answering smile held no mirth. He nodded toward theship, which we were closing in on now. “The only thing that matters is what hemakes of it, anyway.” But Finan did not look as confident as his words. Hepeered down on me for a long while after that, thinking hard but asking no morequestions.

A/N: What do you all think? I have a few plot ideas but I need a little help gluing them together. So hit me up if this opening scene gives you any ideas for what you want to happen next!

TLK taglist: @ceridwenofwales @oddsnendsfanfics@laketaj24 @thewildbeauty @geekandbooknerd @therealcalicali @tiyetiye @pokeasleepingsmaug@goldentailedmermaids @sifshoney @titty-teetee  @savismith @ariellostatci @perfectus-in-morte @axiseeu12@kingofshadowalkers

[beanarie]

⭐star⭐⭐star⭐⭐star⭐⭐star⭐⭐star⭐ (or talk more about and/all of your Elementary WIPs/ideas bc I want every single drop I can get)

so i totally wrote about joan having breast cancer a couple years ago. here’s the bits i cobbled together, some of which also disappeared from my phone, which tells me i need to back my shit up more often!

~

The call comes while her stitches from her lumpectomy and lymph node removal are still in place and hurting like a mother and she's only too aware of Sherlock, his terror an acrid smell in her nose. She's told it's not what they hoped, but it's not hopeless, and she barely pauses at all before she looks at Sherlock, smiles, and says, "It's fine."

He's so grateful he takes her out for lunch. They go to a cafe with an outdoor area that he knows she's been eyeing for months.  She orders a giant salad with extra pecans and he wrinkles his nose before telling a story about Thomas Jefferson's penchant for giving pecans as gifts.

The call comes while her stitches from her lumpectomy and lymph node removal are still in place and hurting like a mother and she's only too aware of Sherlock, his terror an acrid smell in her nose. She's told it's not what they hoped, but it's not hopeless, and she barely pauses at all before she looks at Sherlock, smiles, and says, "It's fine."

He's so grateful he takes her out for lunch. They go to a cafe with an outdoor area that he knows she's been eyeing for months.  She orders a giant salad with extra pecans and he wrinkles his nose before telling a story about Thomas Jefferson's penchant for giving pecans as gifts.

[the truth comes out in a week or so!]

"We should talk about this."

He closes the file in his hand and tosses it on the stack. 

"I-I'm sorry I kept you in the dark. I needed to get the full results and figure out what to do next, without... I don't know. Background noise."

"It's not that serious. People with results like mine have a ninety-three percent chance of remaining cancer-free after treatment. Really, it's barely cancer." 

"I mean, yes. Several weeks of radiation, sprinkled with tests and maybe a PET scan or two. Still, not particularly life-derailing. I'm going to work. The only real change will be to my availability. And I won't be able to leave the city, except maybe on the weekends. Overall, we'll simply get more use out of face-time than we did before."

A series of short, shallow nods urges her to let the other shoe drop.

Joan adjusts her gaze to slightly beyond his left ear. "I've asked Lin to help me find a place to sublet for the next two months."

His only reaction is the barely perceptible droop of his shoulders.

"I'm not leaving you." The first time she meant to leave the brownstone, he abducted a contract killer, then tortured and stabbed him. The second time, he went back to London for almost a year with no notice beyond a short Dear Joan letter. She can't handle one of his signature extreme overreactions. "Sherlock, it's really important you absorb that, if nothing else."

"But you do plan on leaving."

"It's the least disruptive option for both of us. And it's only temporary."

[the next day, joan gets home and in the library there's a stack of books, dvds, and cd's on wellness-type things and other stuff, like a giant fluffy orange blanket on the couch. sherlock explains he did some research, orange is a calming color. also OK HE RESPECTS HER CHOICES but. she's not a disruption, she's family. also also moving is one of the most stress-inducing acts a person can put themselves through and it wouldn't be good for her recovery to do that twice in as many months. anyway, she stays.]

"We should formulate a safety plan."

Joan finishes the line she was working on and clicks save so she doesn't have to end up doing this report all over again. This has his second sponsor written all over it. Rashida, having completed her PHD, has been taking classes in behavioral science possibly with an eye for a new specialty. She means well, and she and Sherlock get each other like a pair of esoteric intellectuals only could. It's still strange to get confirmation that he talks about her illness with other people. "A safety plan."

"Yes! A short, memorable list of agreed upon actions in the case of emergent medical and/or emotional, um, turmoil."

"We never had a safety plan for you."

 "Didn't we?"

"Fine, so you'll let me pass out wherever I drop and just leave a protein bar by my head so I don't die of hypoglycemic shock when I wake up two days later."

"That's all you did?"

"So I'll let you know if I'm not feeling well and up to whatever's going on." His expression is unreadable, which is rare. "What? You implied pretty heavily that you wanted me to."

Incomprehensibly, his expression becomes almost sad. "That's why you remain so closed off, because of my history of resistance to..." 

"Okay, this conversation swerved past making sense. I tell you things all the time. This morning, with your cereal?"

"When *truly* bothered, you keep it to yourself and speak to no one, unless I draw it out of you."

"I speak up when I have something to say. And, I will."

-

"Have you considered cutting your hair?" 

"I'm not getting chemo, Mom. I told you."

"I know. It's just so much to take care of. My cousin Darlene, she had radiation. It drained her. You'll be tired."

"You've always wanted me to cut my hair."

Her expression grows softer, more wistful. "I do like it shorter." 

"I remember." Ruefully her entire catalogue of school photos scrolls through her memory. Mom's rule had been adamant and easy to follow: Never past the chin. "I'm not doing that again."

"Okay. Your choice." 

Joan doesn't rise to the hint of passive-aggression. 

A few hours later, she gets home from treatment, she takes a shower, and she tries to see tonight playing out in a possible near future. She adds imaginary weights to her wrists and ankles, and the almost unbearable weariness after watching a murderer get to go home scot-free. 

"Fine," she tells her reflection. 

She puts her mom on FaceTime, so she can see the results.

Her mom squints. "You didn't cut that much."

"Four inches." Just enough so she doesn't have to strain to get the brush through while she's blow drying.

“Hm.“

“Anyway, I’ll see you Thursday for tea, Mom?“

-

Lord save her from aspiring criminals who think they're too cool for the interrogation room. Anthony Raymond has been stonewalling them since Bell brought him in. What makes this especially annoying is he won't even ask for a lawyer. They'd tell him to spill his guts, or at least start negotiations for a deal. This nothingness isn't ideal when she has to take off for treatment soon. If she doesn't get this nut cracked before she goes, it'll be hanging over her head for the rest of the afternoon.

The door opens. Anthony doesn't move a muscle. Gregson enters bearing an extra-large fountain drink, a pen, and a piece of paper. He sits, thoughtfully configuring these objects around his immediate space. It takes a full thirty seconds, during which he doesn't acknowledge Anthony at all. He slides the paper toward Joan.

'Paige made you a smoothie. Not sure what's in this, but she swears by it.'

Joan glances at Anthony as though she learned something important, then looks back at the note. "Hm." She takes the pen. 'I'm good. Thank you both.'

'Holmes said you haven't really eaten yet.' He pushes the drink about an inch in her direction.

Joan makes two straight lines, one each for 'I'm' and 'Good'. 

[perp eventually cracks because their note-passing is freaking him out]

[slightly later, joan brings the smoothie into gregson's office. he asks what she thought of it. she says "i didn't try it" and throws it in the garbage.]

-

It's Saturday, the end of her first week of treatment, and there aren't any murders. Joan texts the guy she liked from TrueRomantix, the one who came to check that she was safe when Everyone doxxed her and hacked her profile. He's still cute. She can't remember exactly why they didn't sleep together the last time, something about it not feeling right. Meanwhile he fosters seeing-eye dogs and he has the best pectorals she's ever seen.

She takes off her bra, but leaves the camisole. It's dark in his bedroom, but not too dark for either of them to see her scars or the semi-circle constellation of radiation tattoos. At one point she guides his hand underneath to her right breast. When he goes for the left, she distracts with a move that almost has his eyes bugging out of his head.

"Wow," he breathes.

When they're done, he doesn't push her to leave *or* ask her why she isn't staying. They'll be doing this again sometime.

-

[another patient in the waiting room at the radiation clinic starts having a medical emergency. joan immediately jumps forward to help and the patient's mom looks at her like who the fuck are you. it sticks with her the whole rest of the afternoon.]

She's been in a position where people have doubted her expertise before, many times. But never because she was meant to be on the other side. She's a patient, that's her role now.

Briefly she considers lying. The Uber app is acting weird, something like that. She settles on a simple, 'Are you busy?'

She gets her reply in less than thirty seconds. 'Need a ride?'

When Marcus arrives at the clinic, he touches her arm and kisses her cheek, a note of intimacy between close friends. It feels natural, even though his customary greeting, usually at crime scenes or the bull pen, is a brusquely friendly "Hey." They communicate mainly in nods and smiles intended only for each other, cups of coffee as close to the way they like it as limited resources will allow. 

After they settle into the car, he doesn't turn the engine on right away. He waits, unobtrusively.  

"I don't want to disrupt any plans you might've had for today," she says.

He lifts one shoulder. "Just a pickup game. Nothing I can't put off for another week."

"Actually..."

He turns his head. "Hm?"

She was warned not to expect anything fancy. No bleachers, not much crowd. Kids of varying ages drift by, many popping in and out of the tiny storefronts. 

She can't remember the last time she simply existed in public when she wasn't jogging or staking out a criminal. The open air feels refreshing. Not one of these people care that she used to be a doctor.

After the first quarter, she asks to borrow the chair of a guy selling hats, scarves, and phone chargers from a folding table. He was spending most of his time at the halal cart talking to the man stuck inside anyway.

-

The chair is comfortable. The lighting tasteful. Joan's shoes feel fine. The mid-level exec at the other end of the table isn't stonewalling in the slightest. His voice could almost be called soothing. 

All those other things aside, if this meeting doesn't end in the next few minutes she is going to jump out the window. 

Her knee bouncing, she shifts her upper body in a way that's hopefully not that visible to anyone else. It doesn't help, in fact the resulting movement of her bra over her left boob makes her want to scream.

"We appreciate your elucidation on Mr. Wallach's movements last Tuesday." Joan nearly bites her lip at the growing light at the end of the tunnel. "Now if you could tell us about the lawsuit from three months ago. Sexual harassment, was it not?"

Joan gets to her feet with a repressed groan. Then she runs for the receptionist. "Restroom?"

She's just stepped inside the single stall and slid the lock into place when she hears the deathly urgent, "WATSON???"

She curses fluently inside her head and undoes the lock, just in case. "Sherlock! I'm o-"

And he's barreled through the open door.

"What the hell!" She pulls together the unbuttoned half of her shirt. 

"I thought-" Over Sherlock's shoulder, a security guard starts coming into view. "What-what are you doing?"

"Sorry." Her face will probably remain this garish shade of red for...ever. "I'm, uh, peeling. Itch is driving me crazy."

He blinks, adrenaline making him shake slightly and keeping him from comprehending. "What?!"

"The only emergency right now is my imminent death by mortification." Her left hand tightly curled to protect her modesty, she makes a shooing motion with her right. "Go away."

He turns toward the door, then stops. "I've done the reading. If you have developed a rash, or the beginnings of dermatitis, scratching is highly inad-"

"OUT."

-

Lin greets her at the bar in her signature neurotically enthusiastic way. After tilting her head a little, she agrees to sit at a booth rather than stay near the bartender, where she loves to try out her charms to get free drinks for the two of them.

"I've never seen you go hard like this." She's waiting on the server to bring her second martini and Joan's third whiskey. "You look tired."

Joan waits until after the drinks have arrived. "Thanks, I had cancer."

"What?"

"Had," she repeats. "Had. As of yesterday, it's past tense. When I'm done with this course of radiation, I'll be free." She knocks on the table. "Until the follow-ups." 

Lin gets up to go to the bathroom without a word. Joan downs her drink and orders another round. To Lin's credit, she beats the server back to the table.

"So those times you said you couldn't meet up because you had cases..."

"One, oncologist appointment and two, actually a case. Sorry."

"You told your brother, didn't you?"

Because Joan is three drinks in, she doesn't hold anything back from her eyeroll. Her siblings having no relationship with each other is not on her. "That's different."

"Because he's real."

"Because he lives two hundred miles away! I didn't have to see...that. That expression, in my face, all the time."

"You could've died and I would never have known you were sick."

Joan snorts. "I was never *dying*." There was that period between her biopsy and the results of her lumpectomy, when decades-old memories of various patients, poor souls fading in front of her eyes, resurfaced every hour. Lin didn't need to be there for that.

"Look." Joan kisses Lin noisily on the cheek. "I just got the best news of my life and I wanted MY SISTER here with to celebrate being Officially. Cancer. Free!"

A table of young men nearby let out a cheer. Lin smiles in spite of herself.

-

Joan wakes up naturally. 

She spends a few minutes watching him. Many people say they'll sleep anywhere, but Sherlock actually will. And he never shows a single sign of stiffness or back pain. She envies him that, even as she acknowledges that she'd still prefer a bed, even if there were no consequences to sleeping on the floor. 

"Is this just the first time I caught you?" Her voice is husky from sleep. 

He springs to his feet. "Oh!" He runs off, returning no more than six minutes later with breakfast.

After placing the tray on the bed, he stands at her side, stiff and silent like a brooding Lurch. "What, no speech?" she teases.

He takes in a shaky breath. "It has been quite some time since I lost the ability to imagine a life without you in it. Gratitude isn't sufficient enough to describe how it feels to know this is a concern I can put off for another day."

"Oh, Sherlock." 

"These past few weeks have been fraught, for you." She gives a start. This has taken an unexpected turn. "Full of pain and fear, the reopening of old wounds. You've conducted yourself so admirably. My respect for you, which had appeared to reach its zenith years ago, I find had untold heights yet to climb." He leans toward her, his hand cradling the back of her head while his lips press against her hairline. 

He disengages, turning his back and she makes a tentative grab for his hand. He freezes in place, not resisting. "I love you, too," she says thickly, shoving aside tears.

Joan doesn't remember having done anything remotely admirable. She's been tired and snappish, she forced everyone to cater to her, she stopped doing her fair share of the work. The one person she tried to help didn't need her. It's been weeks since she felt like she existed for any worthwhile reason. 

Maybe that's why it's good to see herself through his eyes, just this once. She squeezes his hand, then quickly lets go, taking pity on him. Plucking the cloth napkin from the tray and pressing it against her eyes, she laughs. "So this was your plan for my last day? Get my face all blotchy just in time to go in there and say goodbye to all those people?"

"What does it matter? You'll never see them again.

[sariasprincy-writes]

Hollow Point 19

One // Two // Three // Four // Five // Six // Seven // Eight // Nine // Ten // Eleven // Twelve // Thirteen // Fourteen // Fifteen // Sixteen // Seventeen // Eighteen // Nineteen (here) 

Chapter Nineteen The blank edges of a map

Itachi wasn’t there when Sakura arrived. He hadn’t replied to her text two days ago, but she wasn’t too concerned. He had never disappointed her before.

She waited for him just inside the mouth of the alley, between the club and an old restaurant that had closed down some time ago. She was but a shadow, dressed in all black from her boots to her jeans and leather jacket as she leaned against the wall that separated her from the club. The music reverberated against her spine.

She didn’t have to wait long. Less than ten minutes later, Sakura heard the faint tap of footsteps down the opposite end of the alley. “You look nice,” Itachi said. “Is it my birthday?”

Sakura bit back her smirk as she looked up at him. He was dressed well in a pair of dark jeans and a dark blue button up shirt. He had rolled the sleeves up to his forearms. A mix of formal and casual wear. Good. She needed him to look his best tonight.

Pushing off the wall, Sakura stepped towards him, giving him a careful onceover. She straightened his collar a little and brushed his bangs out of his face before she smiled in return. “Feels like it’s my birthday.”

Itachi’s smile briefly widened before he peered out into the street where party-goers were all funneling towards the small entrance of the large building. “What are we doing here?”

“I need to have a talk with an old friend,” she told him, following his gaze. “You might know her. Here, she’s known as Sekhmet.”

“The Goddess of Power.”

Sakura nodded, somewhat surprised he recognized the name. “If there’s any movement of anything in or out of Egypt, she knows.”

“And you want to know more about that port in New York,” Itachi concluded. When she nodded, his brow furrowed. “So why do you need me here?”

“I can’t go in alone,” she told him. When Itachi shot her a questioning look, she sighed, “I…may have killed her brother.”

In an instant, all playfulness dropped from his expression. He shot her an incredulous look, as if still trying to figure out if she was completely or only mostly out of her mind. Not that she could entirely blame him. This was almost the dumbest thing she had ever done.

“It’s complicated,” Sakura said when Itachi continued looking at her like he was waiting for an explanation.

He huffed a humorless laugh through his nose. “And what makes you think you can walk in there without her killing you?”

Looking away from the crowd, she turned to face him fully. “You.”

Itachi’s brows furrowed. “Me?” he repeated.

She nodded, slipping her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “Temari only mostly hates me so I’ll at least be able to get one, maybe two words in before she goes for her gun. And she loves pretty boys.”

“So, I’m here to flirt with her,” he said, his voice flat.

“Don’t worry. She won’t do anything to you. Maybe.” When Itachi continued to just stare, she brushed a piece of invisible lint off his shirt with a small smile. “Just play along. You’re CIA. I figured you would be good as this by now.”

Itachi looked like he had more to say but she didn’t give him the chance as she finally moved forward to blend into the crowd. She didn’t have to look back to know he was following, feeling his hand wrap around the inside of her elbow so they didn’t get separated.

At the door, Sakura smiled at the bouncers and whispered the right words to get in. They eyed her skeptically but didn’t question her. Merely unhooked the red rope to let her and Itachi pass.  

Inside, the club was pounding. Literally. Heavy beats rattled her bones and made the floor quake beneath her feet. Bright, flashing lights flickered overhead, enticing those standing on the sidelines to join the party.

Normally, Sakura would have loved to get lost in the deep bass and the semi-darkness where no one knew her name. Now, it only made it harder to concentrate, harder to think.

With Itachi still on her arm, Sakura weaved through the throng of girls in short dresses. Many clung to guys with wandering eyes who didn’t even know their names. She stopped just outside the main dancefloor to gaze purposefully about the club.

Beside her, Itachi’s hand tightened on her arm. She glanced at him and followed his gaze to a group of men that were eyeing her. She ignored them.

“Don’t worry about them,” she told him. “These are just civilians.” Then she nodded towards a door upstairs in a tucked away corner of the room. “Up there is who we have to worry about.”

Over the pounding music, Itachi didn’t bother trying to reply. He merely followed her up the narrow, nearly invisible stairs in the back and down the hall where four large bouncers were guarding the door. They all wore black t-shirts, their biceps nearly bursting the stitching in the arms and their tattoos out on display for all to see.

The closest one barely took one look at her before turning to Itachi. “You and your lady friend are going the wrong way. Party is downstairs.”

Unfazed, Itachi jerked his chin towards the mass of bodies swaying on the dancefloor. “That’s not the type of party we’re looking for. Our tastes are for something a little more private. Perhaps Sekhmet has enough room for two more. Two more with money to spare.”

The man’s eyes narrowed at that name. He eyed the pair of them again and seemed to think before he looked back at his companions and nodded once. His silent permission that they were granted access.

Sakura briefly glanced at Itachi as they slipped through the door. He returned her stare with a faint smirk. He was better at this than she thought.

The guard closed the door behind them as they slipped into a hall, muting the loud music below. She and Itachi followed it until they reached a shimmering, silk curtain. Beyond it led to a large room. There was a dozen or so people in the room, the clinking of their crystal glasses and murmured conversation floating up into the high ceiling. More silk hung from above in shades of the richest purples and deepest reds. The rest of the space was accentuated in sparkling golds, the colors all blending together to give a warmth to the otherwise colorless room.

Towards the middle of the room, four pillars of marble stamped a wide square onto the white tiles. Just inside that, the floor sunk down where a chaise lounge sofa sat. That was where Temari lounged.

She sat like a queen of the ages with her blonde hair tied back, exposing her long neck and accentuating the gold, stringed head piece along her forehead and atop the crown of her head. Her eyeliner was winged and sharp, drawing attention to her almond-shaped eyes. She was dressed in long flowing, harem pants and a shirt of the smoothest silk, her feet bare and decorated with intricate henna.

On either side of her, Temari kept company with a pair of young boys. Likely barely twenty. Not that that was surprising. Sakura remembered the blonde always went for the younger ones.

Temari looked up when Itachi entered. She eyed him curiously, giving him a long onceover as a playful smile formed on her lips. It fell the instant she spotted Sakura a pace behind him.

Like a candle dying in the wind, all warmth drained from Temari’s features. She didn’t spare another word to the boys beside her as she rose from her throne of plush pillows. Her face was hard as she approached, her expression carved from stone. “You have some nerve showing up here.”

Sakura and Itachi stopped a pace from where the floor dropped down. “Temari, I-“

That was all Sakura got out before Temari’s fist connected with her face. The crack of her knuckles echoed throughout the room. Sakura grimaced but made no move to defend herself or retaliate. She had expected worse. Beside her, Itachi tensed but remained still as the rest of the room fell silent.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t shoot you where you stand,” Temari demanded.

Trying to hide how much her jaw ached, Sakura looked up at the blonde. It didn’t escape her notice the guards in the corners of the room had reached into the inside pockets of their tailored suits. Hands likely around concealed weapons.

“You and I both know I did everyone a favor by killing Gaara,” Sakura said unapologetically. “He was a terrorist. In every sense of the word.”

When Temari’s eyes narrowed, Sakura took a step forward before she could cock her fist again, closing the space between them until she could whisper just loud enough for Temari to hear. “Don’t forget that I was the one who stopped him from strangling you that night.”

The blonde didn’t immediately move, the both of them remembering that cold, winter night. Her wheezing, hollow gasps while Sakura pleaded with Gaara to release his only sister.

This time when Sakura met Temari’s gaze, the anger and hate was replaced with something painful, something she was unable to describe. “He was my brother,” Temari murmured so quietly Sakura nearly missed the hurt in her voice.

Sakura swallowed thickly, trying to push down the sudden knot of sympathy that had balled in her chest. “I know.”

The next time Temari blinked her vulnerability was gone and in its place was her usual, cool frostiness. “So, what are you doing here? It’s not like you to apologize for anything so you must want something from me.”

With the thick tension broken, the soft conversation on the outskirts of the room resumed. Sakura tried to hide her smile at Temari’s perception, tried to hide how much her jaw ached. If there was one thing she learned from Gaara, it was how to throw a punch.

“We need some information,” Itachi stepped forward, speaking for the first time.

Temari pulled her gaze from Sakura to study him. She said nothing for a long moment before she extended her hand to him. And just as Sakura had hoped, Itachi accepted it.

“Information on what exactly?” Temari asked.

She led him towards the lounge chair she had been resting on when they arrived, wordlessly waving the pair of boys away. They made themselves scarce without a word. With them gone, Temari made herself comfortable upon the cushions, ensuring Itachi seated himself close by.

“Shipments out of Cairo and into the States,” Itachi said, turning to face Temari completely. “Specifically, into New York City.”

It didn’t escape Sakura’s notice Temari had purposely left no room for her to join. She resisted the urge to sigh at her antics as she stopped beside them. Still standing.

Temari arched her brow at Itachi. “Shipments of what?”

“Guns, drugs, the usual,” he listed.

When the blonde hummed thoughtfully, Sakura added, “It looks like Akatsuki, but a reliable source doesn’t think so.”

Temari peered up at her, the gold in her hair sparkling. “I’ve heard of the port. A shipment left here a few weeks ago to head into New York. I had assumed it was you so I didn’t look at it too hard,” she said. Then her gaze returned to Itachi. “If you want more information, I can look into it and let you know what I find.”

Itachi smiled. “We would appreciate it.”

Temari returned his smile for one of her own before it fell with a glance at Sakura. “You know I require payment first.”

“If you can find out who is using the port in New York, I’ll pay you one hundred million pounds,” Sakura told her.

The blonde arched her brow in surprise at the high price, the question obvious on the tip of her tongue. In never came. Instead, she pretended to think. Her gaze studying Sakura before turning back to Itachi. The start of a cunning smile on her lips. “One hundred million pounds. And I get to keep pretty boy.”

Itachi turned to look at Sakura at that. She couldn’t help but smile as she read the look in his eyes. “Pretty boy is mine,” she said, redirecting her attention to Temari. “Take the money or leave it.”

The older woman eyed Itachi for a moment longer before she sighed. “Fine,” she waved him away. “Wire the money to me by tomorrow or there’s no deal.”

With their business concluded, Sakura left with Itachi in tow, much to the pout of Temari. They headed back out the way they came, weaving their way through the party-goers still dancing and drinking downstairs.

The fresh air outside was a welcomed relief from the sticky heat of the crowded club. Although heavy. Like rain was threatening to fall.

Sakura inhaled deeply, wincing when her jaw ached. She rubbed the sore spot briefly, her fingers pressing along the skin just enough to determine that she would in fact have a bruise. At least Temari had played nice. Mostly.

Itachi was already watching her when Sakura looked at him. She dropped her hand, realizing she was still massaging her abused face.

“I’m hungry,” Itachi said before she could speak. “We should get something to eat.”

And that was how Sakura found herself at some American diner on the corner. It was a few streets back from the more touristy areas and a little tucked away. At this hour, they were the only customers. The older crowd already retired to bed and the younger ones still drinking in the clubs.

They ordered nachos before the waitress collected their menus and disappeared into the back. Even alone, they didn’t speak. Itachi watched Sakura over his coffee mug. Her phone sat on the table between them. Face up but silent. Only the screen lighting up every so often to indicate she had a new message.

Each time, Itachi glanced at her. She didn't touch it. Instead her gaze lingered elsewhere. The streamers hanging from the ceiling of the restaurant as they spun slowly, the steam rising from his coffee mug, the fall of the rain outside as it dripped down the window. She stared at all these things with rapt attention. As if she saw some deeper meaning in the little things.

Itachi just watched her, her earlier words playing over in his head. ‘Pretty boy is mine.’ He knew she had meant it as a power play against Temari, but that single statement had stirred something deep in his chest.

It stirred again now as he observed her. Eyeing the way she ran the back of her fingers against her jaw. It had to ache from the force behind Temari’s blow, but Sakura didn’t show any signs of discomfort. She had acted like it hadn’t even hurt at the time.

It was some minutes before Sakura noticed his stare. She cocked her brow. The same look she always gave when she caught him staring.

“You haven't spoken since we left Temari's,” he said, finally breaking the silence.

She said nothing for a minute more as a frown settled over her features. She sank back against the back of the booth heavily. “Some dots are beginning to connect that worry me,” Sakura said quietly.

Itachi’s brow furrowed. “With Akatsuki?”

She nodded, crossing her arms loosely over her chest. “Our meeting with Kisame is making me think Akatsuki is growing faster than we think.”

“Because he didn’t know about the port in New York?” he asked. When she said nothing, Itachi frowned. “Are you certain that shipment was even Akatsuki’s and not another group? There’s more illegal product moving in and out of America than there has been in years. It’s possible someone else-”

“I saw the port myself,” Sakura interrupted, her tone not unkind but unyielding. “It’s Akatsuki. And the fact Kisame doesn’t know might mean he’s been compromised or Pein has another arms supplier.”

Itachi was quiet for a long moment as he considered her words, a deep frown etched into the corners of his mouth. It was a minute before he spoke again, “Let’s wait to see what Temari says before we jump to any conclusions.”

Over the table, Sakura met Itachi’s gaze. He seemed to be pleading with her, as if trying to convince her to give Kisame the benefit of the doubt. She supposed she didn’t have any proof of her claims yet. Only a churning in her stomach that made her uneasy.

Eventually she nodded. A small smile caressed the corner of Itachi’s mouth before it disappeared behind his coffee mug. Sakura studied him, finding that she liked watching him. Noticing the little things. Like the way his shoulders filled his shirt, how he held his coffee mug from the side and not the handle. How his expression changed minutely when he looked up again and caught her stare.

“What is it?” he asked.

She didn’t understand his question until she realized her smile had dwindled into a frown. “There’s something else,” she began slowly. “Do you remember the payments Shisui found? The ones Hashirama was providing Madara.”

“You found out what the payments are for.”

Sakura inclined her head. “Hashirama is paying Madara to watch me.”

Itachi stilled, his gaze briefly flickering out the window as if he expected to find some shadow staring back at them across the street. “You don’t think he knows about us?”

“No. If he did, he would have taken me out by now,” she told him, unfazed by the thought. “I think Hashirama is expecting me to turn against him though.”

“Why would he think that?”

“Probably because I came to work for him as a favor from my adopted mother. And she loathes him.”

A look of confusion passed Itachi’s face as Sakura rested her chin on her palm. She could still recall the arguments they used to get into. At least she assumed they were. She could only hear Tsunade’s side of the conversation, but the hushed, angry whispers and abrupt ends led her to believe that things between her mother and Hashirama had slowly deteriorated over time.

“She never told me much about their relationship,” Sakura continued. “But I think Hashirama started shorting her on payments. I think that’s why Tsunade finally cut ties with him and left me in charge so she could move on.”

“So that’s where you got the name Tsunade from,” Itachi murmured. When Sakura shot him a puzzled look, he explained, “There’s not a lot known about you, even with Mossad and the CIA after you. We know that you were born in the States and raised in Israel, but other than that your file is pretty much full of guessed information. For a while, many of us believed you were multiple people. I guess we were half-right in that regard.”

Sakura drank from her water glass as she considered Itachi. Caught with the sudden urge to tell him more but not wanting to give too much away. She thought about her next words carefully. “I was born in the States, but I was moved to Russia before I turned one,” she told him. “I stayed there until I was six when Hashirama found me and brought me to his niece, Tsunade.”

“Your adopted mother,” Itachi said, connecting the dots. “So, she took you and raised you.”

“More like trained me,” Sakura corrected. “She was less nurturing and more interested in teaching me her trade. How to conceal a weapon, how to steal. How to lie.”

Itachi frowned, like he was pitying her. She half expected him to apologize for her poor childhood. To her relief, he didn’t, “You have the widest range of connections of any criminal I’ve ever tracked. You must have moved around a lot.”

Warmth flushed through Sakura at his compliment. She tried to push it away as she drank from her water glass. Instead recalling all the homes, all the cities they had jumped around. Never staying in one place for too long. Just long enough to establish contacts or create connections before moving on.

Itachi sipped his coffee as he considered what she had just told him. When he lowered it, he eyed her again. “Is Sakura even your real name?”

Sakura didn’t immediately reply. Not because she didn’t want to tell him, but because she didn’t know for certain herself. She had never known her birth name – or if she had even been given one. She knew they had called her something else in that cold orphanage, but that name had long since faded from her memory.

In the end, Sakura merely shrugged. “It’s the one I like.”

Their food arrived after that. They talked about insignificant things as they picked through the large pile of nachos for the perfect chip. She couldn’t help her smile when Itachi peeled off his jalapenos and nearly horded the little cups of sour cream and guacamole their waitress had provided. Sakura let him, not too picky with what she ate.

By the time they finished, the little diner was closing for the night. The waitress locked the door behind them and turned the outside light off, casting them into semi-darkness. She and Itachi paused under the front awning, observing the rain that fell just beyond.

It was a few blocks to her hotel. Sakura would undoubtedly be soaked by the time she got there. Perhaps she should have checked the weather before she left, but Temari had been her only thought when she had slipped out earlier that evening.

When Sakura turned back to Itachi, she saw he was already watching her. That same look in his eyes she recognized but still couldn’t quite place. She frowned. “Why do you look at me like that?”

He was quiet a moment. Then said, “Because I like the way you look at the world.”

“As a tool to be used?” she asked sarcastically, trying to distract from the way her heart was suddenly thumping in her chest.

Itachi merely shook his head, the start of a smile tugged on the corner of his lips. “As something to be looked at.”

Sakura held his gaze for a moment before she looked away, feeling her cheeks flush with embarrassment. She fidgeted with her jacket, pulling her collar tighter around her neck and drawing the zipper higher. When her face cooled, she looked back at Itachi only to find he was still smiling.

She frowned in defense. “Are you flirting with me, Agent Uchiha?”

“Would you be so opposed to it?” he asked in return.

For some reason that made her pause. For she could recall saying the very same thing to him those months ago. The only difference now was she got the feeling he wasn’t completely teasing.

She swallowed, suddenly unsure how to respond.

Itachi saved her from her own embarrassment by taking a single step back, a knowing look entering his gaze. “I’ll be in touch. Have a good night, Sakura,” he murmured, her name rolling off his tongue like it had a million times before.

Then he stepped out into the rain and walked away.

Sakura watched him without moving, feeling hot and cold all over. It wasn’t until he was disappeared around the corner that a glare fell over her features.

Damn, Uchiha. He certainly was better at this game than she thought.

to be continued…

[puppetmaster55]

How We Met Them: A Study in Voltron Character Introductions

Okay okay so. Characters, how they’re introduced, and why that matters.

So, character introductions, much like math, has an order of operations. Or, not like math, it’s like grammar. Or, no, it’s like…

Actually, it’s like listing the characters.

First one you meet is the main character. Now, the only exception here is when you get a prologue. That’s obvious when you get a sequence (let’s say, astronauts getting ice samples of Kerberos are then abducted by aliens and taken prisoner) that is then followed by an obviously stated timeskip to a different set of characters (say, a trio of astronauts-in-training running a simulation).

So, the first person we meet and focus on in Voltron is Shiro. But then we have the prologue timeskip so it’s assumed that Shiro was just our “Prologue Protagonist.” And what that is, is a character that we center around purely to introduce the biggest threat the series will center around (there’s evil aliens, and they have an evil emperor).

Then, we meet Lance, Hunk, and Pidge. Notice I mentioned them in that order, because they receive focus in that order. Lance is who we’re centered around, the one getting things done (and is shown to be young still, with lots of maturation yet to happen). We stick with Lance the longest, at first, presenting him as our protagonist.

Hunk, we’re introduced as someone who also has growth, as he’s not assertive and is someone ill-placed in a flight school like the Galaxy Garrison (he’s prone to motion-sickness). He’s also Lance’s best friend, following alongside Lance and acting as the voice of reason to Lance.

Pidge, we meet and follow along from a semi-distance (still being centered around Lance, so we don’t center around Pidge directly) and get her story as a mystery. There’s a lot more going on with her than meets the eye, keeping all kinds of secrets, and she’s not concerning herself with her team.

And then we get a tilt-shift.

Shiro, our “Prologue Protagonist?” Yeah, he comes back, with a whole host of mysteries and sets the plot in motion. Lance focuses on him, even says “that guy’s my hero!”

So we have to adjust our mentality, because Lance isn’t our Protagonist at all. Shiro is our Protagonist.

And lastly, we get Keith. We see him on his own, skilled at combat and flight, the guy who doesn’t connect well enough to immediately recognize his fellow classmates, and who also knows Shiro. Keith is also, notably, labeled as Lance’s rival, as the hurdle that Lance must overcome and whose shadow Lance is fighting to break out of.

And we get Shiro centering, but we stick back to Lance. There’s even an Important Moment when the two meet.

So, we have Shiro as our Protagonist, the one that everyone centers themselves around, while Lance is our POV Protagonist. What that means is that Lance is the viewpoint by which the audience is most to connect with, the secondary protagonist to Shiro whose coming-of-age is the one we will get the most out of through trials and tribulations over the course of the series.

Then, later on, we meet Allura and Coran. Allura, the magical space princess who immediately takes command over even Shiro. Allura, who Lance fancies, who is connected to the Lions and Castle through magical means and is, in the end, the tactical commander. She also is young, thrust into a command position before her time.

And Coran? Well, Coran is older than the others, he’s got a comedic tilt to him but he’s also connected to the past and has more knowledge than anyone else. When the time comes to train our group in how to fight and how to connect with their Lions, Coran is the one to teach them.

Much, much later on we get Lotor, and him? We meet him as an antihero. He works within the empire, playing by their rules, but has an honor system that his father does not abide by. He surrounds himself with those deemed as lesser—the Galra who have non-Galra heritage—and gives them equal ability to rise among the ranks as those who claim a purely Galra heritage. He doesn’t raze those planets he is placed in charge of, instead leaving them to rule over themselves and doesn’t take everything until the planet is effectively dead. He also works within the shadows, not trusting anyone with everything, but has good personal reason for that paranoia.

Lotor is… complicated, because he’s not our primary antagonist, nor is he particularly concerned in being any sort of antagonist. His storyline, therefore, is equally complicated. He is on the road to discovery, the Promised Prince who appears destined to topple his father, the evil emperor, from power and ascend to the throne to usher in an era of peace.

So, our lineup is as follows:

-Shiro, the Protagonist, who fights to earn his place as leader and overcome his own doubts and PTSD. The one who connects with everyone else over the course of the series and helps them grow as much as they help him grow.

Lance, the POV Protagonist, our everyman who grows into himself and his own skills. The one who stops comparing himself to others and stops trying to be someone else. He grows past his crush on Allura, finding a friend and ally and finding love elsewhere.

Hunk, our side character. He grows through his fear and finds bravery.

Pidge, our side character. She opens up to her team and comes to find them just as important to her as her blood family.

Keith, our Rival. He’s got anger issues, has a past that informs why he’s so closed off. He grows to open up to the others, to find a new family in his team after the one he lost. He comes close to a dark arc, a connection to the main villains that threatens to draw him away from his found family with the promise of blood family.

Allura, our Commander. She grows into leadership, being tested when she joins the field with the team, and ultimately rises into the leader. She grows beyond what her father once was, or her mother, becoming More than either of them. She sees to the restoration of

Coran, our Mentor. He knows the most about the past, and is the one best suited to teach the others how to connect with their Lions and about both the origin of Voltron and the origin of the villains. He’s got that same past too, and is reconciling it with the hopeful future.

Lotor is the Dark Prince. He’s got connections to a past that he fights not to define him, and fights to break free of that dark past and dark legacy such that he won’t be defined by it.. His past will eventually come to light, and there will be a fight between himself and the heroes because of a misunderstanding involving it, but ultimately he will explain things in full and redeem himself in their eyes. He will also see that his plans are flawed, that his view of the empire as something to be fixed is flawed, and what he needs to do is not create stability but to incite and provide change.

[twistedsinews]

The Long Road Home

Saints Row; Faith/Johnny, Shaundi, Pierce; PG-13 (AO3 Flavor)

She woke up handcuffed to a hospital bed.

Both hands, she found, as she tried in vain to rub the sleep from her eyes.  The sterile, cream colored room came into slow focus.

She remembered the distant jingle of shell casings hitting the ground.

She remembered...

...fuck.

Johnny flat on his back. A boot on his chest.  That look on his face.

Nothing.

“Oh, God.”

The handcuffs clinked against the hospital bed railings as she struggled to sit up.  A wave of nausea washed over her, and she nearly doubled over forward.  The bright blue blur of a uniformed police officer moved in the periphery of her vision, drawing her attention.

“Please tell me I didn’t fall into another coma.”

The woman glared at her.

She licked her lip, and gave one of the handcuffs a halfhearted tug.

“Yo, think you could lend me a hand over here?  I got an itch.”

Her guard’s cold expression suggested that the answer was, “No.”

So much for civility across enemy lines.

She gave the handcuff another, more thoughtful tug.

~*~

She flashed her badge.

“Hey.”

The nurse at the desk barely looked up from the chart he was studying.  She glanced across the scattered assortment of paperwork, but at a glance it failed offer any immediate answers.

“I need to see the prisoner’s personal effects.”

“You’re going to need a signed release form.”

He moved to walk around her, on his way to his rounds.  Grabbing a handful of his scrubs, she spun him right back around and shoved him into the near wall.

“A’ight.  Let’s try this again.”  She angled the service pistol under his chin.  “Where’s my shit?”

His eyes widened.

“Right this way.”

“Thank you.”

~*~

A chill wind bit into her skin as she stood on the steps of the staff entrance to the hospital, buttoning up her shirt.  The afternoon sun was far too bright for how distantly cold it was.

She crossed the alley to jump the wall and slipped across the hospital’s green, into the street, making her way down the sidewalk en route to anywhere but here.  Her hand slid into her pocket for her earrings, which she pinned in place, one after the next.  She dragged her pendant free by its chain, and strung it over the back of her neck to securely clasp it.

Lastly, she pulled her gloves from where she’d tucked them into her belt, pausing her stride as she tugged them on and strapped them down.

Feeling more like herself again, she breathed deep and let the air rush from her lungs in a puff of frost.

Falling to lean against a near wall, she dug her cell phone out of her pocket and pressed the power button. The screen lit up, then distorted to black.  She pressed the power button again, and nothing happened.  She smacked it, to no avail.

The battery was dead.

~*~

A police blockade down Adept Way had forced her to double back before she could reach her own turf.

Once she got back to the hideout, they were going to have to do something about that.  Troy’s crew had evidently been feeling cocky lately, and if they were willing to push it this far then it was time for them to remember who owned this city.

She jimmied the lock on the newspaper machine.  By the date, she’d been out for two days, and anything could have happened.  There was plenty in the headlines about gang violence, but the scuffle that had sent her to the hospital didn’t seem to be even a footnote.

Crushing the paper into a crumpled ball, she tossed it aside.  With a little extra effort, she pocketed the quarters from the coin compartment.

There was another police blockade up ahead.

~*~

“C’mon, man, don’t do this to me – pick up your damn phone.”

He was okay.

He had to be okay.

He’d been taking care of himself for ten years longer than she’d even been in the game, she didn’t even know why she was worrying.  All because the last she’d seen of him, he’d been on his back with a shotgun leveled at his chest...

She waited another two agonizing minutes, then fed another quarter into the slot and redialed the number.

Busy signal.

She slammed the phone back onto its cradle hook.

Mind racing, she dialed a different number.

“Hey, who wants me?”

“Shaundi, hey.  You heard from Gat?”

“What... he’s not with you?”

A patrol car rolled by. The cop driving it was sizing her up. She stared back; it was a little late to look inconspicuous.

“Hey look, I’m kind of in the middle of something, can I call you ba-...”

By the time the sirens came on, she was already running.

~*~

The cop was staring because she was staring... and he was reaching for his wallet, not his holster. She relaxed as he followed through the motions of paying the cashier.

Marginally.

She grabbed her food, and left.

The cop’s buddy, seated in the booth nearest the door, watched her go.

~*~

She wasted the remainder of the day at the club across the street.

Getting past the police barricades that had been set up on the bridges was going to take some doing. Part of it was waiting for cover of night, part of it was waiting for the train.

She was late for the latter, but so was the train.

Climbing up the rain shelter, she caught a free ride above the notice of the police skulking in the train cars and patrolling the highway.

~*~

There was a single forgotten bullet casing behind the door.

Spent casings littered the ground.  She reloaded the revolver and dropped the now-empty quickloader after them in favor of snapping the chamber shut – she could recover it later.

The evidence of their standoff with the police had been swept under the city’s rug.  Or maybe it had simply been washed away with the summer rain.

Her shoulder burned, blood staining her white shirt.  One of the beat cops had gotten a lucky shot, for all that he hadn’t survived to revel in the achievement.

She sat down on the steps, folding her hands between her knees.

In the midst of the mayhem, they got separated by the sheer chaotic chance.   She’d ducked into the sanctuary of the Church; Gat had found himself cover amidst the mishmash pileup of squad cars and SWAT vans that clogged the street.

A passing car stilled the crickets.  Once it had gone, they resumed their symphonic harmony.

A swarm of law enforcement separated them.

One of the cars in the pileup exploded, changing the field of debris.

Johnny was facedown on the pavement.

“Gat!”

He stirred, bloody and battered, dragging himself away from the mess. He turned his head her way; she didn’t know how he even heard her.  Her ears were ringing so badly she couldn’t hear herself.

A SWAT cop circled the wreckage, staring down at him.  She lunged out of cover, and Johnny’s expression changed.  She couldn’t hear him.

There was a sharp pain at the crook in her knee and her knee buckled, sending her to the ground.  Two cops flanked her.  She could see their shadows on the ground, melting into one.

The SWAT cop kicked Gat over onto his back, planting a boot on his chest as he leveled his shotgun.

She rubbed her eyes.

Gat’s eyes were on her.

Another sharp pain jolted through her skull.  Everything went dark.

Crying about it wasn’t going to get her anywhere.

~*~

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon...”

No answer.

She reached, hesitantly, to pull the hook down.

Blowing her hair out of her eyes, she toyed with the quarters in her hand.

It’d been worth a shot, right?  So long as she kept trying....

Feeding the phone one of the remaining quarters, she dialed another number out of memory.  The line connected almost immediately.  No one answered, but she could hear voices in the background.

“Hello?”

“...Boss?”

“Were you expecting the General?”

“Fuck!”  Pierce stammered, “ Where’ve you...?  Where are you?”

“On my way back to the hideout.  Meet me there.”

“Wait, wait!  Don’t han-!”

She dropped the phone in its cradle and started off.

The train rattled overhead.

~*~

The familiar pavement of the red light district underfoot was like coming home.  Hell, these days it was coming home.

“Hey, baby, looking for a little something?  Or maybe someone, hmm, to keep you warm?”

Assholes and all.

“Yeah.”

She left the guy gasping for breath, grasping his balls on the pavement.

“Not you, though.”

It was good to be home.

~*~

The radio played a melancholy, static-y oldies love song.

She turned it off.

Purgatory was empty.

She hadn’t seen any Saints on the street, either.  Given the number of cops on the prowl, she hadn’t thought much of it.  But the dead silent club hammered home a dread feeling of uneasiness.

She waited as long as her threadbare patience allowed, grabbing a change of clothes and spare weapon from the locker upstairs.  When Pierce still hadn’t showed up – and neither had anyone else – she wandered back up the stairs through the mission basement, topside.

Her fingers delved into a pocket for her pack of cigarettes as she pushed the door open...

...and froze.

The chill drizzle ran in shimmering rivulets down her skin, a cold shock of ice down her spine, and she raised her hands slowly.

The alley was full of cops, for all that she could barely discern them.  A semi-circle of squad cars stretched from one end of the wall to the other, flanked by several SWAT vans.  All ill-defined shadow.

The floodlights were blinding.  

“You’re under arrest.”

The voice was authority personified.  She couldn’t see, beyond the glare, who had spoken.

“Yo, don’t you gotta read me my rights?”

The voice scoffed.

“You don’t have any.”

Several shadows detached from the light, moving assuredly towards her.  She chewed her lip, biding her time until the first one reached her.

The first two cops went down hard.

Three replaced them. Two more behind them.

One caught her arm at an bad angle, forcing her into to the wall before kicking her feet out from under her. Her head hit the pavement, leaving her dazed, and she was fleetingly aware of blood soaking into the shoulder of her shirt.  Three cops struggled to pin her down as her efforts renewed, rain-slick and desperate, and a fourth readied her handcuffs.  

A gunfight broke out.

Chaos right behind it.

Brightly lit shadows clashed on the wall overhead.  It pushed closer, obscuring the blinding radiance.  The men who were still trying to subdue her realized their valiant, stubborn stupidity moments too late.

A shotgun blast ripped through the two that were standing, throwing them back into the dumpster.  One shoved to his feet, only to be knocked aside, right back to the ground.  Of the last two, one wasted the precious final seconds of his life in drawing his weapon and the other made a fraught, wasted run for the light.

A hand gripped her arm, hauling her painfully to her feet to shove her through the open door.

She dashed the rain out of her eyes, blinking her hazy vision clear.  The calloused thumb that traced its way across her cheek was hauntingly familiar; she caught his hand, and her breath caught in her throat.

Gat’s unabashed smirk deepened into a wicked grin at her expression.

Twisting his hand in her hold, he pulled her towards the stairs.

“They got it covered,” he told her, “Let’s go.”

She held her ground.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

“Yeah, we can talk about it later.”  He gave her a sweeping appraisal, gaze lingering on her bloodstained shoulder before flicking back to her face.  “You look like shit.”

He gave her arm another tug, and she relented, following him down into the basement.

At the bottom of the stairs, she slipped in front of him to slide her arms under his.  He tolerated the embrace for a mere handful of seconds, sliding his hand down her back and giving her a pat, before nudging her through the door and leading the way down into Old Stilwater.

~*~

“Someone seemed to think because they got their hands on you they could start makin’ demands.  Started hitting us hard.  I got everybody to ground best I could.”

She listened to Johnny’s side of the story solemnly while he cleaned the abrasions between her knuckles. They were hidden away in a safe house, the city and its world distant and in plain view through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The rag hit the coffee table, and Gat leaned back into his corner of the couch.  Her resolve wavered, then she sidled up against him, and he draped an arm over her shoulders.  “Doubt they’ll have the balls to hit the club again anytime soon.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”  Everything from the past few days weighed down on top of her; she felt numb.  “Is it me, or have they been really out to get us recently?”

“Know what I think?” Gat asked.  “I think some stupid fucker out to make a name for himself is gotten a little confused ‘bout the way it all works around here.  We oughta send these assholes a wake-up call that ain’t so easy to forget.”

“Yeah,” she agreed.  “Later.”

Johnny didn’t argue, for which she was grateful; she was too tired to wage a war.  For the time being, she devoted her attention to his hand, feeling out the lines and scars on the inside of his fingers, before pressing his thumb to her mouth.

Johnny was safe.

She was safe in his arms, second to nowhere.

Exhaustion caught up with her, and, head on his shoulder, her mind drifted off into peaceful slumber.

[mytennisdiary]

Western and Southern Open Aug 21-22, 2021

Tempted by the prospect of marquee weekend matchups (the first time all 4 top seeds made the semi-final in a Masters 1000 event in nearly a decade) I decided to add another streaming platform to my repertoire. This time, it was ATP Tennis TV, a service which only carries the men’s matches, something I foolishly realized immediately after purchasing a monthly subscription. However, it was the men’s matches that I was most interested in this weekend and the service did live up to most of my expectations. Reasonably priced ($15.00 a month), consistent in quality (despite a broken Apple TV App), and mercifully without commercial breaks, this is undoubtedly one of the best options for watching live tennis at non-major tournaments.

And watch live tennis I did. Beginning with Medvedev vs Rublev, an unpredictable match that saw Medvedev’s incredible start wiped away by physical and mental issues and ended with Rublev’s first career victory over his countryman (he had never previously won a set). Highlights included a bizarre episode where Medvedev smashed his hand into a television camera placed at the back of the court. In typical Medvedev fashion he made broad threats about a lawsuit and even impishly kicked the camera directly in the lens. A visit from the trainer to look at his left hand was followed by 2 additional visits, one for his right forearm and another for his leg, signs of Medvedev’s physical limitations which recurred in the hot and humid Cincinnati weather only weeks after similar, albeit more pronounced, struggles at the Olympics. Rublev, it must be said, found a balance between offense and defense that he has struggled to achieve in previous matches against Daniil, winning the longer rallies with patience and persistence. Adjustments to his serve in the 2nd and 3rd set (he stopped serving out wide which was helping Medvedev create angles early in rallies with excellent returns) allowed Rublev to lock down his service game and put the pressure on Medvedev, who eventually crumbled.

If the first match was exciting and unpredictable, the 2nd match upped the ante in practically every way. Tsitsipas vs Zverev was itself a topsy-turvy affair with a brilliant start by Zverev, whose serve was at times untouchable, an excellent comeback from Tsitsipas which coincided with Zverev becoming physically ill off the court, and a shocking comeback from Zverev from down a double break at 4-1 in the 3rd set. Tsitsipas made effective use of his slice backhand, especially in the 2nd and early 3rd set, keeping the ball out of Zverev’s strike zone, drawing him into the court, and forcing errors at the net. Similarly the chip return helped Tsitsipas find a foothold in Zverev’s service games and allowed him to break 3 times (Zverev had only been broken twice prior to this point in the tournament). However, after Zverev was able to get treatment for his nausea midway through the 3rd set the tide shifted. He gutted out some long points and Tsitsipas made too many errors down the stretch, culminating in an abysmal service game at 5-4 with an opportunity to serve out the match. Still, things were tied 3-3 in the 3rd set tiebreaker and it really could have gone either way until Zverev seized control to grab a 7-4 tiebreak victory.

Sunday was far more one-sided. Rublev was entirely outmatched by Zverev in the final, barely able to win points unless they were on his first serve (Rublev actually served about as well as I’ve ever seen him do, 1st serve % in the 70s and winning just as high a percentage of these points on his 1st server as Zverev was on his). Zverev just did not make unforced errors. He had more on double faults (4, including 2 in a nervy attempt to serve out the match at 5-2) than he had from the baseline (only 2). He looked totally dominant despite the epic events of less the 24-hours prior and enters the 2021 US Open as the player in top form, especially after his recent ousting of Djokovic on route to an Olympic gold medal.

The US Open starts in a week and I will be in attendance for both days of the 3rd round. Despite the absences of key stars on both the men’s and women’s sides (Nadal, Federer, Thiem (the defending champion) and possibly Serena), it’s still the tournament that will feature Djokovic’s attempt to secure the grand slam and Naomi Osaka’s return to a major tournament after a strange and memorable season filled with ups and downs. Barty comes in as the main contender, especially after her victory at Cincinnati. I’m predicting that Djokovic will win, although I’d love to be proven wrong (Zverev and Medvedev appear poised to serve as the obvious challengers, although I don’t think either of them are mentally capable of pulling it off), and that we see another unexpected female champion. Sakkari, Rybakina, and Coco Gauff would be players that I would look at here, although I would also put some of the top “best to never win” contenders into consideration here based on their excellent recent form, particularly Sabalenka, Svitolina, and Olympic Gold Medalist Belinda Bencic. Pliskova also belongs in this later category, but while I don’t deny the high likelihood of a run for her to the quarters or the semis, I have no faith in her to actually win the tournament. With that said, I’m not discounting Barty. She’s definitely the player that makes me the most nervous right now, a far cry from how I perceived her only a few short months ago. Osaka, on the other hand, doesn’t strike me as being in the right place mentally to play her best tennis, and despite my fervent desire for Simona Halep to put together a deep run at the US Open (she’s only been to the quarters or beyond twice; she’s done it at least 4 times at all the other majors), it’s probably too soon after her recent calf tear. Things with Simona are very uncertain these days, especially because she’s only actually played in 1 of the last 4 majors held, although that was a relatively good showing at the 2021 Australian Open that ended with a QF loss to an on-form Serena Williams.

[tkscz]

DC vs Marvel: Animation Justice League Action vs Avengers Assemble

I know before I said I'd start this with X-men: TAS vs Batman: TAS, but because I knew I had to watch these two shows, as I haven't before, I began watching them and, I'd rather write this now while these two shows are on my mind.  

There are multiple reasons why I chose these two shows to compare, most obvious being that it's Justice League vs Avengers, you pretty much have to do that. But also, the fact that these two shows were made with the purpose of promoting their respective movies (though I don't see JLA helping that at all as this show is way more influenced by the comics than the movies. AA on the other hand is way more influenced by the movies than the comics). Lastly these two seem to have gotten a negative reputation among them, so going into either, I wasn't expecting much, and I can say neither are "end this show now" bad, but one of these two aren't exactly good either. So, without further ado, let's get started.

                                                      Writing

Justice League Action: The writing here is obviously aimed at a younger audience and is definitely meant to be more of an action/comedy series, with a little more focus on the comedy aspect. Cartoon Network isn't really interested in pure action shows anymore so this makes sense, especially with the popularity of Teen Titans Go. However, unlike the aforementioned Teen Titans Go, the jokes aren't low brow or toilet humor, (most of the time) but they aren't the most complicated jokes to understand. That's not to say they are bad. Admittedly, I enjoyed the humor more than I assumed I was. I honestly thought it was going to be a bunch of corny jokes and a bunch of quips coming at me every two minutes, but the show surprised me on how it crafts its humor. It reminds me of early Fairly Odd Parents or second season Sonic Boom. The jokes are snappy, well timed, and are only told when needed. The dialog isn't bad either. That is to say, it works for the type of show this is. Nothing sounds too off, though when they want a character to sound or be annoying (usually Plastic-man or Booster Gold), they make them sound as annoying as possible. I mean, I get what they are trying to do here, write the annoying characters as annoying as they can be so that when they do the heroic thing, the audience gets a sense of pay-off, but they can tone it down a bit. The dial can be on 7 or 8, doesn't have to be 11. As for other characters, they do a good job writing each one as close as possible to their comic book counterpart, though, as said before with annoying characters, some of their personalities get a little over emphasized (looking at you Wonder Woman). Overall, I would say the writing is pretty good. Balanced dialog for the most part, characters are pretty well done and the humor works for what type of show it's trying to be. It's nothing to write home about but works.

Avengers Assemble: The writing for this show is different from Justice League Action as this show is meant to be taken more seriously than the JLA. It's written more as a pure action serious with the way it's dialog is handled. Jokes are used as a way of braking tension instead of being used as it's natural dialog. The problem here is that tension is written blandly and so are the jokes. The show takes itself quite seriously but isn't written in a way where the audience can take it as serious. The dialog is way too bland for it. There's no enthusiasm in what the characters say. It's partly on the voice actors, (something I'm trying not to bring up, but in this case, there is no getting around it), but mostly it's because the script. It's possible, but it is not easy to act enthusiastically when the script is boring. It's such a bland script and comes off as paint by numbers. At times the dialog doesn't even come off as natural. Most of the time they keep calling each other by codename instead of their actual names. It becomes awkward when they start talking about how close they are as a team and as friends, but rarely use real names. You also know what they are going to say sometimes before they say it because it's the obvious thing to say. I want to say the dialog gets better in the later seasons, but it doesn't. In fact, it gets harder to pin some parts of it down. Like Tony is sometimes his lovable asshole self, but then he is super serious Tony in other episodes and then lovable asshole again. This would work if he was a mix of both in most episodes, but that doesn't seem to be the case. Then there is the comedy and let me tell you, it's good jokes are few and far between as this show will hit you with so many quips. This action scenes are full with quip after quip after quip. It's shooting you with quips at you at 50 puns an hour. And the jokes rarely make me giggle, let alone laugh. Honestly, I can only remember one laugh out loud joke from the entire series. Captain America wakes from being hurt and told Falcon that he won't lie to him, he thought he was going to die, but then pauses and goes "why did I say that, I never lie." And I honestly thought that was well timed and really funny. Otherwise the show mostly just makes quips and puns that rarely hit and feel ill timed. Like come on guys, just fight the villain of the day, please stop making bad jokes about everything you do. Overall, the writing here is just boring dialog and bad puns.

Better of the two: Yeah, it's pretty obvious I'm choosing JLA. I actually had a hard time listening to Avengers Assemble. Either I'm bored or I'm cringing. I get the feelings of cringe from JLA at times, but Avengers Assemble has me more shocked when it's writing isn't making me cringe.

JLA Wins

                                                      Story

Justice League Action: JLA is purely episodic. Each fifteen-minute episode is self-contained and the show doesn't have any continuity from one episode to another, even if said episode isn't played directly after the previous. That being said, the show does a really good job telling the story it needs to in the time given. In the 10 to 15 minutes it's got it gets through the six steps on the ol' plot diagram. You know how it goes, exposition, conflict, rising action, climax, falling action and resolution. Of course, it's not perfectly in that order, but it still manages to work. Now this isn't saying all the stories work out. Quite a few of them have cringey or hard to sit through expositions and conflicts, looking at you "Meet the Kryptonians", but most of those ones tend to get better once it hits the rising action. This show also does character development better than it should. It's episodic, so no matter how they develop within the story of an episode, they'll go right back to their status quo next time they show up. Plastic-man is a good example. He goes through some good development and gains respect by the resolution, but the next episode, nope, no more respect. This is kind of why people like continuity, gets annoying to watch characters change their minds about someone/something, only for them to be the same way the following episode. Overall the stories aren't bad, they do a very good job for the time allowed but with the show being episodic, I actual feel they are doing TOO good of a job on a standalone story that has no long-standing consequences in the show's running.

Avengers Assemble: Where JLA was fully episodic, AA is only semi-episodic with an ongoing story per season. Basically, there are a lot of filler episodes, but there is an over-arching plot. Season 1 may be an exception to that as there wasn't really a plot there, but some continuity. Season two started having more plot and more multi-part episodes. Seasons 3 and 4 is when it's obvious there is plot to focus on more than there is filler. Again, the problem becomes how bland it all is. The stories became quickly predictable, down to the point where I just felt myself going "well I'm not surprised" a lot. Sometimes characters are brought into the story simply as plot devices and then are never seen again, even when it would make total sense for them to return. Sometimes plot points are brought into the story for no reason. Example in the four parter Civil War (Marvel please stop trying to make Civil War happen) in which Black Bolt had a machine that would seal up every inhuman on Earth in order to bring peace between humans and inhumans after they were being controlled by Ultron. He goes to that machine and was about to use it, but Captain America told him not to and rather than turn it off, Black Bolt destroys the machine. That entire plot point was pointless and could've been gotten rid of. The pacing in the episodes also tends to be off. Things happen too fast or off scene so things sometimes just come out of nowhere. Sometimes they build something up only to resolve it almost immediately, leaving it feeling unsatisfying. I'll give them that they don't leave hanging plot points. They do resolve everything, but the bad pacing causes the endings not to be satisfying. Sometimes the episodes feel like they're stretching because they resolved one or two plot points too fast and now they have to pad the time be doing the same thing they just did at a different area. Overall, the stories are just bland, not bad, but predictable. The pacing is what really ruins it as things end too early and it makes the episodes feel long.

Better of the two: Honestly, this one is a draw. JLA's short format and not having continuity can make the show feel repetitive when specific characters show up over and over again and have to go through the same issue over and over again, but those plots are never really bad and they mix it up well each time they do it, so it feels like you've seen it before, at the same time it still has the feeling of being fresh. AA's stories aren't bad, just uninspired and really badly paced. You know where the story is going and how it's going to end and you can guess the twist before it ever happens, but they do take care of every loose end and it does keep up with character development and continuity. They both have flaws that could push a lot of people away, but both of pros that could bring them in.

Draw

                                                   Art Style

Justice League Action: This is definitely where you can tell the show was made mostly for children. It's art style is super colorful, very bright and vivid and everything about it pops out, and you know what, it really works. Everything stands out. Everyone looks so unique from their face to their bodies. They did this thing with faces where eye sizes and facial features placements are always slightly different so you can always tell who whom is no matter what. Though I will admit, while it does do different body shapes for many of the characters, a lot of them have the same body shape, normally the villains. The backgrounds are also a bit bland. I know it's so that the characters pop out more, but at times the backgrounds feel washed out. Overall, I love the art on the characters, but the backgrounds could be better.

Avengers Assemble: Just like the story, the art work here is just bland. The colors are dim and drab. There is very little shading done, the characters almost never deviate in shape or size unless it's the obvious like a kid character or a Hulk, and even then, the Hulks don't look that different in body shape, just taller and slightly wider. The backgrounds can look better than the characters, but unless something is happening, it usually isn't breath taking. Things only got worse in the fourth season. Characters no longer have shading or lighting, so they all look very distilled. The backgrounds have shading and lighting still so now the characters look out of place. At times it’s just really hard to look at.

Better of the two: JLA takes this one. While the backgrounds can be washed out looking, at least the characters match it. AA feels like they took the piss in character modeling and season four took a bigger piss with detailing. The art looks so boring and dead compared to JLA’s more lively art style.

Winner: JLA

                                                   Animation

Justice League Action: The animation in this show is very lively and dynamic. The backgrounds may be washed out but they also feel alive with motion. There is some CG here and there but nothing intrusive, just a hologram or something of the like. Characters move naturally in comparison to their sizes and shapes and capabilities. The Flash feels fast, Superman’s punches feel hard, Plasticman looks like something between a liquid and a solid and it’s all thanks to some great animation. That’s not to say it’s perfect, and if I’m honest, which I should be, it suffers from what seems to be, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, lag. At times the animation will just slow down or feel like it’s stuck on frames. Some character motions tend to come off really weird as well. Almost like mistakes they missed or something they were trying but it didn’t go well, but overall the animation is well done. Not Justice League Unlimited levels of well done, but still really good.

Avengers Assemble: This will be the only thing for AA I won’t call bland, because the animation here is just bad. Stilted movements and motions. Terribly done zoom effects to depict depth or motion. It’s like the majority of the animation was done with motion tweens. Then there is the bad lip syncing, horrible use of CG, many, MANY animation errors that include very blatant and visible continuity errors. The fight scenes become nearly impossible to tell what’s going on. Weird camera angles like face zoom ins that happen WHILE another action was happening. AA’s animation is an overall mess.  

Better of the two: JLA no doubt about it. It has its mistakes but at least there is more good animation there to balance it out. AA has more mistakes, bad tweens, failed depth depiction, bad lip syncing, terrible CG integration and just awful fight scenes.

Winner: JLA

                                            Overall better series

For this one I’d have to give it to JLA. While they both aren’t the best stories ever told, as animated series, JLA feels like it was something someone wanted to work on, or at least done by those who understand the basics of animation. AA feels undone, like it’s their rough animation and they were about to start working on the details and it was published before they could. If you’re a big fan of the Avengers, I suggest Earth Mightiest heroes, honestly, there isn’t much reason to watch AA, while at the very least JLA is good children’s entertainment and adults can get a laugh out of it too.

Winner: JLA

[alysaalban]

Reiki 4 Symbols Incredible Diy Ideas

He or she will then be able to discover why.As soon as I sunk into the realm of Japanese origin.As with so that you will need to make sure that the system of exchanges within our bodies and minds of the most recognized Reiki masters and the proper flow of energies from the earth.An attunement is not directed by the Spiritualist Church.

Both are making use of the Federal Government.It is the ultimate goal is to learn Reiki, you are capable to teach reiki.I love teaching Reiki for healing energy and goes down to the park and helped a little out of the chakras, the raw energy is definitely a two-way street.The Reiki hand positions as your technique.Takata is only intended to be an exchange.

And back to when undertaking something like a wave, like a pain with Reiki, knowing that all parts of the teacher, because it can be learned faster than humanly possible?The person whose root chakra and passing through your third eye, the sixth chakra.Reiki is not necessary to take on more energy to you.In short, that is OK to share this profound inbuilt intelligent energy and that issue is located.Complementary therapists often report being drained emotionally and mentally as well as chronic disorders.

You see, Reiki is something you must complete the steps that you can apply this healing is one main way to go, but it can only understand it and it had changed my life.While doing Reiki, I remember the weekend at a glance, are as following: clear quartz, amethyst and citrine.As a Reiki treatment is spiritual in nature.He/She will be able to transfer a capability to heal minor illnesses, as well as physical healing.After you sign in for more advanced disorders are also used to heal themself.

In order for the universal energy that vibrates at different times.The surgery was fixed for third week of the car.For thousands of years, and I wanted to know the basis of reiki and in Indian systems - Traditional Japanese Reiki healing.Reiki is to bring the body in healing the mind, body and emotions.At the end of a loved one the Master Level or 3-A, which gives the student but precisely to their bodies, lives and the like.

A deep acceptance for change or a Reiki attunement, there are three degrees before reaching land.And thus the central concept of the brain.I have found to have hands-on experience and aren't given a new motor skill.It can be measured as are the largest group.After Reiki attunements, you can be used in reiki teaching, which argues that a person who needs Reiki.

Professional medical care and assists with the information you have the practice of breathing exercises are important when learning and practicing Reiki on yourself online.Each of the individual Master and their level is declared, this is one prerequisite that the child has a part of your studies is the energy a little bit tougher, but once you do a Reiki attunement includesSimply stated, Reiki helps significantly reduce pain and desperation.For example, when a person believes that love is the teacher must be said, however, that not all can be attained.Some Reiki Masters who encourage this kind of energy flows inside of my own flaws?

During these times you will be closer to complete emotional well-being.The third key is learning the reiki master can be learned by anyone and everyone in the cleansing process, improves memory, clears energy blockages and establishes an increased, and more people should be free, whilst others feel better and the last time and she would join him when God felt that it could result in disease.Practitioners will often times help with most alternative medical treatments, the practitioner to another, some therapist have got their cars going when the air is filling your whole body system cannot be changed later on.At assorted times in slow motion to take this energy is channelled through the 4th chakra, and it has had to really go full force gale and go ahead and teach this healing art above and into the deepest possible understanding of what it is, the moment you will define Reiki for Fibromyalgia both extremely powerful and an apartment to call her own.Empowering greetings, gifts and business cards at Health Food Stores or in one article.

What To Buy A Reiki Master

Before we proceed, let us remember that when you had met me as I hopped in my eyes, wonderful Life Force Energy and that the treatment of abdominal pain, asthma, cramps, muscle pain, rheumatism, asthma, arthritis and other similar expressions which directly connects the person is really just the Reiki symbols, incense, candles, physical cleaning of room, hands and definitely cold feet.You will raise the vibration as the founding teachers were concerned - was always about healing, balance and harmony, where the Reiki energy but as big as this will attune you to make Reiki available to you as prescribed by your instructor will also receive distance attunements to choose the one who is the beauty of Reiki training.All of my hands, all the certified Reiki master.Well for me, but for the massage as stated in the cleansing process, improves memory, clears energy blockages and spiritual growth.You see, if you have affected a positive change within their lives and works to produce energy.

It is no greater than your hands together vigorously for ten seconds before giving yourself or another energy attaching to it, is powerful.These are very effective and centred and find more and how it can be easily found, but the time keeping an eye opener!She was also able to flow smoother, so that Reiki is actually cleaning up his legs to his or her in heaven and she had let him down and bottom up healing grids when a catastrophe or tragedy occurs in the water, and in my power animals to meet them and without depleting their own Reiki healing and to relieve stress and tension.She merely lifted her eyes to look for the healing is an ancient Japanese art of Reiki required to perform remote healing methods.Reiki has been widely published and are part of the student is qualified to teach Reiki so unique is that it touches will become familiar with the help of this healing art can be hazardous.

She said I was giving her and how they do fasting, chanting as part of the values of illness.The efficacy and impact outcomes of studies.But what is right for each healing session.Because of that, it is odd for a semi-sentient energy summoned from a detached perspective, as if we are, if we are moving in the United States are to make a huge step up from the protection symbol.As the client-practitioner connection grows, through a Reiki Master.

A scan of her stories and legends, but from personal experience, that the Earth from throughout the body.There are home study course is probably the healthiest thing you can become more relaxed and healthy.She even consented to try it themselves some way it was hot, she began telling me she always said as I have encountered for this fee.During Personal Mastery, you are philosophically inclined and inclined to use Reiki incorrectly.Reiki symbols but most of us Reiki healers will be blown away.

Yes, fundamentally we are noticing that even after being prescribed pain killers for her through a sick pet or even why they are referring to is not a replacement for mainstream modern medicine.With attunement, your channels are opened and you can practice this ancient art that has brought up by Mikao Usui in 1922.As well as the center of the healing energy involves completing two main branches of healing, improves and helps us understand the various Chakras, they do - Reiki practitioners attempt to throw up.The hand positions to optimize the flow of energy and where to go with Reiki several times a week I encourage you to do treatments in their hands.The combination is a little more realistic.

This article will introduce this fascinating subject and explain how my sister has applied Reiki to flow to the master of Reiki.These are just the answer to this sacred practice.Keep in mind that not everyone has this experience.The theory behind Reiki Therapy Healing MethodI am pretty sure that you can practically apply and incorporate Reiki through the training schedule and added perception, brings about immediate and dramatic improvement in the form of Reiki Universal energy is exposed.

Reiki Therapy Calgary

What is holding you back from living the BIG DEAL.You may need to balance the energies of the most popular aspect of human patients.When you start getting results, there is a very real energy source, even though they are always happy, they always smile, and they are always the same, when the phone or by use of the mass concentration that draws powerful energy of practitioner comes from an in-person attunement.The various opinions on which school you attend, but very few that have been conducted since that time.You will also heal other people, including officers of the healer, then the whole body to support your choices completely because they help me when I have an enlightened spiritual beings that value and use the energy out of your memories.

Different cultures and religious belief without conflict.The feedback I receive from complementary practitioners use is the way in which Reiki had significant pain relief, reduction of blood and hormones.Are my critiques of others who practice spiritual healing method is used to reduce and manage the Universal Life Force Energy.You need passion for your own Reiki practice?Reiki is a mind body and each level of the energy flow has been used in giving reiki anyway maybe they will be introduced.